Chapter Twenty-Five

The next thing I’m aware of is that fact that my head is throbbing.

No. Not just throbbing.

My skull has somehow gone ahead and gained its own drum kit, and a toddler is smashing the bass, cymbal, and high hat with no discernible rhythm.

And then I remember.

The wine. Gabe. The kiss. The panic.

The last bit comes back with a vengeance.

“Shit!” I exclaim, my eyes flying open.

I’m still in his living room. It’s dark and quiet. I’m in one piece. A blanket is tucked up around my body, and a pillow is under my head. The worry fades to a dull roar, embarrassment sliding in instead.

“Gabe?” I call, my voice cracking.

I’m actually hoping he won’t answer. If I’m lucky, I can sneak out and pretend the whole humiliating evening never happened. Except when he doesn’t respond, I don’t do a very good job of sneaking anywhere. In fact, I stay where I am, and I pull the blanket up to my chin.

Just a couple more minutes.

I let my eyes drift shut, and I can’t help but picture Gabe’s face. The way he looked right before his lips found mine. The worry in his eyes as I nearly lost my footing. And the other stuff is kind of fuzzy.

“Arg,” I grumble. “Really, Calhoun?”

But how the hell did I manage to get so drunk? I do a mental backtrack. One glass of white while Gabe cooked. One glass of red while we ate. Then the dessert wine. How much of that did I have? A glass and a half? Two?

Okay, I admit. That’s a fair enough amount.

But still. I had a full stomach. And I’m not a lightweight. And it was spread out over a few hours, too. The concern seeps back in.

I open my eyes again, and this time I steal a look around. For a second, the room is blurred with both sleep and my hangover. But after a moment, my gaze finds something that makes my vision clear. It’s a white card—the same kind Gabe had left for me at the hotel—propped up and scrawled with my name in black lettering.

Trying to ignore the continuing pound in my head, I push aside the blanket and reach for the note. Inside, I find a good explanation for my accidental inebriation.

Morning, Trinity, reads the card. I owe you a big, giant apology. I didn’t realize until after you were asleep that I’d served you a whole whack of Madeira. It’s a nice little Portuguese wine with an alcoholic content of 22 percent. So basically, one glass might’ve been enough to knock a walrus on its ass.

“Or two glasses,” I say under my breath before moving on to the next line.

Wait, Gabe has added. Do walruses even have asses? Is the plural of walruses actually walruses? Why does that look wrong?

I start to laugh, but my head protests.

Anyway, says the note. I’m sorry. And to try and make it up to you, I left some stuff for you. There’s a bottle of water and some painkillers here on the table.

I glance over and spot them. Gratefully, I set down the note, pop the two pills, and consume over half the water in a few enormous gulps. And even though it’s probably psychosomatic, I feel a little better already.

I drop my attention back to the card, reading on.

There’s a brand-new toothbrush in the bathroom. There’s an old family recipe for a hangover in the fridge. (Trust me.) And your keys are hanging from the hook in the mudroom by the garage. You can go out that way. The door is on a timer, and it’ll close on its own after a minute. Or, if you’d rather, you can just stay and wallow. And plot your revenge. Call me later? G.

I hold onto the note for a few more seconds before I force myself to get up. After folding the blanket, I make the kitchen my first stop. Because even though the idea of immediately brushing away the stale taste in my mouth is appealing, I imagine that whatever Gabe’s hangover recipe consists of, it will warrant a good cleaning, too. And my instincts are spot-on. There’s a mason jar on the second shelf in the fridge, and it contains a liquid concoction that rides the line between being green and brown—a color that doesn’t help the toss and turn going on in my stomach. There’s another note, too. This one is taped to the thick beverage.

Drink me, it says.

I lift out the jar and—expecting the worst—I lift it to my nose. Surprisingly, it’s not malodorous at all. There’s a hint of something nutty, and nothing more.

“All right, Gabe,” I say to the smoothie. “You wanted me to trust you on this, so I will.”

I tilt the jar to my lips and drink. The first mouthful has an off-putting texture, and I very nearly give up. But the second sip is a little better. And by the time I get to the third, I swear my stomach is magically settling. I drink the rest, then rinse the jar and load it into the dishwasher. With that done, I take advantage of the toothbrush offer. I also give my face a vigorous scrub, redo my ponytail, and smooth down my clothes to what I hope is less than a morning-after vibe.

I’m about to grab my keys from the mudroom—my fingers are literally closed on them, ready to pull them from the hook—when something catches my eye. It’s just a scrap of army green, peeking out from behind the coats hanging beside the key rack. But it tweaks something in my memory, and I move toward it, my hand outstretched to sweep aside the jacket that’s blocking my full view. And when I follow through on the intended action, a gasp nearly escapes my lips as my hand drops.

A backpack.

A bag, exactly like the one I spied through the window of my childhood home. The one clutched in the hooded man’s arms.

Feeling light-headed, I reach out and moved the jacket again. The backpack is definitely there. And it’s definitely identical to the one I saw yesterday. The color and the straps and the buckle make me sure.

