again—whole again.
With a sigh, he tossed the papers back on the table, for the first time seeing Simone's wallet and phone. The niggling feeling was back, but this time it was full-blown worry. She never went anywhere without her phone. Not even the bathroom.
He picked it up and, in doing so, revealed her keys. They'd slid under the wallet, only the silver heart visible. He'd given her that heart for her birthday one year. From Tiffany's. So many little things that made up a marriage—and destroyed it.
He dropped the phone and headed for the back door. Maybe she was out there with Martin. That wouldn't completely explain the wallet and keys, but it would go a long way.
He crossed the driveway, stopping to right a pot of bougainvillea, and then headed into the garage. "Simone?" Again he called her name, trying not to give in to his rising sense of urgency. "Martin?" There was no answer, and he took the stairs two at a time.
The apartment was empty. The window curtain swayed lazily in the evening breeze and except for his growing sense of unease, everything looked placidly normal.
He turned in a circle, trying to find something—anything—that looked out of place. There was a T-shirt wadded up in the corner by the wing chair, and Martin's boom box on the table by the window.
And no sign of either Martin or Simone.
He moved to the window, scanning the yard for signs of life. The Honda sat in the driveway and Martin's beat-up old Volkswagen was parked in the garage. He'd seen them both on his way up the stairs.
So where the hell were they?
Suddenly a light went off. The boat.
They'd taken his boat.
It didn't make a bit of sense, but it was the only option remaining. The only one he was willing to consider. He dashed down the stairs again, this time turning to the boathouse door. Yanking it open, he ran inside, then skidded to a stop.
The boat was gone.
He pivoted back toward the door, anger threatening to consume him. It was his boat. And his brother. How dare, she take them both without so much as a by-your-leave? He knew his thinking was irrational, but he'd been so worried. Afraid that something had happened to them. And the discovery they were merely out cruising the bay left him with adrenaline to spare.
He stopped by the door, pulling in cleansing breaths. No need to lose it over something as stupid as a boat ride. Simone would be careful. She knew how much the Antigua meant to him. And it wasn't as if she hadn't taken the boat out before.
He leaned a hand on the door, then pulled it away with a frown. The door was pockmarked. The paint marred in a couple of places as if it'd been struck by hailstones. Which was, of course, impossible. He rubbed one of the indentations with his index finger, wondering what the hell had happened.
The door wasn't new. But as far as he could remember it had been unblemished. And based on the rough edges of the paint, he'd say whatever had caused the marks had happened recently.
He lifted his finger to his nose, the smell of metal and paint mixing with something tantalizingly familiar.
He bent to retrieve a piece of cotton caught on the hinge, and as his eyes took in the brownish stain on the material, he knew what it was he'd smelled.
Sulfur.
Gun powder residue.
He turned back to the open boathouse doors and the channel beyond. There was no sign of Simone or Martin. But his gut was screaming now. He headed back toward the house, seeing it all from a new perspective. The tipped plant, the broken mop. The half-eaten sandwich. The forgotten laundry, mail and keys. Simone and Martin had left in a hurry. She hadn't taken the boat out for pleasure, she'd been trying to escape.
He grabbed his cellphone, punching in numbers as he headed for the car. He had friends on the CCPD. He'd let them deal with the house. Look for trace. Something to confirm what he already suspected.
Simone and Martin were in trouble.
And there was only one place he could think of that they
With a sigh, he tossed the papers back on the table, for the first time seeing Simone's wallet and phone. The niggling feeling was back, but this time it was full-blown worry. She never went anywhere without her phone. Not even the bathroom.
He picked it up and, in doing so, revealed her keys. They'd slid under the wallet, only the silver heart visible. He'd given her that heart for her birthday one year. From Tiffany's. So many little things that made up a marriage—and destroyed it.
He dropped the phone and headed for the back door. Maybe she was out there with Martin. That wouldn't completely explain the wallet and keys, but it would go a long way.
He crossed the driveway, stopping to right a pot of bougainvillea, and then headed into the garage. "Simone?" Again he called her name, trying not to give in to his rising sense of urgency. "Martin?" There was no answer, and he took the stairs two at a time.
The apartment was empty. The window curtain swayed lazily in the evening breeze and except for his growing sense of unease, everything looked placidly normal.
He turned in a circle, trying to find something—anything—that looked out of place. There was a T-shirt wadded up in the corner by the wing chair, and Martin's boom box on the table by the window.
And no sign of either Martin or Simone.
He moved to the window, scanning the yard for signs of life. The Honda sat in the driveway and Martin's beat-up old Volkswagen was parked in the garage. He'd seen them both on his way up the stairs.
So where the hell were they?
Suddenly a light went off. The boat.
They'd taken his boat.
It didn't make a bit of sense, but it was the only option remaining. The only one he was willing to consider. He dashed down the stairs again, this time turning to the boathouse door. Yanking it open, he ran inside, then skidded to a stop.
The boat was gone.
He pivoted back toward the door, anger threatening to consume him. It was his boat. And his brother. How dare, she take them both without so much as a by-your-leave? He knew his thinking was irrational, but he'd been so worried. Afraid that something had happened to them. And the discovery they were merely out cruising the bay left him with adrenaline to spare.
He stopped by the door, pulling in cleansing breaths. No need to lose it over something as stupid as a boat ride. Simone would be careful. She knew how much the Antigua meant to him. And it wasn't as if she hadn't taken the boat out before.
He leaned a hand on the door, then pulled it away with a frown. The door was pockmarked. The paint marred in a couple of places as if it'd been struck by hailstones. Which was, of course, impossible. He rubbed one of the indentations with his index finger, wondering what the hell had happened.
The door wasn't new. But as far as he could remember it had been unblemished. And based on the rough edges of the paint, he'd say whatever had caused the marks had happened recently.
He lifted his finger to his nose, the smell of metal and paint mixing with something tantalizingly familiar.
He bent to retrieve a piece of cotton caught on the hinge, and as his eyes took in the brownish stain on the material, he knew what it was he'd smelled.
Sulfur.
Gun powder residue.
He turned back to the open boathouse doors and the channel beyond. There was no sign of Simone or Martin. But his gut was screaming now. He headed back toward the house, seeing it all from a new perspective. The tipped plant, the broken mop. The half-eaten sandwich. The forgotten laundry, mail and keys. Simone and Martin had left in a hurry. She hadn't taken the boat out for pleasure, she'd been trying to escape.
He grabbed his cellphone, punching in numbers as he headed for the car. He had friends on the CCPD. He'd let them deal with the house. Look for trace. Something to confirm what he already suspected.
Simone and Martin were in trouble.
And there was only one place he could think of that they
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