Page 185 of Ice Mechanic

“We can certainly arrange that, Ms. Brooks.”

The indicator makes a ticking noise as I flick it and turn into the parking lot of the nursing home. Throwing open my door, I jump out and rush inside.

“This way, Miss Brooks,” the receptionist says, personally escorting me to the manager’s office.

On the way, my phone vibrates with more and more new texts.

MAUVE:Your father hasn’t shown up here. Any new update?

REBEL:I drove by the park. He’s not there. I asked my embroidery group to be on the look out too.

As I’m about to type a response, I hear the creak of a wheelchair spinning and narrowly jump out of the way before I’m mowed down by a senior citizen on a mission.

“Did I miss it?” The woman squawks.

My thoughts are totally occupied with finding my father, but something makes me stop and follow the woman’s trajectory. She brings her wheelchair to rest next to the other residents in the great room.

They’re flocked around a television that, like the rest of Lucky Falls, is turned to Chance’s press conference. The red button onthe left of the television says ‘LIVE’. A ton of mikes are strapped to a podium decorated with Chance’s team colors.

But the seat is empty.

There’s no Chance.

“Where is he?”The crowd of residents murmur.

“Why is no one saying anything?”

“What’s going on?”

“Miss Brooks?” The receptionist calls to me. She’s several steps ahead at the mouth of the hallway. Her back is ramrod straight as she beckons to me.

I shake my head. Chance’s delayed press conference is probably for dramatic effect. He would never miss such an important moment.

Hurrying along until I catch up with the receptionist, I walk into the manager’s office. A man in a tattered grey cap, worn jeans and a black T-shirt shoots to his feet the moment I enter.

“Miss Brooks,” the manager says solemnly from behind her desk.

“Miss Brooks, I’m so sorry.” He approaches me, eyes wide. “I thought I locked the gate securely. I had no idea—oh, you probably don’t want to hear this, but I’m so sorry.”

I lift a hand, indicating that he should stop. “Was my dad upset the last time you saw him? Did he say anything?”

“No, he wasn’t upset, but he did seem… how do I put this.” The man scrubs his fingers over his hair. “Agitated, maybe? He kept saying that Chance McLanely was coming and he shouldn’t be here.”

“Chance? He talked about Chance?” I squeeze the bridge of my nose and turn to face the manager. “We need to tell the police to look everywhere on the route to the ice rink. Dad’s been having delusions about talking to Chance for quite some time now. I should have paid more attention.”

The manager gives me a confused stare. “Miss Brooks, rest assured, we did tell the police this and we have people out looking along that very route.”

“Good. I’ll join them.” I reach for the doorknob.

“But,” the manager continues firmly, “your father was not suffering any delusions about Chance McLanely.”

My fingers freeze around the knob.

My back muscles stiffen.

Slowly, I turn to face the manager. “What do you mean?”

Her words and gaze remain frank. “Chance called your father frequently. They often spoke about hockey among other things. Your father’s mood improved after every call.” She pauses and studies my face. “Did you really not know?”

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