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She reads the line, then points toward the living room. “Dragorin, as in the vineyard invitation?”

“Unless Washington has two wealthy Dragorin families who send invitations on paper that could pay my electric bill.” I carry the journal back to the living room and lay it beside the invitation. The matching name makes both items feel less ordinary. “Why was Connor meeting him, and why did he call me from the restaurant?”

Birdie leans on the table. “Maybe Dragorin canceled and Connor called because he was annoyed.”

“Then why didn’t he leave a message, and where did he go afterward?” The questions emerge faster as fear crowds out reason. “Did they actually meet? Did Connor tell anybody at work? Does Bellucci’s have cameras? How long do restaurants keep footage?”

“Cass, breathe before you pass out and leave me responsible for Murphy.” Birdie covers my hand with hers, her fingers warm against mine. “We’ll write down every question, then we’ll start answering them one at a time.”

Murphy steps over the invitation and knocks a bill to the floor, then backs away when Birdie reaches for him.

“First we feed the furious lion,” she says. “Then we feed ourselves, because lunch was six hours ago and half a granola bar doesn’t qualify as dinner.”

I want to keep searching, though I’ve already opened every door that matters. Hunger has left me shaky, and Birdie wears the pinched look she gets when she is trying not to tell me what to do. “There’s an Italian place two blocks away. Connor claims their pizza can repair emotional damage.”

“Then we need an extra-large.” Birdie reaches for Murphy’s food container. “In the morning, we go to the bank and ask why nobody bothered to call his family when he failed to appear for work.”

Her anger steadies me more than reassurance could. I fill Murphy’s bowls, leave the bedroom and closet doors open for him, and slide Connor’s planner into my purse. Before we leave, I look back at the jacket beside the door, because Connor would need it on a damp September night. Its presence feels less like proof that he plans to return and more like evidence that he never planned to leave.

Bellucci’s has red awnings, steamed windows, and air rich with garlic, bread, and tomato sauce. Families fill the booths, and a toddler at the next table sings to a breadstick. The ordinary chaos presses against my fear without breaking through it.

Birdie pushes warm bread toward me. “Eat before you begin interviewing the waiter about Connor.”

“I was going to ask a few focused questions.” I glance toward the hostess stand, but she points at the bread and makes me wait.

I manage half a slice before the waiter returns, but Connor’s name and photograph don’t register. He didn’t work Tuesday, and the manager is gone, so he writes her name on a receipt and suggests I call tomorrow.

“It’s not an answer, but it’s a direction,” Birdie says after he leaves.

In the photograph, Connor stands beside our father at Lake Alder last summer, on a day when Dad remembered both our names. The memory should comfort me, yet it opens an ache in my throat.

“What if Connor called because he needed help?” I ask. “I saw his name, and I let it ring because I was helping a customer.”

Birdie puts down her slice. “You called him back ten minutes later, Cassie, and you have called him at least thirty times since then. You didn’t ignore him.”

“Ten minutes can matter.”

“You had no way to know this call was different.” Her expression softens. “Connor knows you answer when you can. If he needed help, he knew you would come.”

Guilt rarely cares about facts, but I make myself eat while we build a list on a napkin: the bank, Bellucci’s manager, Andrei Dragorin, Connor’s car, and the names from his planner. We circle VHL because neither of us knows what it means.

We return to Connor’s building before nine. A security guard with silver hair and a paperback western listens as I explain that my brother hasn’t answered his phone or shown up at home.

“Mr. Brewster is in 904, correct?” He asks, removing his glasses.

“Yes, and I have his extra key. Do you know which parking space belongs to him?”

He checks a screen and writes B-37 on a visitor pass. “I can’t access the vehicle history, but the garage cameras feed to management. The property manager will be here at eight.”

“Can you tell when his car left?”

“Not from this station, and I’m not permitted to review recordings without management or police.” He slides the pass toward me. “If you believe he may be in danger, you should make a report.”

The elevator descends to a basement washed in fluorescent light and smelling of exhaust and damp cement. Our footsteps echo between parked cars until we find B-37 empty.

Connor’s blue Honda is gone, and the space offers no clue explaining whether he drove away willingly.

Birdie folds her arms against the chill. “Maybe his car is at the restaurant.”