Chapter Two

"Do you have any idea why she left?" Brent asked.

"I thought you'd have the answer to that one."

"What did she take? Clothes? Cash? Did she pack a suitcase?"

"I don't know," Joe kept his eyes fixed on the road.

"Weren't there any clues at all?" Brent's voice took on a note of exasperation. "Did you check with the bank to see if she took out any money? Did you log onto her computer and check her email? Did you go through her closet?" He waved a hand in annoyance. "Did you at least call the police?"

Joe slowed as they exited the freeway and turned onto a small street off the access road. "I told you, I thought she was with you. Your office was the first place I went."

"Do we at least know how long she's been gone?"

"It could be two hours, it could be twelve. I drove to Madera three days ago to take care of some business. I talked to Elise every day. She called me last night around ten o'clock and everything seemed normal." He turned onto a winding farm road. "I got home today around noon, unloaded some things in my studio, then went in the house. That's when I found the note. I got back in the truck and went to find you. I have no idea how long she's been gone."

Brent settled back in his seat, annoyed. "She could've taken off right after she got off the phone with you last night. She could be in another country by now, for all we know."

Joe pulled into a dirt driveway that crossed a small wooden bridge. Straight ahead was the house, a low-slung ranch with a circular driveway in front and another driveway snaking toward a barn a short distance away. Joe parked in front of the house and killed the engine. "Are you saying I don't know what I'm doing?"

"Of course not. What gives you that idea?"

"The way you keep asking questions, hinting that I'm not going about this the right way. Like you would've done better."

"I don't mean anything of the kind." Brent reached for the door handle. "But your dependence on me for answers has cost us time."

Joe jumped out and walked to the door. "You don't have to tell me."

"I'm not." Brent waited while Joe fumbled with his house keys. "So what's the plan?"

"What do you mean?"

"I thought we would be splitting things up. You know, trying to at least get a general idea where to start looking."

"I'll call the bank, I guess. Maybe call some of her friends."

"Shouldn't we call the cops first, report her as a missing person?"

Joe turned on Brent with an expression of contempt. "If you had half the brains you act like you have, you'd know the cops don't consider an adult missing until they've been gone at least 24 hours. And since she obviously left of her own free will, we'd be lucky to get any help at all."

Brent turned away. "I'd forgotten you had such intimate familiarity with the police and their practices."

Joe opened his mouth to make a sarcastic retort, but thought better of it. "Why don't you check the computer. See if you can find anything there. You work on computers all day, right? Maybe you can break into her email or something."

"I'm in marketing, not IT."

"Does that mean you can't do anything useful around here? If you're not a techie, call someone who is."

Brent gave a faint nod and Joe pointed down a hallway. "The study is that way."

"You wouldn't happen to know her email password?" Brent asked.

"Of course not. We wouldn't need a techie then, would we?" Joe took off his jacket and threw it over a chair as he headed toward the kitchen, not waiting to see what Brent intended to do next.

Brent glared at his back for a long moment, then stomped down the hall, his feet making almost no sound on the thickly padded carpet.

* * *

In the hallway, Brent stopped to examine the pictures on the walls; framed photographs, most of them of Joe's famous wooden carvings of saints and angels. In some of the photos, Joe was standing proudly beside them, sometimes in a rumpled denim shirt with work tools in his hand, other times in stiff-looking formal attire, as if at an art show or dedication. Brent didn't spend much time on these. What held his attention was Elise in profile at her easel, her hair mussed and brows knitted in concentration as she worked. Other photos showed Elise at sixteen, lean and graceful in the chorus of the St. Argent junior ballet, and Elise in her twenties at a gallery show of her watercolors, cupping a glass of champagne. "You were good," Brent murmured. "Not that you ever believed me."

Annoyed, Brent looked about, then pushed open a door. He stepped into a room cluttered with bookcases and filing cabinets. An old sofa was shoved against one wall, the cushions covered in magazines, papers and photographs of Joe's woodwork. Brent picked up one of the color glossies of a startlingly lifelike goddess with Elise's features: swan-like neck, smooth, rounded cheeks, almond eyes. The pouting lips had been carved so delicately it looked as if the mahogany girl was waiting for a kiss. Brent flipped the picture over and deciphered Joe's twisted handwriting: Persephone. He set the picture aside and looked around the room, his gaze falling this time on the computer. He turned it on and sat down.

While the programs were loading, Brent dug his cell phone out of his pocket and called his office. "Christine? Brent. Hey, listen, could you put me through to Colin in Tech Support, please?" He tapped a few keys idly while he waited. "Colin? This is Brent Conner, VP of Marketing. I need a small favor..."