Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 95311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Elliott found himself canceling his lunch meeting, something he had only ever done a handful of times over the course of his entire professional career. He found her number in the employee rolodex and dialed the number, stabbing his finger into the buttons with unnecessary force. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Voicemail. And it wasn't even her voice on the message, it was one of those automated ones telling you that you reached that number and to leave a message. He sighed, hanging up. He told himself to leave it at that.
But he couldn't. He called time after time, knowing full well she was probably sitting somewhere laughing at her near-stalker boss and her twelve missed calls.
It only took a few hours of not getting a return call, even after one voicemail and a text message for his frustration to take a turn toward worry. It wasn't something he recognized at first. It crept up slowly, a strange swirly feeling in the pit of his stomach that he blamed his lack of eating on. But as the work day ticked away and he fruitlessly tried to put his mind on tasks that needed his attention, it grew and spread, up to his throat which felt suddenly tight.
With a frustrated sigh, he closed the files on his desk and turned to his computer. He carefully signed into an account he never felt the need to look into before: the employee records. He brought up a search and typed in her name. Hannah Clary. Such a simple, pretty name.
The page loaded slowly, bringing up her original cover letter and application form. A list of references with notes from when Sally had called them. Her hiring paperwork complete with phone numbers and addresses. He printed the pages and walked into her office to pick up the copies from her printer.
Opening the door, he could smell a faint trace of her, soft and clean like baby powder. She had over the course of time made the space more her own. There was a spider plant and mother-in-law's-tongue on the edge of the low filing cabinet near the window. There was a black sweater over the back of her chair and single picture frame on her desk. He walked closer, picking it up. It was a heavy, silver frame in a swirling and knotted pattern. The picture was her family, he realized and wondered how he hadn't noticed it before. Three people. There was a tall man with short brown hair, horn-rimmed glasses and a strong, knowledgeable face had his arm around a woman, an older version of Hannah, all softness and long black hair. She had it twisted into a single, thick side braid. Like Hannah did that one time. Her hand was resting on the shoulder of a little girl. She was maybe five or six year old Hannah with a silly, missing-teeth grin and a chubby face. Her hair was long even then, pulled into pigtails. She wore jean shorts and a white t-shirt which was stained with what looked like paint. There were smears of red and blue up her arms and a hint of green above one of her eyebrows.
They stood in front of an old wooden town sign, painted white with blue and silver bold script lettering. Stars Landing.
Elliott was never one to think much about childhoods. He never had much of one himself. But there was Hannah, a happy, fingerpaint-covered kid with two proud-looking parents. He wondered what she had been like. A girly girl or a tomboy. Someone who spent her days inside with books and crafts or ran out with the kids in the neighborhood building forts and chasing balls. He could see her as both honestly. She had the brain of someone who read a lot. And from the looks of her father, it was an inherited trait. But there was a wild-child, hippy, carefree look to her mother that spoke of outdoors and community.
He shook his mind from his reverie and grabbed the papers from the printer tray. He told Sally to cancel his plans that he was going to be out of the office for the rest of the day. And, despite his better judgment, he drove to the home address on her employment forms.
It was a dated red-front brick building in a neighborhood just sketchy enough for him to be more aware of his surroundings but not bad enough for him to worry about his car or check for his wallet. The front door had buzzers and he tried hers twice before he realized the front door wasn't even locked. It wasn't exactly the safest place for a single, attractive woman to live.
Her apartment was a few floors up in the middle of a hallway. He knocked rapidly on her door, listening for any sounds of life inside. But there was nothing. No movement. No television. Nothing. She wasn't there.