Page 8 of Obsessed in Blood
Devon couldn’t fault his security chief for his predilection for cleanliness and order. But sometimes he had to wonder. He set the backpack on the covered table while Sergi pulled on latex gloves.
“Do you think she’ll mind?” Sergi asked.
“Probably, but she’ll also understand.”
Sergi began with the main compartment and laid out her tablet, a notebook, a set of workout clothes, and a dogeared paperback mystery novel. Sergi set the tablet aside. No doubt he’d go through it. Then he flipped through the notebook.
“It’s not a diary, but it seems to be written like one.”
Devon swiped it from him. “I’ll take a look.”
Sergi didn’t smile, but it was close for someone who didn’t do it often. He opened the smaller compartment pulling out lipstick, Chapstick, a comb, two pens, a pencil, a card key, and her phone.
“Is that all?” Devon picked up the phone and put it in his pocket.
Sergi checked the bag again, feeling along the fabric in case she’d added hidden pockets. “That’s all.”
“She travels light.”
“Most thieves do.”
“Excellent point.”
“What were you looking for? I have a feeling it’s not anything we’ve found here.”
“Her medallion.”
“Ah. Maybe she was wearing it.”
“I hope not. Is Ginger here?”
He nodded as he returned all the items—minus the tablet, notebook, and phone—to the pack. “She arrived a couple of hours ago.”
“How is she?”
“I can only tell you what Lucas reported. She won’t allow anyone but him in her room, and she refuses to come out.”
Devon lifted a brow. The two of them were supposed to leave for San Francisco for a well-deserved weekend. Even if he didn’t require Lucas to assist in Cressa’s return, there wasn’t a chance Ginger would go anywhere with Cressa missing. He didn’t know Ginger as well as he should, and he couldn’t fathom how she was taking the news.
Sergi continued to provide Lucas’s report. “One minute she’s inconsolable and unable to stop crying. The next she’s in a terrible rage throwing things and stomping around the room vowing vengeance.”
Devon laughed despite the situation. He might not know her that well, but Sergi’s interpretation of Lucas’s report sounded just like Ginger. He picked up the notebook and strode to the door but stopped. “Have a sedan brought around. One from the motor pool.”
Sergi considered the request then nodded. “Do you want company?”
“Lucas will be enough and most likely the only one that can keep Ginger calm.”
Before goingto Ginger’s room, Devon retreated to his own and dropped onto the sofa in front of the cold hearth. He opened the first page of the notebook. The words were something you’d find in a diary, just like Sergi said. He read a page then snapped the book closed, feeling like a voyeur. As House leader, he had every right to read the notebook, if only to see if Cressa had been someplace or mentioned someone that might provide a clue to her whereabouts. But she could have written things she’d prefer he didn’t read, and he had to respect her privacy—even now. Maybe it was best for Sergi to have a look… But then a better solution came to mind, and he set the notebook on the coffee table.
He turned on the phone. No voice messages. No text messages. He scrolled through her contacts. After his name, Ginger’s, and each member of the cadre, the list was short—Harlow, Trudy, The Wolf, April, and her mother. It was an odd list of people, and he pushed down the irrational jealousy that had overtaken him when he saw Remus’s personal number. But hadn’t he given Remus her number in case of an emergency? It still rankled.
He stared at the phone numbers. Should he call her mother? He had nothing to share other than to add a new worry after the recent death of her husband, and preferring to wait before contacting Harlow, he dropped the phone on the coffee table. He picked up the notebook and strolled down the hall to Ginger’s room.
He tapped once but didn’t wait long as Lucas opened the door before the echo of the knock subsided.
“We’ve been expecting you.” He stepped back and glanced at Ginger, who was on the sofa gripping a blanket that had been wrapped around her shoulders.
Her face was tear-streaked, and her mascara had smudged, giving her a sultry exotic look. Countered against the tears that began again, she looked like a terrified Siamese cat. If you pushed too hard the claws would come out.
