Page 33 of One More Made Up Love Song
His eyes narrow. “Are you sure?”
“Freddie, we’re together all the time.” It’s a stupid point to make. Even if it’s technically true, I’ve done an exceptionaljob of making sure that while we’re frequently in the same space, I’m almost always engaged in something else. Talking on the phone. Sending emails. Fielding texts.
On the upside, I’ve never been so on top of my work responsibilities.
But I didn’t think Freddie had noticed.
I shouldn’t like it so much that he has.
“Okay,” he concedes. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. Thatwe’reokay.”
I swallow against the sudden dryness in my throat. “Perfect,” I manage to say. “Same as always.”
He holds my gaze for a beat longer, long enough for my heart to start pounding a little faster. If he had any idea what he does to me when he looks at me like that, he wouldn’t do it.
“In that case, I have something else to tell you,” he says.
“Okay.”
He lifts his hands to my shoulders and gives them a gentle squeeze. “I found Carina.”
It’s not quite as exciting as a kiss, but after so many days without word from my sister, it’s a close second.
Well, technically, I’ve gotten a few words. A text came in almost a week ago that read:Dom Worby. I fide.
Pretty sure it’s supposed to readDon’t worry. I’m fine.But the spelling errors didn’t do much to make me trust the words were true.
They did the opposite, really. Carina doesn’t drink or party. Maybe her jumbled words were just typos—that’s happened to everyone.
Or maybe she was texting under the influence.
I asked her that exact question when I responded, andI’ve texted half a dozen more times since then and called every single day.
She hasn’t texted again, and she hasn’t answered a single phone call.
She has, however, shown up in several more of Margot’s photos, which was evidence enough for the police to think there was nothing to worry about.
Yes.I called the police. But only to explore my options. Turns out I don’t have any. She isn’t really missing if she’s showing up on Instagram and responding—albeit badly—to text messages.
“You found her?” I ask Freddie. “How? Where?”
“She’s in Malibu,” he says. “Still with Margot, unfortunately. They’re in a beach house, probably one Margot is renting, but”—Freddie glances at his watch—“as of an hour ago when Wayne filled me in, Carina seems to be safe and well.”
I breathe out a sigh. Those words loosen a knot of tension I’ve been carrying around for days. She’s safe. Still with Margot, and still not responding to my messages, but at least I know she’s okay. “You asked Wayne to help?”
Freddie nods. “He’s friends with a guy who’s on Margot’s security team. It took some back and forth, but Wayne just got confirmation. He’s asked for the address, so as soon as we have that, we’ll know where to go to find her.”
“You think I should?” I ask. “Even though Wayne said she’s fine?”
He lifts one shoulder. “If it were me, I’d be worried about the text she sent. If she’s drinking, and she doesn’t have a lot of experience with that whole scene, she could easily be in over her head.”
I nod, biting my lip as I sink back into the door.
It’s been nine years, ten months, and seventeen days since my brilliant, beautiful, amazing older sister was killed in a car accident the night of her senior prom. Her boyfriend didn’t think he’d had too much to drink—but it was still enough that two blocks after leaving the dance, he missed a stop sign and pulled through an intersection, where an enormous diesel pick-up t-boned him, hitting the passenger side first and killing Daphne instantly.
I was seventeen, one year behind Daphne in school and following behind her with my own date, on our way to the same afterparty she’d invited me to. It was a party just for seniors, but I had special privileges because Daphne was the prom queen, the one everyone loved, and I was her little sister.
I’ve since stopped asking all the what-if questions that plagued me for years.
