“You can’t find Charlotte?” he asks, and she shakes her head.
“No one knows where she is.”
“What? The wedding is supposed to fucking start in less than thirty minutes!” Remy yells, bringing Jude and Flynn to high alert immediately. The three of us close in on his back in case we have to get his shit under control to keep him from hurting himself.
“See,” Winnie says, then raises her hands in the air. “Right there. That’s what I don’t want you to do.”
“Winnie,” he growls.
“Okay, okay. She’s not currently in the venue, but Ivy and Harper both said she left them a note saying she would meet them in the bridal suite. We’ve all tried to call her, though, and none of us has been able to get a hold of her.”
“Someone get me my goddamn phone!” Remy shouts, and Flynn jumps to run over to Remy’s bag in the corner, riffling through it quickly, and then coming back with the requested device.
I’m pretty sure Remy’s already dialing before the fucking thing even hits his hand because he puts it to his ear almost immediately and waits, his face growing stormier and stormier with every unanswered ring on the other end.
When she obviously doesn’t pick up, he slams the phone back down into his hand and dials again, and Winnie steps to the side and pulls me close.
“I’m going back to the bridal suite,” she says on a whisper. “I didn’t think to look before, but I’m going to see if there’s anything in her bag that’ll help.”
I nod, and she takes off for the door in a hurry.
When Remy comes up empty again, a guttural yell leaving his lips as he takes the phone down from his ear and does it all over again, my mind races with a million wild possibilities.
Out of them all, I’m really fucking hoping that Winnie finds Charlotte herself in that goddamn bag of hers.
Remy
Everything that’s happened in the last week plays in my head over and over and over again. The psychic’s fucked-up prediction, Charlotte’s job offer, our fight about it last night—all of it feels intertwined with this moment in the most gut-churning, sickening way possible, and yet, thinking about the alternative feels infinitely worse.
What if Charlotte is hurt? Or someone took her? Or…fuck, I don’t know.
But it’s so unlike her to do something like this—to not even answer a fucking phone call—that I can’t make my mind think straight.
I pace the room, back and forth, back and forth, wearing into the hotel’s expensive carpet and fighting against the urge to get sick.
Jude, Flynn, and Ty are all here, somewhere. I can feel them, but I can’t see them or what they’re doing.
The truth is, I feel like I can’t see at all.
The phone rings once, twice, three, four times in my ear once again, and Charlotte’s voice mail picks up for the fifth time in a row. I haven’t bothered leaving her a message, but this time, I do, my desperation coming to a head.
“You’ve reached Charlotte Hollis, soon-to-be Winslow. Please leave your name and number and brief message after the beep, and I’ll get back to you.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Beep.
“Char, it’s me. I don’t know what’s going on, but none of us know where you are. Please, call one of us back. Let me know you’re safe, Char. I’m getting really fucking worried, baby.” My voice cracks on the endearment, and Flynn’s hand comes down on my shoulder and clasps it tightly.
I hang up the phone and sink my head into my hands, falling to my knees on the floor.
Tears threaten in the corners of my eyes, and my lips shake with the effort to keep myself from roaring a holy rage so loud this place would crumble to the ground.
My heart pounds and my ears ring with the extra blood pressure, and all the other sounds of the room disappear.
I honestly don’t even know how long I’m like that before Ty squats down in front of me, a pretty pink envelope in his hand.
It’s Charlotte’s stationery. Thanks to the dozens of thank-you cards she made me help her write after her bridal shower, I recognize it instantly.
“Winnie found a note in Charlotte’s bag,” Ty whispers softly, holding it against his chest. “It’s addressed to you.”
I hold out a hand, and Ty takes a deep breath before flipping the envelope around and laying it there.
Immediately, I shove to my feet and carry the envelope across the room, ripping into it in a way that scatters the shreds all over the floor when I pull the letter free.
It’s folded in thirds and sealed with one of the tiny, gold-flecked heart stickers that she keeps on her desk. I know without a shadow of a fucking doubt, whatever’s inside this letter came right from Charlotte herself.