“Um, I just . . . well, to be honest, Chase didn’t have a great audition, and I can’t seem to find her. She disappeared and isn’t answering her phone. She seems to call you when she’s looking for a friend, so I thought she may have reached out over the past few hours.”

“Let me check my messages.”

She waited while he did, listening to feminine laughter and the tinkle of forks hitting plates. “Am I interrupting you?”

“No. I’m . . . at a . . . thing,” he said, sounding distracted as he no doubt checked all forms of communication. “I just texted her. I’ll try Snapchat, too.”

“Thank you. Let me know if you hear from her.”

“Will do. Oh, and I’m sorry we didn’t get the chance to say goodbye last week. I had some things I needed to get back to, and you seemed to have your hands full with . . . lots of people. You obviously have my number and know how to dial it. Give me a shout when things settle down for you.”

Olivia was super worried about Chase, but that didn’t stop the pleasure at the thought of Spencer keeping his door open a crack for her. The whole question was—should she step inside? “Oh, sure. I will . . . or might do that. Um . . . yeah.”

Damn it. She sounded like a teenage girl.

“Ciao.”

“Bye.”

Olivia clicked off the phone and looked at the screen with the hope that Chase had responded to her text. Nope. So Olivia called her again. This time the phone went straight to voice mail. Chase had turned the phone off.

Crap.

Olivia dumped the sauce with the perfectly pinked shrimp into a plastic storage container and set the angel-hair pasta into the fridge next to the Caesar salad she’d fixed with the homemade Parmesan croutons and salty Parmesan curls. She ripped off a piece of the bread, hoping it would still her nerves, but it tasted like paper. Besides, it wasn’t as if she could eat with the boulder of worry pinning down her stomach.

She slipped on her sandals and trotted up the floating staircase to Chase’s room.

Nothing looked out of place or different. Chase had made her bed, as she’d done most days. The bathroom was tidy, clothes still in the dresser, nothing to suggest anything amiss. A chick-lit book lay on the bedside table, bookmark in the middle, and a few hair bands scattered the glass top. Chase’s journal sat on the pillow. Her client had been utilizing journaling as a way of relaying her feelings, thoughts, intentions. She’d shared a few of her entries with Olivia during their counseling sessions, but only because it was her choice. Olivia respected Chase’s privacy, but perhaps with the woman disappearing and not answering her phone, Olivia needed to check the last few entries?

She lifted the journal and turned to where the pen marked the place.