“Let’s start at the beginning.”

“You don’t like me,” Rynda said. “I felt it back when we first met in the ballroom. You were jealous of me.”

“Yes.” That’s what I get for deciding to take on an empath as a client.

“And when you walked in and saw me, you felt pity and fear.”

“Yes.”

“But you are going to help me anyway. Why? It’s not guilt. Guilt is like plunging into a dark well. I would’ve felt that.”

“You tell me.”

Her eyes narrowed. Magic brushed me, feather-light. “Compassion,” she said quietly. “And duty. Why would you feel a sense of duty toward me?”

“Have you ever held a job?”

She frowned. “No. We don’t need the extra money.”

That must be nice. “Do you have any hobbies? Any passions?”

“I . . . make sculptures.”

“Do you sell them?”

“No. They’re nothing spectacular. I’ve never participated in any exhibits.”

“Then why do you keep making them?”

She blinked. “It makes me happy.”

“Being a private investigator makes me happy. I’m not just doing it for the money. I’m doing it because sometimes I get to help people. Right now, you need help.”

The laptop clicked. A new email, from Bern, popped into my inbox. Brian Sherwood, 32, second son of House Sherwood, Prime, herbamagos. Principal business: Sherwood BioCore. Estimated personal worth: $30 million. Wife: Rynda (Charles), 29. Children: Jessica, 6, and Kyle, 4. Siblings: Edward Sherwood, 38, Angela Sherwood, 23.

Brian Sherwood was a plant mage. Rynda was an empath with a secondary telekenetic talent. That didn’t add up. Primes usually married within their branch of magic. As Rogan once eloquently explained to me in his falling-on-his-sword speech, preserving and increasing magic within the family drove most of their marriage decisions.

I looked back to her. “I don’t know yet if I’m your best option. It may be that you would be better served by a different agency. But before we talk about any of that, walk me through your Thursday. You woke up. Then what happened?”

She focused. “I got up. Brian was already awake. He’d taken a shower. I made breakfast and fixed the lunches for him and the kids.”

“Do you fix their lunches every day?”

“Yes. I like doing it.”

Brian Sherwood, worth thirty million dollars, took a brown-bag lunch his wife made to work every day. Did he eat it or throw it in the trash? That was the question.

“Brian kissed me and told me he would be home at the usual time.”

“What time is that?”

“Six o’clock. I said we’d be having cubed steak for dinner. He asked if fries were involved.”

She choked on a sob.

“Who took Jessica to school?”

She glanced at me, surprised. “How did you know her name?”

“My cousin pulled your public records.” I turned the laptop so she could see.

She blinked. “My whole life in one paragraph.”

“Keep going,” I told her. “How did Jessica get to school?”

“Brian dropped her off. I took Kyle on a walk.”

Lie.

“I called Brian around lunch. He answered.”

Truth.

“What did you talk about?”

“Nothing serious.”

Lie.

“I’m not your enemy. It would help if you were honest with me. Let’s try this again. Where did you and Kyle go and what was the phone call about?”

She set her lips into a flat, hard line.

“Everything you tell me now is confidential. It isn’t privileged, like conversations with your attorney, which means I will have to disclose it in a court proceeding. But short of that, it won’t go anywhere.”

She covered her face with her hands, thought about it for a long moment, and exhaled. “Kyle’s magic hasn’t manifested. I manifested by two, Brian manifested by four months, Jessica manifested at thirteen months. Kyle is almost five. He’s late. We’re taking him to a specialist. I always call Brian after every session, because he wants to know how Kyle did.”

For a Prime, a child with no magic would be devastating. Rogan’s voice popped into my head. You think you won’t care about it, but you will. Think of your children and having to explain that their talents are subpar, because you have failed to secure a proper genetic match.

“Your anxiety spiked. Why? Was it something I said? Is the specialist important?”

“I don’t know yet.” She would be a really difficult client. She registered every emotional twitch I made. “Did Kyle manifest?”

“No.”

“What happened next?”

She sighed and went through her day. She picked up Jessica, fed the kids, then they read books and watched cartoons together. She made dinner, but Brian didn’t show. She called his cell several times over the next two hours and finally called his brother. Edward Sherwood was still at work. He had happened to look out the window when Brian had left at his usual time and remembered watching him get into his car. Just to be sure, Edward walked down to Brian’s office and reported that it was empty. He also called down to the front desk, and the guard confirmed that Brian had signed out, left the building a quarter before six, and didn’t return.

“How far is your house from Sherwood’s BioCore?”

“It’s a ten-minute drive. We live in Hunters Creek Village. BioCore is at Post Oak Circle, near the Houstonian Hotel. It’s three and a half miles down Memorial Drive. Even with heavy traffic, he’s usually home in fifteen minutes.”

“Did Edward mention if Brian was planning to make any stops?”

“He didn’t know. He said he wasn’t aware of any meetings scheduled that afternoon.”

“Did he sound concerned?”

She shook her head. “He said he was sure Brian would show up. But I knew something was wrong. I just knew.”

All the standard things someone does when their loved one is missing followed: calls to hospitals and police stations, driving the route to look for the stranded car, talking with people at his work, calling other family members asking if they heard anything, and so on.

“He didn’t come home,” she said, her voice dull. “In the morning I called Edward. He told me not to worry. He said Brian had seemed tense lately and that he would turn up. I told him I would file the police report. He said that he didn’t feel there was a need for it, but if it would make me feel better, I should file it.”

“How did he seem to you?”

“He seemed concerned for me.”

Interesting. “For you? Not for Brian?”

“For me and the kids.”

“And Brian has never done anything like this before?”

She didn’t answer.

“Rynda?”

“He disappears sometimes when he’s stressed,” she said quietly. “He used to. But not for the last three years and never this long. You have to understand, Brian isn’t a coward, he just needs stability. He likes when things are calm.”

That explained why his brother didn’t immediately sound the alarm and bring all hands on deck. “Can you tell me more about it? The last time he disappeared?”

“It was after Kyle’s one-year birthday party. Edward asked him if Kyle manifested, and Brian told him no. Then Joshua, Brian’s father—he died a year later—said that Brian and I better get on with making another one, because Jessica is an empath like me, and a dud can’t lead the family.”

He called his grandson a dud. Ugh.

“Thank you,” Rynda said.

“For what?”

“For your disgust. Brian’s anxiety spiked. I felt an intense need to escape coming from him, so I told them that it was late and the children were tired. The family left. Brian didn’t come back to bed. He got into his car and drove off. He came home the next evening. That was the longest he had ever disappeared during our marriage.”

“Did he say where he went?”

“He said he just drove. He eventually found some small hotel and spent the night there. He came home because he realized that he had no place to go and he missed me and the kids. He would never leave me, and the last time I saw him, he was calm.”