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“Christmas of which year?” Birdie asks while pulling her braid over one shoulder. “He has an excellent memory and no interest in forgiveness.”

Connor’s apartment building stands on a busy Belltown corner, twelve stories of gray stone and black-framed windows. I once teased him about paying twice my mortgage for a view of another building, but tonight the bright lobby seems foreign.

I park in a guest space, then we hurry inside beneath the cold mist. Connor gave me an extra key after locking himself out twice in one month, though he made me promise never to use it without warning him. I sent three messages during the drive, so technically I have warned him, but none show as read.

His apartment is on the ninth floor at the end of a carpeted hall where every door looks identical. I fit the key into the lock, call Connor’s name as I open the door, and wait for the annoyed answer I want more than I have ever wanted to hear him complain. Only the refrigerator hum meets us.

The entry lamp fills the living room with warm light. Connor’s navy jacket hangs beside the door, and his shoes line the wall. Relief tries to rush in, yet it can’t find a place to stay.

“Connor?” Birdie calls as she releases Murphy from his carrier. “We brought your sister, an overnight bag, and a cat who may never trust humanity again.”

Murphy steps onto the hardwood and studies the apartment as if he expects an ambush from the furniture. He has visited once before and spent most of that afternoon beneath Connor’s bed after discovering city buses.

I cross the living room, passing the charcoal sofa and a framed photograph from our high school graduation. The apartment is neat because Connor has always been neat, while I consider any stack of fewer than six books an organizational success. A coffee mug sits beside the sink with a brown ring dried near the bottom, and the sight stops me.

“He didn’t wash his mug,” I say.

Birdie comes up beside me and looks from the mug to my face. Her wide green eyes are tired, but concern has erased her usual restless energy. “Maybe he was late for work.”

“He rinses it before he leaves, even when he’s late, because coffee stains make him irrationally upset.” I touch the ceramic handle without lifting it, then wipe my fingers on my jeans. “He once made me soak his travel cup in baking soda because I left coffee in it for one afternoon.”

“That sounds like Connor,” she agrees, although her gaze stays on the mug.

Unopened mail lies on the narrow table beside the door. Among the bills is a cream envelope made from paper thick enough to announce that the sender owns more money than I do. DRAGORIN VINEYARDS is embossed across the front in dark gold beneath a crest.

Inside is an invitation to a private Harvest Wine Tasting at Dragorin Vineyards in Ember Ridge on Saturday evening. Heavy script promises estate wines, seasonal food, and an exclusive preview of the newest reserve. Connor’s name appears at the bottom beside a note from the bank he works for explaining that the invitation admits two guests.

“Since when does Connor go to luxury wine tastings?” Birdie asks over my shoulder.

“Since never, unless the wine comes with a spreadsheet and a tax deduction.” I turn the invitation over, but the back is blank. “He likes beer, and not even interesting beer. He buys whichever case is closest to the door.”

Murphy jumps onto the console table and nudges Connor’s change dish toward the edge. “Could you postpone your campaign of destruction?” I ask as I save it, but he bats a paper clip onto the floor. Birdie’s tired smile doesn’t last.

In Connor’s bedroom, the bed is made, and his phone charger is coiled on the nightstand. His toothbrush remains beside the sink, and the towel I hope to find is dry.

Every ordinary detail fails to explain where he went. Connor might leave town for work without telling me, but he would take his charger and eventually complain about my excessive use of question marks.

Birdie stops in the bedroom doorway. “What are you looking for?”

“I don’t know yet.” I crouch beside the bed and slide my hand beneath the mattress near the headboard. “When we were kids, Connor hid every important possession here because he thought nobody else had ever considered this hiding place.”

“What did he hide?”

“Birthday money, baseball cards, and a note from Brooke Hensley.” My fingertips brush a hard cover, and I pull out a black journal. “Apparently, the system still works for him.”

The journal is a daily planner with Connor’s small handwriting packed beneath each date. Initials appear beside loan numbers, account balances, and document reviews. On several pages he has written VHL beside dollar amounts large enough to make my eyes widen.

“Do you know what any of that means?” Birdie asks, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Not without Connor to explain it.” I turn another page and find D. Morozov underlined twice. I don’t recognize the name. Beside it, Connor has written duplicate vendor address?, followed by a bank account number and the words ask Rick before filing.

I photograph the pages before continuing. One line in Tuesday night’s entry pulls the air from my lungs.

7:00 PM. Dinner, Andrei Dragorin. Bellucci’s.

Connor called me at seven thirty while I was helping a customer find a cookbook. I called back ten minutes later and again before bed, but both calls went to voicemail.

“He was having dinner with Andrei Dragorin when he called me,” I tell Birdie, turning the planner so she can see.