But that doesn’t mean it’s the same one.

In fact, it’s utterly unlikely. I ran into Gabe on his jog right after seeing the suspicious man. And while the bag is distinct enough to stand out, that doesn’t mean it’s unique. I bet if I were to take a picture of it right now, then upload it into an image search, I’d find out just how easy it is to acquire one.

It’s a hell of a coincidence, though, isn’t it?

Slowly, I let my hand fall to my side. I take a small step back, and I dart a glance around. I don’t know what I’m expecting to see—maybe an excuse not to look again—but whatever it is, I don’t find it. So I move toward the backpack. Guilt bites at me. But it’s not sharp enough to stop me from pulling the bag down, unbuckling the leather strap on top, and peering inside. Empty. There’s not even a scrap of paper in the bottom of the bag. And a quick search inside the other pouches reveals more of the same. And that lack should make me feel both guiltier and relieved. Instead, I’m simply not satisfied.

I hang the bag up again and tuck the coats back into place. And I frown. My hangover is magically gone, my mind churning with a need for further proof that the green backpack in Gabe’s mudroom is not the same one I’d seen yesterday.

Because it can’t be. That would be crazy.

My fingers find my thigh, and they tap out a rhythm.

I’m being ridiculous. I know it, even as a little voice points out that now is an absolutely perfect time to look around the house. Am I actually going to do it, though? After Gabe tucked me in on his couch and did all the sweet, rom-com style things before he left?

Where did he go, anyway? He’s between jobs. And his note didn’t say.

I frown a little harder. It’s not as though he owes me some kind of explanation for his comings and goings. But it does seem a little weird to me that he didn’t hint at his whereabouts. Or mention when he’d be back.

“He’s a single forty-year-old man,” I say to the empty hallway. “He’s not used to telling someone where he is or what he’s doing. And besides which, I’m the couch crasher here, not the other way around.”

Despite the verbal declaration, I still haven’t grabbed the keys. In fact, I’m not only already planning on how I’ll go from room to room, but I’m also already moving to do it.

One quick look, I tell myself. That’s it.

Of course, every step makes me feel guiltier than the last. Even though I’ve executed many searches—all with judge-approved warrants, of course—I’ve never made my way through the home of someone I know. My job has never felt like I’m committing a personal violation. Not until today. It makes me move faster. I sweep the main floor in under five minutes. I go through the upstairs even more quickly, blushing every time I open a closet or cupboard.

The worst moment of all occurs when I reach Gabe’s bedroom. And it’s not just because it’s his personal personal space. It’s not even because I think of the brush of his lips over mine—although I do think of it. The big problem is that as I stand in the doorway, staring in at his made but-still-slightly-rumpled bed, I realize that I can’t undo the search. If I find nothing suspicious, then all I’ve done is snoop through his things without reason. And undoubtedly, I will find nothing. My hungover brain is just overreacting to the presence of a completely random backpack. Gabe Stuart is my best friend’s brother. A boy whose heart broke when he lost his sister, and who has grown into a kind, funny man. And when I do succeed in completing a search that results in nothing…then every time I look at him, I know I’ll be thinking of it.

Dammit, Calhoun. Can’t you just be a cop, looking for clues?

But I can’t. What evidence do I have to justify my actions? The fact that Gabe went for a jog in our old neighborhood? The fact that he owns a backpack? Neither of those things is out of the ordinary. My coworkers would laugh their asses off if I were to tell them that was why I’m illegally searching a man’s house. Which is a pretty good indicator that I need to stop what I’m doing.

With a final glance at Gabe’s private space, I spin away, and I practically run back down the stairs and through the hall to the mudroom. I snap up my keys and swing toward the door that leads to the garage, fully determined to get out before I do something else that I regret. But then I stop. The bag, peeking out from amongst the jackets, catches my eye again. Its position strikes me suddenly as unnatural. And unbidden, a question jumps to mind. Did Gabe tuck it back there because he was trying to hide it? I bite my lip and stare.

But why would he hide it, Calhoun? I ask myself. It’s nothing more than a backpack in his own house. And it’s empty anyway. Not to mention that he literally sent you into this room to get your keys. Seems a little counterintuitive for some nefarious plan, no?

It’s all true. But my gaze still insists on staying on the empty bag for several more long seconds. Finally, I sigh and give my neck a squeeze. I need to let this go. I have other things to think about. Asher, for starters.

I turn away from the bag, grab the door handle and pull. The door hinges creak noisily enough to remind me that I woke up with a killer headache, and I wince as the throb threatens to return. All the more reason to get back to my hotel. Stepping into the dim garage with one hand on the door, I fumble my hand along the wall in search of a switch. But just as I find it, and I’m about to flick it on, my phone buzzes in my pocket, startling me. I jerk forward, and the door closes behind me, enshrouding me in darkness.

My phone vibrates again, and—thinking it might be Gabe—I tug it from my pocket. But instead of a message, there’s an email notification from my fake profile on the dating site.

'You have a message from Smarty-Pants,' it announces in bold, cheerful lettering.