Page 77 of A Mistake of Worth
To warmth.
To Michael.
Chapter thirteen
Michael
Thedoorclickedshutbehind him with a familiar weight.
Michael dropped his keys into the bowl by the door, kicked off his shoes, and loosened his tie. It had been a long day. Contracts stalled by lawyers, another call with the Danes that went nowhere, and a vendor meeting that ran two hours over schedule.
But the one thing he’d looked forward to, the thing that made all of it bearable, was sinking into Henri’s arms at the end of it.
Henri should be home by now. His final EcoSphere meeting had been scheduled to wrap up by four, and it was well past six. Usually, he’d text if he was running late, or Michael would come home to find him curled in one of Michael’s oversized sweaters, reading or tapping away at his laptop.
“Henri?” he called, expecting an answering voice from the living room or kitchen. Maybe a distracted “in here” from the office.
Silence.
Michael moved into the kitchen, flicking on the lights. The kettle was cold. Henri had adopted the British tradition of afternoon tea with surprising enthusiasm, usually putting it on the moment he got home. But there was no mug waiting on the counter, no tea bag wrapper in the bin.
His chest tightened, just slightly. A faint pressure that didn’t mean anything yet.
“Henri?” Louder this time.
The living room was the same. The couch cushions were undisturbed, still arranged exactly as they’d been this morning. No throw blanket twisted from an afternoon read. The book Henri had been working through, the one he’d left on the coffee table, sat untouched.
Michael’s heart beat faster. Something was off.
He took the stairs two at a time, his breath coming quicker now. The bedroom door stood open, and he saw it instantly. A drawer hung half-open, gaps where clothes had been pulled in a hurry.
The closet told the rest. Henri’s suitcase was missing. But his laptop charger was still coiled on the desk. His favorite book lay open and face-down on the nightstand, and his toiletries were still lined up on the bathroom counter.
Michael’s pulse spiked, his heart suddenly hammering against his ribs. He called Henri’s number with shaking fingers. Straight to voicemail.
His stomach twisted, bile rising in his throat.
Michael went to the front door, yanking it open and stepping onto Chester Terrace. Evening summer light poured over the row of white stucco townhouses, every window and columncatching the gold of the lowering sun. Across the road, Regent’s Park spread green and endless, dotted with runners, cyclists, and parents trailing children toward the playgrounds. The air smelled faintly of cut grass and warm stone.
“Henri?” His voice carried farther than he meant it to. A man passing with a Labrador gave him a brief, curious glance before continuing on.
Michael scanned the street, his heart still pounding. Park gates, parked cars, the far end of the terrace where the road curved out of sight. No Henri. No sign of anyone leaving in a hurry.
The doorman in the next townhouse over paused mid-polish of the brass knocker. “Evening, Mr. Taylor.”
“Have you seen Henri today?” Michael’s voice came out too sharp, too desperate.
A shake of the head. “Not since yesterday morning.”
He thanked the doorman and went back inside, shutting the door harder than he meant to. The silence pressed in around him, suffocating now. His hands were trembling.
Then he saw it: a sheet of paper propped against the fruit bowl on the kitchen island, folded once.
No name on the outside.
But he knew.
Michael’s legs felt weak as he crossed to it. He reached for the note with trembling fingers, unfolding it carefully. The paper shook in his hands.
