I rake a hand through my hair. She isn’t making any sense, and I can’t do shit about it. I want to be able to state my case, but I need to be in her presence, look in her eyes, hold her. “When can I see you? Can I meet you at the airport when you get back?”

She laughs, but it peters out as if it’s too tiring for her to do anything else. “That airport’s a mess.” She yawns. “I’m exhausted.”

“Solange, where are you?”

“At the bar,” she says. “Brandon’s . . . around. Where are you?”

“In my bed, which is where you should be. I mean, if you’re exhausted, you should be in your hotel bed.”

“Can’t. Brandon’s got plans for us. He’s in this weird, introspective mood.”

If the incessant ringing is any guide, she’s in a casino. And if I were Brandon, I wouldn’t leave her side even for a second. “Solange, do me a favor: Send me a thumbs-up when you’re in your room, okay? Promise?”

“Will do,” she says. “Farewell, Dean. Don’t let the bed rugs bite.”

“Bedbugs, Solange. You mean bedbugs.”

“Yeah. That.”

I hear a click, and the music blaring in the background is no more.

What the hell is going on over there? I pull the pillow from behind me and smother my face with it. I need a damn nap.

*  *  *

The insistent buzz of my cell phone forces me awake. I shoot out my hand and grab the offending object for the second time.

“Hello?”

“Dean, it’s me.”

It’s Max, and his voice is strained.

“Everything okay?”

“Have you been on Instagram lately?” he asks.

At first blush, it sounds like a random question, but the undercurrent of agitation in his voice suggests it’s not random at all.

“IG? Not lately, no,” I say on a yawn. “I don’t make a regular habit of going on there. What time is it?”

“Just after seven in the evening. Why the hell are you sleeping already?”

“Don’t ask.”

“Whatever. I’m going to send you a pic. Call me back when you see it.”

The photo arrives in a text. My eye travels over everything: the image, the username, the accompanying message. The pic shows the façade of a steel-gray building with a scripted sign indicating that it houses the Marriage License Bureau. The username is @BrandonTheThespian, and the message says: “Going to the chapel and we’re going to get married . . . in the morning.”

I pull back the covers, spring out of bed, and call Max. “What the hell? Is this a joke?”

He blows out a breath. “I can’t be sure. Lina just showed it to me, and she says Solange isn’t answering her phone.”