Page 65 of Pack Baby for the Silver Foxes

Lincoln’s eyes flashed. “Hudson.”

“I’ll find her.”

He understood the rest and I left before anyone could ask a question.

Andrea stood behind the reception desk when I reached the front of the office, one hand still on the phone. Our reception area was designed to let people know what we were capable of. Marble floor, deep green velvet chairs, gold lamps, a wall of glass looking toward the river, and flowers refreshed twice a week because Lincoln pretended not to care and then complained if the arrangement looked pitiful.

Mary had stood here. Her scent clung to the air.

Andrea’s eyes widened when she saw my face. “Mr. Bale?”

“Tell me exactly what happened.”

“She came in and asked if Hudson and Lincoln worked here. I asked if she had an appointment. She said no, but that you had told her to call if she needed...” Andrea paused, professional instincts fighting curiosity. “If she needed anything.”

My chest tightened. “Did she give a surname?”

“No. Only Mary.”

“Did anyone approach her?”

“No. She looked around and asked whether this was your building. I said yes. She said, ‘Of course it is,’ which seemed odd.”

Despite everything, I smiled. “Then?”

“I told her you were in a meeting and asked if she’d like to wait. She said no. Then she asked if Mr. Hart was here too. I said yes. She went very pale. I asked if she was all right, and she said she was grand.”

“She wasn’t.”

“No,” Andrea said softly. “She wasn’t.”

“Which direction?”

Andrea pointed toward the glass doors. “Left out of the building, then toward the river path. I watched until she turned the corner.”

“If Mr. Hart comes out, tell him I’ve gone after her.”

“Of course.”

I was through the doors before she finished. London hit me with rain, exhaust, and the cold metallic smell of the river. I turned left.

The wet pavement shone under my shoes. People moved around me under black umbrellas, shoulders hunched, faces lowered against the weather. A cyclist shouted at a cab. A woman in a camel coat stepped out of a cafe holding two coffees and nearly collided with a courier.

Mary had five minutes on me. Maybe less. I scanned every doorway first. The cafe with the steamed windows. The bookshop tucked under the office block. The florist beside the alley, where buckets of tulips stood bright and absurd in the rain.

No navy coat, no dark waves, no violet. I went into the cafe, anyway.

The bell over the door rang. Warm air rolled over me, carrying coffee, butter, cinnamon, and too many bodies. A girl by the counter had dark hair, but when she turned, she wasn’t Mary. Two students sat near the window. A mother folded a pram blanket over a sleeping baby.

The barista looked up. “Can I help you?”

“A young woman in a navy coat. Dark hair. Did she come in?”

He glanced toward the door. “No, mate. Sorry.”

I left before the bell finished swinging.

Next, the bookshop.