SHANTEL’S room was arranged like a war table.
More photographs of Amelia clipped to a board. Notes written in careful ink. Timelines mapped out with arrows and question marks. At the center of the desk lay her jotter, opened to a fresh page with bold letters at the top:
TUESDAY – 2PM – RESORT CAFÉ.
The one she had underlined twice.
Every Tuesday, like ritual, Amelia Harlow spent her afternoon at the café inside her very own resort. Same corner. Same order. Same time frame. She knew this info at the tip of her fingers.
Predictability was comfort to some people. To Shantel, it was leverage.
She glanced at the clock. 2:03 p.m.
Her alarm chimed softly at 2:05.
She dropped her pen immediately and picked up her phone.
No call. No message. Her brows drew together. That was unusual, unexp
