Page 90 of Snow Bound

“No, because she lit out while I was asleep.”

Simon let out a whistle, and Henry lifted his head. “She leave a note?”

“A text.” Henry let out a plaintive whine, and Grant unclamped one hand from the steering wheel to give the dog a reassuring pat. “She’s grateful for everything I’ve done for her.”

“Ouch.”

“Also, she’s in love with me, and if I’m interested in seeing her again, I should call her when I get back to Chicago.”

Simon’s cough sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “Did you call her?”

“No, and I’m not going to. We’re having this conversation face to fucking face.”

Simon didn’t bother to disguise the laugh this time. “Right. Where are you now?”

“Indiana.” Grant glanced at the mile marker as he passed, did some quick calculations. “I should hit town in an hour.”

“I’m not fixing any tickets for you,” Simon warned.

“Just do the run. And text me the address as soon as you have it.”

There was a moment of humming silence, then, “You sure that’s a good idea?”

“No,” Grant admitted. He knew he should calm down before talking to her, but that just wasn’t happening. “Give it to me anyway.”

“You got it.”

Grant clicked off the call, gave Henry a last, reassuring pat, then put his foot to the floor.

Simon came through with Anna’s address, and Grant drove straight there. He found a parking spot right in front of her building and considered it a sign, and bypassed the elevator in favor of the stairs. He stepped out onto the fourth floor, Henry beside him, to discover Simon leaning casually against Anna’s front door.

Grant eyed his friend. Dressed in worn jeans and a faded University of Chicago sweatshirt, his chestnut hair was tousled and there was a pillow crease in his cheek. He looked like an average white guy on a sleepy Sunday morning, until you got to the eyes. A brown so pale they were almost gold, they were sharp and cool—like a cougar stalking its prey.

“Didn’t trust me?” Grant asked.

Simon leaned down to pat Henry, then straightened. “Let’s just say I thought a cooler head might be needed.”

“You knock?”

Simon shook his head and stepped aside so he was no longer blocking the door. “This is your show, pal.”

With a grunt of agreement Grant stalked to the door and gave it two solid raps. “Anna, it’s me. Open the door.”

Silence was the only response.

“Anna.” He knocked harder, the sound echoing in the empty hallway. “Open up.”

“Maybe she’s not home,” Simon suggested.

“Where else would she go?” Grant wondered. “You run her credit cards?”

“She stopped for gas a couple of times yesterday, nothing since.”

“Gas?” Grant frowned. “She was supposed to fly.”

Simon pulled his phone out of his pocket, tapped the screen. “She rented a car at the airport in Marquette yesterday morning, turned it in at O’Hare just shy of two o’clock.”

“I guess I should be grateful she didn’t drive my truck all the way home,” Grant muttered.

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