Accidental Tryst (Charleston #1)(34)


"D-David's missing. He wandered off. They can't find him, they don't even know when he left."

My stomach sinks as I stand on the sidewalk outside the law office. "Oh shit, honey. I'm sorry." I cross the sidewalk and lean against the building. Did I just call her honey?

"H-has he called you?" she asks.

I frown. "What?"

"That's why I called you. He calls me sometimes, repeatedly. I thought maybe he was trying to get hold of me and couldn't, and that's why he left, you know?"

She hiccups.

Shit. I look down at the phone and go to the missed calls in case somehow I didn't hear them. There's nothing but the calls from early this morning and then two I let roll to voicemail that was a Charleston number that said "Work."

I breathe out. "I'm sorry. Only your work called."

"W-Will you answer the phone though? If it rings? If it's a New York number? Or any number? He could be anywhere. Oh my God. What if something happens to him?" Her voice breaks to a whisper. "He's all I have left."

My bruised heart is taking a fucking beating today. Jesus. The sound of Emmy's desolation is killing me.

"He can't have gone far," I tell her. "I mean he has no money, right? And they've called the police?"

"Yes." Her soft sniffles are pathetic, and they make me feel helpless.

"Can you think of anywhere he might have wanted to go if he had money?"

"I—no. I don't think so. I mean he worked in the city, but I can't think where he'd go. And he doesn't have any money, so there's just . . . it's impossible."

"Where did he work?"

"He had a small investment firm near Wall Street. But I really don't think he'd go there."

"Look, I don't know much about how this stuff works, but my instinct tells me he might go somewhere that feels familiar."

There's quiet. "I'm scared, Trystan. God, why am I telling you this? I don't even know you. I'm sorry."

I squeeze my eyes closed. "It's going to be okay, Emmy. I'm sure he'll call, and if not, someone will find him and call the police. It's going to be okay."

"Okay." Her voice sounds tiny.

"Okay," I reply softly.

"Trystan?"

"Yeah?"

"You can rent my place. I can't come back tonight what with David missing. And I . . . if you still need to that is. But it would probably help me. Monetarily, I mean, if you did. Staying in New York is expensive—"

"Yes," I cut in. "I'll rent your place. Text me your bank details, and I'll deposit the money for two nights."

She's quiet again. "Th-Thank you," she says haltingly.

"Of course, Emmy. Let me know if I can do anything else, and I'll let you know if David calls."

"Wait! Are you allergic to cats?" she asks. "I have a cat. Armand's been feeding her. Is that okay? You don't hate cats, right?"

I frown. "Only if they sleep on my face," I say.

She giggles then.

I smile, but my brow furrows. "What's so funny?"

"No pussies on your face. Got it," she says, stunning me speechless.

Then she bursts out laughing which almost instantly devolves to crying again. "Oh shit, I'm a mess," she finally manages through her tears.

"Not gonna disagree," I counter, shaking my head but grinning at the same time.

"Thank you, Trystan," she says finally when she has herself under control.

"You're welcome, Emmy."

I press end, slip the phone into my pocket, and head back inside.



* * *



We're an hour into the meeting with the accountants and going through all the profit centers. Every time the phone buzzes, I apologize and take it out of my pocket to check the number. Emmy sends her bank details, and I forward them to Dorothy asking her to make an instant transfer or go into a branch if she has to. I name a stupid amount, but I'd rather err on the side of too much than not enough.

The next time it buzzes it's Emmy, sending her address and telling me to call Armand for the key.

The next one after that she's asking if I've heard from David.

And the following one is a list of instructions including where to find clean sheets to change the bed and the Wi-Fi password.

"Are you with us?" Robert asks, frowning.

"I am," I say. "Apologies. I have a friend going through a crisis. Her elderly family member walked out of a nursing facility this morning. He may call me, so I'm trying to make sure I don't miss a message."

"Surely they had an anklet on him?"

I look at Robert blankly.

"Elderly residents, particularly those with a propensity to wander, have a digital bracelet or anklet that sounds an alarm if they near the exit. It's gross negligence on their part if he wasn't wearing it, or it wasn't working. Which facility is it?"

"Um, Rockaway Nursing in Far Rockaway outside of Manhattan."

"Oh. I don't know it. I thought it might be somewhere near here. We pretty much know of all the major competitors in the area."

I narrow my eyes on all the paperwork in front of me and the lists of assets. Most are student housing, apartments, a couple of emergency clinics, and a whole family of retirement and nursing home communities. Huh. I hadn't put two and two together, that Montgomery Homes & Facilities also owned nursing homes.

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