Page 74 of Craving

The sense of unease that had flooded him before the cake topper drama began to trickle in again. But Camilla was probably asleep, that was all. She’d spent all night fixing the cake. Yesterday, he’d read lies where there was only stress for her business. She hadn’t been hiding anything.

Still, Marlon’s pulse picked up. “I want to go check on Camilla. You good to close things out here?”

Cormac nodded, and Marlon clapped him on the back on the way out. His shoulders relaxed as he got behind the wheel. It felt good to be going home, to know that in less than half an hour, he’d have Camilla in his arms. He’d apologize to her, and everything would be okay. It had to be. They’d caught the thief, he’d realized his mistakes, and now all he had to do was beg for forgiveness and admit he was in love.

He pulled up to the house, and Camilla’s car was in the driveway covered in an unblemished layer of snow. He frowned. What had she been driving to get to the Goodhew wedding? There was no other car in the drive, and that was too much snow for just the past couple of hours.

The house’s windows were dark. Marlon’s dread kicked up another notch, but he tamped it down.

Camilla was asleep. She was snuggled inside, safe and sound.

Blowing a breath out against the cold, Marlon jogged up his front steps and slid his key in the lock. The latch stuck in the cold, so he had to jiggle it aggressively before it came free. Stepping inside, Marlon listened to the creaks of the house.

Camilla had a couple of pairs of shoes by the front door. He scanned them, wishing he remembered what she’d been wearing. Where was her jacket? Her purse? Didn’t she usually leave it on the console table when she came in?

“Camilla?” Marlon called out, his blood beginning to run cold. “Sweetheart?”

His voice echoed. He didn’t kick his boots off as he walked over to the living room to peer inside. She wasn’t on the couch, and she wasn’t in the TV room. He left wet bootprints on the stairs as he took them two at a time, throwing the master bedroom door open.

Her bed was made, the pillows were fluffed, and Camilla was nowhere to be seen.

Marlon’s heart began to thump. He checked his own bedroom, the bathroom, the kitchen. His breath came in short gasps as he threw the laundry room open, then the garage.

But he already knew.

Camilla wasn’t there.

“Camilla!” Marlon shouted up the steps, but no answer came. He didn’t even bother locking the door behind him as he tore through the fresh snow to his car. Fat flakes fell in clumps, and he set the window wipers going as soon as he got behind the wheel.

The bakery. She’d be at the bakery.

But she wasn’t.

He pounded on the front door, the back door, but no answer came. From the front windows, he could see a light on in the kitchen. He tried her phone again, texted, rushed to the back door and pounded his fist against it.

Hands shaking, Marlon called his brother.

“Yeah?”

“Is Camilla with Amelia?” he barked.

There was a shuffling sound. “Camilla? No. Amelia, do you know where Camilla is?”

“No,” came the muffled reply. “I spoke to her before the wedding and she said she had an errand, and then she’d be heading back to Marlon’s to sleep for twenty hours. Direct quote.”

Leo spoke again: “She’s not at home? Amelia says she should be.”

Panic raked its claws down Marlon’s spine.

Something was wrong.

He hung up on his brother and dialed Elton.

“Yeah,” the other man said as he answered the phone.

“I can’t find Camilla,” he said, and his voice broke on her name. He cleared his throat. “Was the alarm disarmed at any point today?”

The clacking of a keyboard sounded over the line. “Disarmed last night after the break-in, then armed at four p.m. Disarmed again twenty minutes later, and that’s it. It hasn’t been armed again.”

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