Gypsy’s expression softened. “You give her hugs, tell her she’s safe and that everything will be okay. If that doesn’t work, you download the real-people version of Beauty and the Beast and turn it on.” She gave his arm another squeeze before stepping back. “You’ve got this.”
5
Something jabbed Wyatt in the ribs. Still mostly asleep, he pushed at whatever it was, only to be rewarded with another jab. He groaned, reached down, and closed his hand around a foot. A very small, warm foot.
Wyatt’s eyes popped open. He found himself in his own house. His mind darted chaotically to make sense of this until his thoughts finally landed on Belle. Belle, who wouldn’t sleep in her own room. Belle, who wasn’t tired after taking a nap in Gypsy’s office the night before. Belle, who’d talked nonstop late into the night—possibly even early morning hours. Belle, who slept upside down and sideways, taking up ninety percent of his king-sized bed, while Wyatt was curled in a corner, only to be continually kicked by his pint-sized niece.
He glanced over his shoulder and found Belle sprawled across the bed, covers kicked off, her frilly pink nightgown twisted around her little body, her long dark hair splashed across her face.
Wyatt reached for his phone and rolled to his back. He scrolled through his notifications and messages, but there was nothing from Francie. Wyatt dropped his phone against his chest and stared at the ceiling, caught between confusion and concern. He couldn’t fathom just disappearing like this. And he was terrified over the idea that she hadn’t disappeared by choice.
Belle rolled again, and Wyatt put his arm down to protect his ribs. But this time, she scooted up beside him, laid her head on his arm, and ran her little hand across his scruff. “Can I have chocolate chip pancakes, Uncle Wyatt?”
Her sleepy sweetness melted all his frustration for the bruises she’d undoubtedly inflicted last night. He pushed the hair from her eyes, and she gave him a toothy grin. “I bet your mom doesn’t say no to you very often.”
Her big blue eyes turned somber, as if she could read his worry. “When will Mommy be home?”
“Let’s get dressed and head over to your house to see if she’s back.” He kissed her forehead. “And we’ll stop for chocolate chip pancakes on the way.”
Belle smiled, rolled to her back, and thrust both her fists into the air. “Yay!”
When both Wyatt and Belle were stuffed from breakfast, he headed back to Francie’s house, praying she was home, sleeping off a bender. Though now that he knew she’d done this before, he couldn’t let it go like his parents had. These disappearing acts would have to stop.
Wyatt rolled to the curb, hoping the absence of Francie’s SUV only meant it was in the garage. He retrieved the hidden key from inside an ornamental metal chicken on the porch, opened the door, and pushed it wide.
Belle ran in. “Mommy!” She continued through the house, popping in and out of rooms. “Mommy!”
Before Wyatt reached the door to the garage, he knew Francie wasn’t home, but viewing the empty garage bay confirmed the worst.
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, letting the door swing closed. Now what in the hell was he going to do?
Belle returned to the living room, deflated. “Mommy’s not here.”
Wyatt forced a smile. “I guess that means we get another sleepover.”
Belle’s smile returned. “Okay.”
“Grab some clothes and pajamas and anything else you want to bring.”
Belle skipped off to her room, and Wyatt wandered through the now-clean living room and peered out the sliding glass doors to the backyard. The cleaning crew had done an excellent job. No one could have guessed there’d been fifty people here yesterday, half of those wild little girls.
“What in the hell am I going to do with her for another twenty-four hours?” he murmured.
Two of his bandmates had kids, Bryant and Huck. He pulled out his phone and wandered toward the kitchen, where he leaned both forearms on the breakfast bar, but decided he wasn’t ready to try and explain this situation to anyone else.
He slid his phone back into his pocket and ran his hands through his hair. He could ask her what she wanted to do, but he was afraid she’d want to go horseback riding. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.
He lifted his head and gazed out the window of the breakfast nook. Across the street, similar cookie-cutter homes sat on similar-sized lots with similar SUVs in the driveways. A few kids played catch in the street. It felt foreign, yet in the back of his mind, he remembered days like this when he was growing up. He and Brody playing basketball in the driveway, throwing a football in the field across the street, riding their bikes to the store.
“You watch your little brother, now.” He could almost hear his mom’s voice repeating a phrase she said a lot back then.
“I should have watched you better, bud,” he said softly. “I’m so sorry.”
Belle came skipping out of her room and carelessly tossed clothes and blankets and stuffed animals on the small breakfast table. She had a toothy grin and held up one finger. “Wait. I forgot Miss Suzy.”
Belle’s things had nudged some papers on the table, and two envelopes caught Wyatt’s eye. He stepped that direction and found the corners of the envelopes still secured under a vase of flowers he’d seen on one of the tables outside yesterday. The cleaning crew must have brought them inside, because on top of the envelopes sat a business card for the cleaning company.
But he was looking at the sight of his name on both envelopes, one in a female’s delicate hand, and the other—his stomach dropped. Brody’s handwriting. Wyatt recognized the heavy block letters spelling out his name.
He pushed the card aside and plucked the envelopes from the table. He couldn’t do anything but stare at the envelope from his brother while his mind reeled backward. To getting the call from his father, telling Wyatt that Brody had driven himself to their favorite fishing spot, put his favorite Colt semiautomatic to his head, and pulled the trigger. To hearing that the only communication Brody left behind was a suicide note, basically an apology to Francie and his parents.
It appeared he’d left one for Wyatt too. Francie had been a bit of a mess since Brody died. Scattered, depressed, distant. For the longest time, she hadn’t been able to collect herself enough to manage the bills. Maybe she’d forgotten to give the note to him and left it out, knowing Wyatt would be in town for the party. Whatever the reason for its appearance now, Wyatt was more immediately concerned with the other envelope.
He swallowed and opened Francie’s envelope. The tearing sounded obscenely loud in the quiet house. He unfolded the paper as Belle came back into the room and added a stuffed doll to the pile.
“Toothbrush?” Wyatt asked.
Belle scurried toward the bathroom, and everything shifted into slow motion for Wyatt. He hyper focused on Belle’s shiny dark hair bouncing against her back. Tuned in to the hollow silence in the house. Fought to get his mind to connect thoughts.
With dread and anxiety skittering down his spine, Wyatt focused on the paper in his hand. A document of some kind, with a yellow sticky note on the front that said: “I’m sorry.”