She groaned, turned over, and covered her head with her pillow, but it was no good. Her brain was engaged, puzzling the few clues she and Tess had gathered about Angelo DeMarco’s disappearance, then shifting to pondering her father’s. Her heart thudded as if it were revving up to normal speed through her exhaustion and she licked her lips. Then she slid a hand over to Vincent’s side of the bed. An experimental touch of the mattress came back empty; Vincent was gone. But he had programmed her coffee pot to begin dripping at eleven-fifty-five—how had he known?—and as she finished her shower, put her hair in a ponytail, and padded out to the kitchen, her first cup of the day was steamy and tasty. Like him. There was a text on her phone: Nothing yet. The number was one she didn’t recognize. A new burner phone for Vincent. She counted back three days. Yes. It was time for her to switch, too. It was like their first months together, stealth and phone numbers that lasted three days, stolen moments… and falling in love.
