Page 90 of Into Pitch

I’ve been sitting for maybe ten minutes when there’s a knock at my door. “Come in.”

I look up in time to watch the two men who enter. My eyes sliding immediately to the badges clipped at either of their belts.

“I assume this is about Ms. Morgan,” I say by way of greeting. Rising from my chair and offering my hand to each to shake before gesturing for them both to take a seat. They sink down.

“My receptionist this morning told me you had been asking for her. She had missed her last appointment.”

True.

Selectively true, sure, but still true.

They exchange a look before the older sets to asking the questions. “When was the last time you saw her?”

“Around a week and a half ago when she attended her scheduled session. She appeared stressed, but nothing outside her established baseline.” I answer fluidly.

“And since then?”

“As I said, she didn’t show to her next appointment. Which is not uncommon for clients dealing with avoidance behaviors.” I explain away.

They press on, of course. Asking about her history in particular, and I give them only what is exactly documented. Childhood instability with a now estranged mother. An inconsistent support system alongside a high stress job. That she has artistic tendencies and has no fixed residence in the traditional sense.

I do not specifically mention the bus, because it’s already been on the news. And I certainly don’t mention Pitch and all it did to stir her up.

“Did she say anything about leaving town?” The younger detective asks.

“No,” I sigh, relaxing into my seat. “But she had expressed, repeatedly, a desire to start over. To disappear for a while.”

That one is almost generous.

After a few more dead-end questions, they thank me for my time and request that I contact them if she reaches out. I assure them that I will and even bother to look concerned enough that the younger one nods like he believes me.

They leave about with what they came in with—nothing.

I watch them go without an ounce of regret or anxiety, certainly no panic. Just a mild irritation at the inconvenience of having to drive back to put up with the farce. It’s not exactly like I could tell them I drugged and kidnapped her. I’m assuming that wouldn’t have gone over too… swell.

Sighing, I adjust my phone on the edge of the desk and return to my work. It’s a long, dull day that I’m not entirely checked into. And I stay behind at the clinic far longer than I need to. Moving throughout the building like a man with nothing to hide, but making sure that I am seen. I make small talk with familiar faces and camouflage everything in normalcy.

It works, of course. It always does.

I’m pouring myself a cup of coffee in the break room when I hear yet another familiar voice. Sadie’s best friend, Imogen.

She sounds high-strung, threaded with panic. A sound people make when the world has tilted and they don’t know how to set it back upright. Turning slowly, I exit the break room and find her standing near the front desk. Her phone clutched in one hand, eyes red-rimmed and unfocused like she hasn’t slept. Her usual confidence—her sharp edges—are dulled by fear.

She looks smaller than she did the night I first saw her across the street from the bar. Her dark hair a mess atop her head and her clothes baggy, a little too worn.

She hasn’t seen me yet either, and I consider slipping out. Avoidance would be the cleanest, most efficient thing to do, but efficiency isn’t always optimal.

So I clear my throat and step toward her. She startles, looking up as recognition flickers across her face before collapsing into something raw.

“Oh, you’re Sadie’s therapist, right?” She breathes out.

“I am,” I say and hold out my hand for her to shake. Her fingers warm and clammy as they wrap around my own. “Imogen, I presume.”

She nods quickly after pulling her head back, scrubbing at her face with the heel of her hand. “Have you—have you heard from her?”

The hope in her voice is desperate, and it scrapes at my mind.

“No,” I answer softly.