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Holt was staring up at me, his hot pink eyes wide. His anxious gaze darted to his phone when Seb’s low voice came over the speaker.

“What do you want me to do, boss?”

After a few tense seconds, he scrubbed his hands over his face. “Fuck. Fine. I’ll give you his address.”

I sagged. “Thank you.”

“Vince is going to check on him, Seb,” Holt said as he quickly opened something on his computer and typed. “You can come to the office.”

“Alright. See you soon.”

The call ended, and I waited anxiously as Holt scribbled an address on the corner of a notebook page, periodically glancing at his monitor.

“If you’d just told me you were a thing—which I know we can’t get into right now, but what the fuck—I would’ve given you his address sooner,” he muttered tersely.

“We’re not a…” I automatically started to say, but stopped myself because it felt wrong. Awful. “I’m just worried about him.”

“No, really? You’ve managed to age me ten fucking years in the space of fifteen minutes, you shithead.” He shot me a quick look. “Don’t tell Taylor I called you a shithead again.”

He tore the corner of the page free, and I couldn’t stop myself from snatching it impatiently when he held it out.

“Thank you,” I remembered to say, already turning for the door.

“If you see him, tell him we’re worried about him,” Holt said anxiously, rising from the desk to follow me. “And let me know, okay?”

“Yep.” I nodded at Larkin as I left Holt’s office. He was sitting behind his desk, fiddling with his phone and looking a little freaked out.

“What’s going on?”

I didn’t stick around to fill him in, already striding out of the room and down the corridor with determination.

If Crossbody didn’t answer the door, I was kicking it down.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Frederick du Gateur, Gateur Garbage Disposal and Waste Management

Vince

I was surprised by how normal Crossbody’s house was as my car rounded a bend between the trees and it came into sight up ahead.

It was a decent size, but nowhere near the mega mansion I’d always pictured him living in. Maybe an old farmhouse, one that had been kept in excellent condition over the years, with an immaculate cream paint job and a dark-stained wraparound front porch that was crowded with potted plants.

I’d tried calling him a few more times on the drive, but his phone was still off. Seb had been right though—everything looked normal. Crossbody’s car was on the drive, and all the curtains but those in an upstairs window were open. There were no signs of someone breaking in, and when I got out of my car and hurried onto the porch to peer through the living room window, all the furniture still seemed to be in place. Nothing missing or broken in a struggle of some kind.

The TV was still on, playing a rerun of a human reality dating show. At the back of the room, there was an archway leading through to a bright and airy kitchen that looked spotless. And empty.

Jogging to the front door, I hammered my fist on it.

“Crossbody?” I shouted, my voice sounding particularly loud and rough with the panic that had been plaguing me for hours in the quiet surroundings. The house was ringed by woodland, and the only neighbour I’d passed on my way here had been a quarter mile back.

“It’s me,” I yelled when I heard no movement inside—no one coming down the stairs or shuffling through the front hall to answer the door.

Gritting my teeth, I tried the handle. Locked. Taking a couple steps back, I eyed the front door. It was solid wood. Nicely painted. Would it be a huge overreaction to kick it in? Would I even be able to?

Scrubbing my face, I hammered on the door again, then stepped back off the porch to look up at the house. Was that upstairs window with the curtains drawn his bedroom? Was he just asleep?

But he would’ve woken up from first Seb, then me pounding on his front door. He was a fae. His ears were a thousand times more sensitive than mine.