Page 77 of Fake Dark Vows
“Do me a favor, Damon, and don’t come looking for us.”
Outside, the strip is crawling with people, none of them in a hurry to get anywhere. I scan left and right for a glimpse of Rose’s gold shirt, but this is Vegas where gold and silver walk hand in hand with glitter and diamantes. I didn’t even think to ask how long ago she left.
I try calling her. Her cell phone rings out, no option to leave a voicemail message. I try again, muttering under my breath, “Come on, Rose. Pick up.”
Third time lucky? Her phone is switched off now, the deadness on the other end of the line even more alarming than finding Damon sitting in our booth and Rose gone.
I hail a cab and ask the driver to take me back to the hotel. This isn’t the first time Rose has run away from me, but she did at least take time out to pack a bag with her stuff before she fled Ruby Island. She might not want to keep the clothes I bought her for this trip, but she won’t leave without her own personal belongings.
At least, that’s what I tell myself as I scan the sidewalks for a glimpse of her through the passenger window. Several times, I spot a woman with the same color hair and press my forehead against the glass to be certain, but they’re either wearing different clothes or they turn around before I can ask the driver to stop the car.
Damon always did have shit timing.
The Rod Stewart gig might not have been my first choice of entertainment, but it was fun, the songs memorable, and watching Rose enjoying herself, the smile on her face, and the wide eyes, was enough for me.
And now this. Sometimes it feels as if the rest of the world is conspiring against us. Each time I’m close to peeling away another layer of Rose Carter, something happens to push her away, and it’s becoming a dangerous pattern that Damon is involved again.
I stuff some cash into the driver’s hand and get out of the cab before it has stopped moving. Moving as quickly as I can through the hotel lobby and corridors without drawing attention to myself, I hurry straight to the room. My fingers are trembling, and I drop the key card, cussing to myself as I bend to pick it up off the floor, wasting precious moments.
Because I already know that she isn’t here.
The room is exactly as I left it earlier. I open the closet, and Rose’s clothes are still on the hangers, minus the gold shirt she’s wearing tonight. Her suitcase is still in the storage cupboard where she put it after we unpacked.
I check that my laptop is still inside my briefcase, hating myself for making that a priority, and turn three-sixty. Nothing out of place. No signs of hurried packing. She didn’t come back here.
Downstairs in the lobby, I speak to the concierge in his peacock-green and gold outfit. “Sorry, sir, I haven’t spoken to Mrs. Weiss this evening.”
Mrs. Weiss.
I’m about to correct him when I realize that’s Rose’s name now, at least, for the time being.
“Can you call me if you speak to her?” I hand him my business card and a huge tip which he pockets in one fluid movement.
“Certainly, sir.”
Rose isn’t in the bar, and the bartender tells me that he hasn’t seen her since we left before the show.
She isn’t in any of the hotel bars, or the casino, which is now buzzing with voices, the night only just beginning. I go to the pool deck, remembering her enthusiasm for the pool loungers, and she isn’t there. Sprinting now, my breaths coming in rapid gasps, I check the Palazzo pool deck too. Few people are hanging around outside, everyone either in the bar or chancing their luck on the roulette table.
I dash back outside to the strip and stand on the busy sidewalk. Catch my breath. Calm my racing heart.
I need to stop panicking and start thinking like Rose Carter. Where would she go? Experience tells me that she’d either get drunk or go home.
But this is Vegas. The strip is lined with hotels, all of which have multiple bars and casinos, and thousands of people of all ages and backgrounds having a good time. If someone wants to get lost, this is the place to do it.
On the other hand, if she fled directly to the airport, she’d be easier to track down. I dial Harry Reid International airport and choose the option for security, explaining to the advisor that I’m Rose’s husband, and that her father has been rushed into hospital and I need her to delay her trip.
The female voice on the other end of the line is filled with genuine concern despite the late hour and the fact that she’s either nearing the end of a long shift or has a long night ahead of her. But she has no good news to deliver: Rose hasn’t checked in on any flights.
“Can you put a call out for her?” I ask.
I leave my number with the advisor and pocket my phone.
Searching every bar on the strip is a futile exercise, but I can’t stand around waiting for Rose to walk up behind me and tap me on the shoulder. I don’t even know if she has money of her own to spend in a casino. The treasure hunt prize was $10,000, but I have no idea if my mother honored the prize after Rose’s hasty retreat from the island, or even if Rose would’ve accepted it.
She’s proud. Her reaction to the prize at the treasure hunt awards ceremony was enough to demonstrate her embarrassment at accepting such a large sum of money. It’s at odds with the million bucks I offered her father as part of our arrangement, but I know she was thinking of him when she accepted. She had a panic attack in Tiffany’s for fuck’s sake.
I duck into the nearest bar and navigate the tables, scanning the bobbing sea of heads for her, aware that while I’m inside, she could be walking past on her way to anywhere.