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the way anyone would. If that was the case, though, she would have come forward—unless she’d been kidnapped. It was the only alternative I could think of. My heart pounded so hard at the thought, I felt dizzy.
    Who’d kidnap her? I asked myself. As far as I knew, she wasn’t rich—she lived on her salary. If she came from money, she surely hid it well. Her apartment was attractive, but the mortgage payment was within her budget. She could afford to buy a previously owned, well-maintained Heron every few years, but she couldn’t have swung a new one. I carried key man insurance to protect my company in case something happened to me, but Gretchen wasn’t on the policy, and surely no one would think she would be. Plus, there’d been no ransom note. Unless someone took her for a reason other than money. My blood froze at the horrific images of depraved fetishes that flooded my brain. I needed to do more to find her, but I couldn’t think of what that might be.

CHAPTER EIGHT

    Y
    ou should have warned me to sell the family jewels,” Ty said when he called.
    It wasn’t until I was home that I realized that I’d forgotten to buy the truffle oil. I’d called Ty and asked him to pick it up on his way home.
    “Truffle oil is a bit pricey? Is that what you’re saying?” I asked, giggling a little. I wedged the phone between my shoulder and ear so I could continue chopping vegetables while carrying on our conversation.
    As usual, I was charmed by Ty’s sense of humor, and tonight I was especially grateful for its effect. Despite my nonstop, frenzied worrying about Gretchen, he made me laugh.
    “A little pricey?” he responded. “Are you insane, woman? One eight-ounce bottle costs more than a steak dinner!”
    “Ah! But wait until you taste my linguine.”
    “You’re right! Put that way—it’s a bargain! See you soon!”
    I slid the portable phone into its cradle and smiled again as I touched my mother’s handwritten cookbook, stroking the soft leather. Ty’s appreciation of my cooking was flattering to me, but it was also a compliment to my much loved mother, who’d died when I was thirteen. Back then, I’d missed her so much it hurt to breathe. Now, while the pain was still there, it was an ache, not a stab.
    I stared out my window into the darkness, unable to see the meadow or the trees that marked the faraway property line, and thought again of Gretchen.
    About six months ago, she’d brought in a miniature sandbox for her desk. Periodically, she’d drag a small wooden rake through the sand to create swirling patterns, then laughingly announce she could feel her blood pressure dropping.
    One day, a consignment deal I hoped we would land fell through. Not wanting to let the staff see my disappointment, I took myself out to a coffee shop that played mournful jazz and drowned my sorrows in a double mocha extra cream cappuccino. When I got back to work, Gretchen’s sandbox was on my desk. She’d tacked a Post-it Note on it reading “Stress Management 101. Rake away!” I had, and whether it was my act of raking or Gretchen’s act of kindness, I’d felt a little better. Gretchen was one of the most sensitive and thoughtful people I’d ever met.
    Before I had time to fret myself to tears, I heard laughter and chatter, then a knock, and called, “Come in!”
    Zoë, Jake, and Emma entered through the back door. Zoë flashed a quick smile. Her eyes were striking—brown, and big enough to see everything. Her hair was thick, near-black, and long. She was tall, maybe half a head taller than me, and thin, like a model. Zoë wore jeans and a mustard yellow sweater and carried a huge red tote bag. The kids were dressed in pajamas, jackets, and boots. Jake’s pj’s had airplanes, spaceships, and shooting stars; Emma’s were pink with white clouds.
    “Hi, Josie!” Jake said, hugging my knees before tearing into the living room.
    “Hi, Jake!” I called after him. “Your blocks are behind the sofa.” I