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“Then where is he?” I ask. “If he drove away, why miss work?”

“We check with the bank in the morning, then the restaurant, then we find Andrei Dragorin.” She loops her arm through mine and steers me toward the elevator. “We keep moving until one of these pieces fits.”

Unease begins before I put the key in Connor’s lock. No marks mar the frame, and the deadbolt turns normally, but the fine hairs on my arms lift when I enter.

The apartment remains silent. The cream invitation now rests at an angle instead of parallel to the table’s edge, though I remember straightening it after Murphy walked across it, or think I do.

Birdie locks the door behind us. “Where’s Murphy?”

His food hasn’t been touched, a dining chair sits away from the table, and a kitchen cabinet is open a finger’s width. Each detail could mean nothing, yet together they create a story I don’t want to believe.

“Murphy?” I call as I check behind the sofa. “Come out, you difficult beast. I promise I won’t put you in the car again tonight.”

He doesn’t answer. Murphy has never missed an opportunity to make his displeasure known, and he doesn’t hide from me unless thunder rattles the bookstore windows.

Birdie checks the bathroom while I hurry into Connor’s bedroom. The closet is empty, and the space beneath the bed holds only a storage bin and one terrified orange cat pressed near the wall. His ears are flattened, his eyes are wide, and his fur makes him look twice his already considerable size.

“Hey, Murph.” I lower myself to the floor, keeping my voice gentle as panic curls through my stomach. “What happened while we were gone?”

He retreats when I extend my hand. Murphy once chased a delivery driver for stepping on his tail, so watching him shrink from me turns my fear cold. I place a liver treat near the bed frame.

It takes four treats and several minutes before he crawls toward me. I gather him against my chest, expecting resistance, but he hooks his claws into my sweater and buries his face beneath my chin. His body trembles against mine.

Birdie kneels beside us, all humor gone from her face. “Do you think someone was here?”

“I don’t know.” I stroke Murphy’s back and look around the room. “The invitation moved, a chair moved, and the kitchen cabinet is open, but maybe Murphy did all of it.”

“Murphy didn’t open the cabinet and then scare himself under the bed.”

The locked door offers little comfort because management can enter. We inspect every room but find nobody and nothing clearly missing. The journal remains in my purse, bringing relief, then another question. If a person came looking for it, how did they know it existed?

We push a chair beneath the front doorknob before bed. Birdie takes the sofa, and I lie in Connor’s room with Murphy beside me. His pillow smells of laundry detergent, carrying me back to childhood nights when he insisted monsters were mathematically impossible. I believed him because he was my brother.

Near midnight, I whisper into the dark, “Where are you, Con?” Murphy presses closer, but the room offers no answer.

By eight thirty the next morning, rain has polished downtown Seattle. Connor’s bank occupies the first floor of a modern tower with marble floors and enormous windows. Everyone inside moves with weekday purpose, greeting coworkers who arrived exactly where expected.

A receptionist leads us to a corner room with RICK WHITMORE printed on a metal plaque, recalling the note in Connor’s planner. Rick stands and smooths his gray suit jacket over a soft stomach. He’s in his early fifties, with thinning hair, tired brown eyes, and a wedding band he turns beneath his thumb.

“Cassie Brewster,” he says, coming around the desk to take my hand in both of his. “Connor has talked about you many times, and I wish we were meeting under better circumstances.”

“I wish we were too.” I gesture to Birdie beside me. “This is our cousin, Birdie Lawson. She came with me from Aldermere.”

Rick offers Birdie his hand, then motions us toward two leather chairs.

“When did you last hear from Connor?” I ask.

“Tuesday afternoon, before he left for the day. He didn’t come in yesterday, and when he wasn’t here again this morning, I assumed he was ill. Connor has accumulated more sick time than anyone in his department, so I thought he had finally decided to use some.”

“Did he call or email?” Birdie asks as she sits beside me.

“No, which concerned me, but Connor is an excellent employee. I believed he would contact me when he felt able.” Rick returns to his chair. “Have you been to his apartment?”

“We spent the night there, but he wasn’t home, and his car isn’t in the garage.” I watch his face as I put my phone away. “He wrote that he had dinner Tuesday with Andrei Dragorin. Do you know why?”

Rick’s thumb stops against his ring before beginning again. “Mr. Dragorin is a client of the bank, though I can’t discuss his accounts. Connor may have met with him regarding business.”

“At seven thirty at Bellucci’s?”