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“He’s probably fine,” Brendan said from beside him for the umpteenth time.
Chris’ head popped up. “We can track his phone.”
“I think the police can—”
“No, we can,” Chris raced back into the house for Joq’s office.
This was so easy to do, he didn’t know why he didn’t do it earlier.
He pulled up the program, punched in Joq’s number and leaned back while the GPS coordinates worked.
They pinged. The map was showing his address.
“Did he leave his phone here?” Brendan asked from behind him.
“We’d hear it.”
“Silent?”
“Where’s Delia?” Chris asked suddenly.
He marched back out, went over to the pool. The water was calm in the bay, ink black, the lights stretching like golden oil spills towards the horizon. He spotted the figure sitting on the sand.
“He’s here,” Brendan said incredulously spotting him at the same time.
“Go home,” Chris said quickly and walked towards Joq. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Thank you.”
“I’ll wait, make sure he’s okay.”
Chris shook his head. “Go, I’ve got this.”
He wasn’t sure he did—what was Joq doing? Sitting out there and ignoring his calls until almost midnight? Chris felt a surge of relief, then a tidal wave of worry.
He heard Brendan’s retreating steps, his own pounding on the grass as he rushed towards him.
“Joq?” he called.
Joq didn’t even react.
“Joq,” he said again once he was almost on top of him.
Joq looked up.
“Hey, sorry, I’ll be there in a sec,” he said like this was a normal evening.
“What’re you doing out here? Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
He didn’t look hurt. He looked calm, eerily so.
“I’m fine,” Joq murmured and refocused on the horizon. Delia was in his lap and he was stroking her absently. He had a small package by his hip.
“We had dinner plans,” Chris said helplessly.
“Shit,” Joq said. “I forgot, sorry.”
He forgot?
Chris sat down tentatively next to him. Something wasn’t right.
