He paused intermittently between sentences as if he were listening. “Yes, I’m sure. I know. I did, but he’d vanished. I’ll try again in a few hours. I’ve been at it all night. Yes, she—no. No. Leander, that’s not—” He exhaled in a long, aggravated hiss, then fell silent. She sat up from the couch, blinking in the dark living room. She sensed it was still a while before dawn; the birds hadn’t even started singing outside the windows in the trees yet, and the city still held that slumbering quiet of very early morning. She stretched, wincing at the crick in her neck, and rose from the couch, pushing the ivory cashmere throw aside. It had been one of the longest nights of her life. Pacing hadn’t helped. Worrying hadn’t helped. Four shots of very fine whiskey hadn’t helped. Only sleep had provided an escape from the state of anxiety she’d been in since she returned to the hotel after finding Xander in the alley, and that had been a temporary solution.
