mornings and evenings. This morning she wished him luck on the bank meeting when he’d answered her question about his day. He nodded and wished her luck at another day of practice at the warehouse before her audition.
At noon Chip slipped the tie through the hole and tightened the knot at his throat as he watched himself in the mirror. The creases in his suit trousers were so perfect someone could have used them as a ruler on an architectural drawing. His button-up was so white it hurt his eyes. He checked his watch.
One hour until the meeting.
He wasn’t going to get there ten minutes early. No. He was going to be there forty-five minutes early and sit there happily, one crisp trouser leg over the other, until the man opened the door.
Chip patted his suit jacket, trouser pockets, and briefcase as he stepped outside his door.
Phone.
Keys.
Financial documents. Résumé. Estimates. Pages upon pages of estimates.
Here we go.
As he pulled into the parking lot of the Bank of Abingdon, his phone buzzed inside his trousers. He hesitated before pulling it out to answer.
But the clock on his dashboard said he had fifty-two minutes of waiting left. He was there. Although he’d told his subs to do their best to hold all calls until 3:00 p.m., there was no telling what emergency had cropped up. Heck, if one of the subs was calling him after he’d been so clear, the odds were real and high that whatever was happening was dire and getting costlier by the minute.
He pulled the phone out of his pocket and saw a number he didn’t recognize.
That ruled out his mother, his brothers, and all of his dependable subs.
Francis maybe?
Chip pressed Accept and put the phone to his ear. “What’s up?”
But it wasn’t Francis. Or Eric. Or any one of the three guys who cycled through phones and phone numbers the way they cycled through fast-food meals.
“Chip, is that you?” The woman’s voice broke.
Chip paused before turning off the truck’s ignition. “Mrs. Leake? Yes, it’s me. What’s going on?”
Her voice was unsteady. It cracked as she spoke. “I’m so sorry to bother you like this. It’s just”—she paused, sniffled—“we’ve been trying to reach Bree for an hour. Her phone goes straight to voicemail like it’s turned off and—and she needs to know about Anna.”
Chip held his breath. He cast his eyes down Main Street. “Does she . . .” He fought to find the words. “Is she . . .”
“She’s in the PICU now,” she managed. “I’m in the lobby. They aren’t letting us in. We’re all here. Everyone—”
Chip’s jaw flexed.
He glanced in the rearview mirror at the bank’s doors.
Then back down Main Street where, a few short turns away, the Barter warehouse stood.
He closed his eyes. Exhaled.
His keys dug into his hands as he put them back in the ignition. “I think I know where she is. Don’t worry, Mrs. Leake. I’m gonna find her.”
Chapter 21
Bree
“Remember, it’s flap-heel-toe-heel, flap-heel-toe-heel, and then Maxie Ford pull back.”
Bree nodded at Birdie’s words and without slowing adjusted the clicking step to fit the sequence. In unison they stamped, shuffled, jumped, clicked the tips of their shoes in the air in the breath of a millisecond, and landed, tapping their right foot behind the left on the floor.
“Again,” Birdie said. “From the Maxie Ford.”
Sweat rolled down the back of Bree’s neck. Though the warehouse was 65 degrees, every inch of her black leggings and white leotard was soaked. Her thighs burned, calves burned, body burned, but at this point the sensation somehow just fueled her to keep going. Birdie had said it was her goal to brainwash Bree’s body over the course of their limited practice time. Well, she succeeded.
“You’re scraping the toes in the air, not clicking. Do it again.”
Bree obeyed.
Birdie stood there watching Bree with her hands on her hips, her own ponytail damp. She nodded. “Good. Again.”
Bree jumped into the air and clicked her tap shoes in smooth tap-tap-tap precision.
She did it a fifth time, a sixth, a seventh. At the eighth Birdie turned toward the CD player. “Good. Let’s do it with the music.”
Both of them had pulled hard, full days, especially since Kayleigh’s Off-Broadway friend had sauntered onto the scene. It didn’t take but a few hours for gossip to confirm their suspicions, and while some of their peers threw in the towel then and there, Birdie never stopped working. After Bree’s conversation with Chip over chili, she didn’t either.