Dream of Danger. Maggie Shayne

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      Chapter Three

      I had to bite my lip to keep from blurting something that would scare the hell out of Ellen Montrose. But I knew it was bad. I don’t know how I knew. I just knew. It was just there, right in the middle of my chest, like a big pulsing tumor. Something bad had happened to Amy. And my brain was running at light speed, churning its gears and finally spitting out a series of simple commands. Stay calm. Get the details. Call Mason.

      I took a deep breath and tried to obey.

      “I haven’t seen her since she left here yesterday evening,” I told Ellen, trying to sound casual. “When did you hear from her?”

      “She called along about six. Said she was goin’ to pick up her car, go home to pack a bag and then she’d be leaving to head home. Riding down with this new fella she’s been seein’. Mel.” I heard it in her voice when she said the name: she didn’t like the guy any more than I did. Mother’s intuition. It’s the real deal. “They should have been here by midnight at the latest.”

      Stay calm, get the details. Call Mason, my brain reminded me.

      “Maybe she changed her mind at the last minute. Did you call her?”

      “Well, of course I called her. Heaven’s mercy, Rachel, do you think I’d be callin’ you if I hadn’t already tried to call her first?”

      “I’m sorr—”

      “No. No, I’m sorry. I got no call to snap at you. I just...I’m worried about her.”

      “I know. It’s okay. Really. I’ll look into it from here, okay? I’ll find her, give her hell for worrying her mother and have her home in time for Thanksgiving dinner. All right?”

      Her mother sniffled. “I got a bad feelin’, Rachel.”

      “You just focus on that homemade cranberry dressing Amy’s been raving about all week long. Let me worry about your girl. I’ll get her there. I promise.”

      She sighed. “Okay. I guess. Keep in touch, all right?”

      “I will.” I hung up the phone, closed my eyes for a second, took a deep breath. Then I went to my cell phone, which was sitting on the long sofa table behind the couch on its charger pad. Hit the button, flipped to the photos, selected the shot of the departing Jag and sent it to Mason, along with a brief message.

      Amy missing. Need u.

      I hit Send and realized my hand was shaking.

      He called within two minutes. In another thirty he was at my front door.

      * * *

      I was riding beside Mason in his black Monte Carlo, which was his dream car. I didn’t see why. It was big, it was old and it was ugly. I far preferred my ‘02 T-bird, a replica of the ‘65 model, only with electric everything, and lots of bells and whistles. His was original. It even smelled old. There was just one long vinyl bench, no console between the driver’s and passenger’s seats.

      Myrtle, however, loved it. She liked the window seat, so I was in the middle, crammed up beside Mason, because she took up a lot of room. We had the window down halfway because I’m ridiculously in love with my dog and she loves the wind in her face. She crammed her face into the opening, mouth gaping, tongue flapping in the chill November breeze, goggles protecting her eyes.