Page 83 of Unravelling: Aria & Crispin
He grabbed his phone and dialled Aria's number with trembling fingers. It was finally over.
It rang once before going straight to voicemail.
Again. Same message.
He frowned. Maybe her battery had died.
He cursed himself for not getting Lule's number.
"I'll try later," he muttered, already unsettled. But the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach persisted.
Chapter 45
Crispin
Crispin had barely slept.
He had started calling two days ago-at first space apart, then frantic, overlapping, as if quantity could breach the silence. He'd left voicemails, sent messages, even tried email. Each time the line rang out or went dead, the trepidation surged deeper.
Had something happened to her?
Was she ignoring him?
Was she hurt?
He sat slumped on the edge of his bed, phone still in hand, eyes bloodshot. The daylight had turned amber, then grey, and still no word. Around four in the afternoon, the door creaked open.
"Crispin?" Dorian's voice was careful. "The front door was open."
Crispin looked up, wild-eyed, unshaven, the hollows beneath his cheekbones deeper than usual. He was stuffing clothes into a duffel bag with sharp, jerky movements.
"I'm going to Oxford," he muttered as if to himself. "I have to go."
Dorian closed the door behind him and walked in without invitation. "Alright, alright. Sit. Sit the hell down before you pass out."
Crispin didn't protest, just sagged into the edge of the leather sofa like a deflated balloon. Dorian disappeared into the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with a chipped mug and a plate.
"Here," he said gruffly, handing over the tea. "Drink. Then eat."
Crispin took the mug and stared into the steam. "You think something's happened?"
"I think you look like shit," Dorian replied bluntly. He dropped onto the armchair opposite, crossing one long leg over the other. "When's the last time you ate?"
Crispin didn't answer.
Dorian shoved the plate into his lap. "Sandwich. Eat."
He sniffed at it and grimaced before taking a bite and chewing with visible reluctance after a long pause. "What the hell is this?"
"Random contents of your fridge," Dorian said lazily. "I think there's some sun-dried tomato in there, and...maybe anchovy?"
"Tastes like shit."
"I'm not your bloody chef."
Despite himself, a weak smile twitched at Crispin's mouth before fading.
Dorian sighed and reached into his coat for a pen and scrap of paper. "Right. Let's think logically. Her name?"
