Drop Dead Gorgeous

The threat should be ridiculous, but with the way Holly’s eyes are flashing, I believe her. “Okay, you can kill me later. But is Zoey here first?”

That’s enough to stop Holly in her tracks and she looks at me in confusion. “No, she left here hours ago. Said she was going home.”

Shaking my head, I inform her, “She’s not there. I just came from there. Work before that. Where else would she go? I’ve got to talk to her.”

My frantic worry breaks through Holly’s anger like nothing else could and she hears what I’m saying. I can’t find Zoey. “Nowhere else. It’s not like she’d go to the beer barn without being forced. Maybe you missed her at home or work?”

The idea that Zoey and I are going around in circles is oddly symbolic. I feel like we’ve been doing that for longer than just tonight. She’s the center of everything, and I’m chasing her, always chasing.

I promise to keep running after her, more than Trey has ever made me run before, until nothing could possibly make Zoey question this thing between us.

“I’ll go back to the morgue and see.”

“Tell her to call me once you find her, or I’ll worry. I want to hear it from her mouth.”

I don’t tell her that I plan to have Zoey’s mouth busy from the instant I see her to the instant she falls asleep in my arms after we make up. I don’t consider the possibility that we don’t make up.

Once I explain, Zoey will understand. She has to.

* * *

The morgue is empty, and instead of my heart racing, it freezes in my chest. I’ve been everywhere. Where could she be? Home, work, home, work. Those are the only places she goes. She said so herself.

I pull out my phone to call Zoey again. I’ve been messaging her all evening with no response, but I don’t know what to do now, where to go next. I push her number in my contacts list and wait. But I hear a subtle buzz. I scan her desk, moving a piece of paper, and find her abandoned phone on the desktop with eleven missed calls from me, and now one from Holly too.

There are also a couple of texts from Jacob warning Zoey that I’m looking for her.

He must’ve sent those from school.

What the hell? She wouldn’t leave without her phone. Maybe she’s here somewhere, hopefully just running to the bathroom and not hiding from me.

But as I stand in the cold room, suspicion worms its way through me and I look around a bit more. The refrigerator door is cracked open.

“Zo?” I say, pulling the door wide. Inside, I see an overturned mop bucket. I bend down to touch the mess of bleachy water to find it’s cooled to refrigerator temperature.

It’s been here a while, way longer than it would’ve taken her to get something to clean it up if she’d accidentally spilled.

Something is wrong. She is here, her phone tells me that, but she’s not here.

“Zoey!” I shout, but only my voice echoes back to me without an answer from her.

My gut drops, and with wild eyes, I scan the refrigerator, even though the space is small enough that I’d see her if she were in here, and then the morgue, looking under the tables.

In the hallway, I shout again, “Zoey!”

There are a couple of doors, but they’re both locked, and I run for the stairs as an inexplicable panic begins to fill my veins. Halfway up the stairs, Alver rounds the corner of the landing and shuffles to a stop.

“What are you yelling for? Ain’t no need for all that racket,” he says grumpily.

I grab him by his shirt, lifting his frail body to push him against the wall. “What did you do to her? Where’s Zoey?”

His eyes are frantic, looking left and right for a way out as he blusters, “What’re you talking about, asshole? Put me down!”

From scant inches away, I snarl, “Where. Is. She?”

Realizing the only way out of this situation is to answer the fucking question, he finds the ability to focus. “I don’t know,” he says, trying to shrug. “Haven’t seen DDG since early this afternoon. She’s not here, thank the good Lord for small miracles.”

“She is. Or was. Her phone’s on her desk and the mop bucket is spilled in the fridge.”

Alver’s mouth gapes dumbly. “Huh? Well, I don’t know. I ain’t seen her.”

I drop him to his feet, not caring if he catches himself. Because the fucked-up thing is, I believe him.

“Where’s Sheriff Barnes?” I bark.

“Gone for the night. It’s late,” he informs me as if I don’t know exactly how late at night it is. “Zoey’s probably skulking about somewhere. Or over at the funeral home with her weird friend.” Now that I don’t have him pressed up against the wall, Alver is feeling brave again.