Isaiah swayed on his feet. “Tenny who?”
“You’re drunk.” Angelica turned away from her brother.
“Possibly,” he said, words slightly slurred, “but at least I’m not in denial, running around passing out flyers like we’re going to find Celeste chilling on the beach, a piña colada in hand and no idea the whole town’s looking for her.”
Isaiah wobbled forward, another step closer, and then stumbled, the flask tilting in his hand. Something wet and warm ran down Mia’s chest, pooling between her breasts, dampening her shirt with a sweet-smelling liquid.
She groaned, easily identifying the offending substance as tequila—Mia would know that smell anywhere.
Although Aunt Misty declared herself a teetotaler to all who inquired, every year, on the anniversary of Mia’s mother’s disappearance, Aunt Misty would get good and soused with Jose Cuervo, and Mia would have to maneuver her safely into bed.
She stared down at her shirt.
Detective Samuels rounded the table and offered her a handful of wadded up napkins. “Sorry about that.” He turned to Angelica. “Maybe you should take your brother home.”
Isaiah’s face reddened. “Don’t apologize for me, Detective. Guess you think I’m the bad guy for stating the obvious. No one has seen her since Friday, and you told us yourself the first forty-eight hours are the most critical if a missing person is going to be found alive. This doesn’t look good.”
“Unless she took off on her own.” Angelica’s voice shook.
“Stop kidding yourself.” Isaiah scoffed. “She’s never set a foot out the door without sending Mom her itinerary in triplicate. There’s no way she’d go off the grid. And the last time her social media went dark was never.”
Mia shuddered. Not just because what Isaiah said rang true—she didn’t think Celeste would take off without a word either—but because, deep in her heart, she didn’t believe her own mother would’ve left her locked in that shed if she hadn’t planned to come back for her.
And yet no one had searched for Emily Thornton.
Watching tears slide down Angelica’s cheeks, Mia felt the weight of her own loss pressing against her chest. She drew herself up as tall and straight as she could. “Celeste is out there somewhere. We’re going to do everything we can to find her.”
“If you want to drink yourself into oblivion, Isaiah, that’s on you. But I’m going to keep knocking on doors and passing out flyers,” Angelica said soggily, then she covered her face. “This is all so surreal. If only Celeste hadn’t lost her keys.”
Lost her keys.
The words echoed, ringing in Mia’s ears, making her dizzy. “What do you mean?”
“Celeste walked home because she lost her keys,” Isaiah said, unsteadily.
Mia shook her head, trying to clear it. “Didn’t Jane drive her? Or one of the others? I-I don’t understand.”
Angelica, more composed now, said, “They offered her a ride, but Celeste said she’d prefer to walk. Her house isn’t far. The police found her purse in an alley behind the restaurant, and since there was no blood or sign of a struggle at her place, we think she never made it home on Friday night.”
“It appears someone grabbed her off the street,” Detective Samuels said.
“Because she walked home? Because she lost her keys?” Mia heard her own words floating around in the air. Her vision went gray, and her knees softened. The world rushed around her, and soon she was spinning—inside a giant kaleidoscope papered with photographs of a beautiful young woman with shiny auburn hair and lovely hazel eyes.
Four
Mia reclined, with her head and shoulders propped on satin pillows, on a bed in a small, femininely appointed room.
Celeste Cooper’s bedroom.
Inside Celeste Cooper’s darling yellow Victorian cottage just steps from San Diego’s famous Gaslamp Quarter. That’s how Celeste described her house on a vacation rental website—and she’d bragged around school about getting top dollar for it on the occasional weekends when she left town. Mia had studied the website photos, relishing the sneak peek into Celeste’s home. She’d even purchased a similar, pinch-pleated duvet cover for her own bed. She’d hoped, someday, she might see the place in person, but she’d never imagined her invitation would come about like this.
From a pair of pale-blue bedside chairs that matched the room’s chintz curtains, Angelica Cooper, along with her mother, Alma, kept watch over Mia. Though her auburn hair was cut short, and her hazel eyes were edged with the faintest of lines, Alma Cooper greatly resembled her daughter—if Mia didn’t know better she could easily mistake them for sisters. Alma must have been a very young woman when she became a mother. Now, Angelica and Alma wore the same concerned expression, as if they owed something to Mia, and the irony of that tightened around her heart like a noose, as she mentally replayed the events of the past hour over in her head.
At the park, after Angelica had mentioned the keys, Mia’s vision had gone blurry and her knees wobbly. The next thing she’d known, Detective Samuels was lifting her off the ground. Angelica, she recalled, had fed her water and talked to her in a low, soothing voice, apologizing profusely for Isaiah. He’d reportedly been about to take a drunken swing at Detective Samuels when Mia had fainted, and his fist had glanced off her chin instead. Isaiah had grabbed her by the blouse, presumably to break her fall. In the process of not catching her, he’d managed to rip Mia’s buttons and empty the remainder of his flask onto her slacks. Angelica had rushed to comfort Mia, and though it seemed an awful thing to admit, Mia had greatly enjoyed the attention.
Next, Detective Samuels had suggested Mia go to the emergency room, and Mia had pulled herself together enough to convince him that was unnecessary. But when Angelica had mentioned Celeste’s house was nearby, Mia’s tongue had grown thick and she hadn’t been able to muster a refusal. Angelica had tilted her head, just the way Celeste often did, looked at her with
