Witness

When I woke up in the morning the next day, Harry was gone. The signs were all there that he’d gone out to get breakfast – coffee in the coffee pot, still warm, coat and shoes missing, his cell phone still on the table. I glanced at the clock with groggy eyes only to see it was twelve thirty. Out of sheer surprise, I blinked a few times to be sure that what I was seeing was true. That was the longest I’d slept in a long time.

I rolled out of bed with a yawn and went over to the coffee pot to pour myself a cup to take away the grogginess. It always seemed that when I got more sleep, it only made me more tired. If only it would just roll over to all the hours I’d missed over the last few weeks.

If only.

Next to the coffee pot lay one of those hotel stationary sets, ones that were normally customized with a letterhead of the place you were staying. Instead, this notepad was from a dollar store and it appeared that every page was stamped with the Inns logo in the top right corner. I couldn’t complain, but I could only imagine that it was the opposite of what Prince Harry was used to.

My eyes trailed over the paper as I poured myself a cup, spotting Harry’s nearly indiscernible handwriting more towards the bottom. He’d jotted some words haphazardly, like he’d been in a hurry.

Bottle and Glass, 6:00

Bottle and Glass was the nicest restaurant in town (which wasn’t necessarily saying much, but it did seem lovely from the outside). And Harry had been talking about taking me out to dinner that night so I could wear that new dress and we could forget about everything for a while.

It sounded like a much needed treat.

“Oh Hazza, you hopeless romantic,” I teased though he wasn’t there, pouring a little bit of creamer into my coffee because I could hardly stand it straight. It was nice, the thought of being taken out on a date. I’d never really had a boyfriend who wanted to take me out places – most of them were from Alphabet City and their idea of a date was a trip to the corner store, and Thomas, despite being rich, was pretty stingy when it came to taking me out. The thought of going out for a nice dinner with Harry was enough to light a new spark in my heart.

Damien had sent the package to the O.E.O. He had no idea where I was, I was sure of it – or else, he would have sent it right to my front door step. Damien was competitive with me in that way; he never wanted to use a middleman. It was our game, to him, and he chose the other players at his own will when he couldn’t get to me. And the package had arrived hardly damaged – Damien had to have put it in the post just before. There was no way I could be in any danger. And that had to have given the O.E.O. a leg up on trailing the source right back to Damien himself. This threat was actually one of the best things to happen to the case yet. It had to be.

But still, that fear was tucked beneath that renewed spark. I couldn’t shake it.

To distract myself, I decided I’d make myself up for Harry, make myself look nice for our date later on. It would be a nice surprise for him to come back and not see me laying in bed, staring at the ceiling with the same bloodshot eyes again¬ – surely he would be expecting that after the Skype call from Hudson. No. I could prove to him that I could handle the pressure. I could prove to him that I could be strong again, brave like I used to be. There was that spark in me that no one could blow out, not even Damien Trask.

It was nearly one thirty by the time I’d finished, hanging my dress up carefully on the back of the door, smoothing out the edges until it looked perfect. Things needed to be perfect that night. Maybe, I thought, if I could make them just perfect enough, the rest of my life would fall into place.

But then I glanced at the clock again and saw the time and began to worry.

I had no idea when Harry had left to get breakfast. He’d already been gone an hour, and it didn’t seem to make sense that he would still be out. It was Sunday, though, and certainly the church and tourist brunch rush would be overwhelming the bakery. Maybe that had slowed him down?

No, that was unlikely. An hour plus long wait at the bakery?

Where those donuts made with cocaine or something?

No, that couldn’t be it. Maybe he’d ran into some fans. It was bound to happen sometime – Church Stretton drew tons on tourists to see the rolling hills and find an escape from society, just like Harry and I had. It was unlikely that Harry hadn’t been stopped until then.

I settled that had to be it and opened his laptop instead, going to the New York Times. It had been a while since I checked the news in New York, and suddenly I found myself starved for news about Arthur. What his business was doing with his absence. If he’d foolishly returned.

I searched for another hour and a half and found nothing.

Where the hell was Harry?

Did he finally tell the baker enough was enough and teach him how to make Danishes himself? Did he get mobbed by fans and get sent to the hospital with a grave injury? Did the boys call with news about the band? No, that couldn’t be possible – his phone was sitting on the table. Where was he?

A knock came at the door and my heart gave a wavering start. Immediately, I crossed the room in a few swift steps, peering through the peephole to see who was standing there. I half expected a police officer. But instead I found Tom, the innkeeper, standing with a piece of folded paper in his hand.

I opened the door warily, peeking my head through the space. “Hi, Tom. Have you seen Harry?” I asked, trying to seem as collected as possible.

Tom was an older man, hair all greying but still handsome in that uniquely British way. He had a certain country charm about him, something that could only be obtained by living in a place like Church Stretton for an entire lifetime. So when his lips curled into a frown, my hopes were dashed. People like Tom weren’t particularly good at being discreet.

“You know, I did on his way out this morning,” he hummed thoughtfully. “He stopped to talk about writing this song or something and asked if Rick was around to borrow his guitar again. But Rick doesn’t work until seven and it’s slow as all hell in the bar on Sundays so I might even call him and tell him not to come in…”

I resisted the urge to sigh impatiently, not particularly interested in Rick the bartender’s work schedule. “What time was that?”

Tom reached to his chin with the hand that wasn’t holding the paper and contemplated it for a moment. “I guess probably around noon? He was headed to the bakery to get breakfast. I heard from a few patrons that there was a fuss about him with some tourists in town, being fans of him and what not.”

I’d been right then – on two counts, at least.

“But you haven’t seen him since then?” I pressed. He could have easily spent a half hour with fans, maybe another in the shop waiting… but that didn’t account for the other hour and half he’d been gone.

“No, I have not,” Tom confirmed, shaking his head. “Sorry. Can’t you call him?”

“His phone is here.”

“Oh.”

There was a silence between us for a moment as we stared awkwardly in different places, my gaze cast over his shoulder and his towards the ground. Where was Harry? He’d been here this morning… he’d left a note about the reservation, so couldn’t he have left one about where he’d gone? Maybe he’d just gone to run errands or something. Maybe he was out of that cereal he liked so much. Maybe maybe maybe.

My mind was a racetrack and I was having trouble keeping up.

Tom broke the trance I was in when he finally decided to speak. “Anyway, I have this for you. Someone dropped it off this morning around one.”

My sight snapped back to him as he extended the folded piece of paper to me with his knobby fingers. It was simply folded in half, no seal, no O.E.O. stamp – in fact, it seemed to be written on the same makeshift letterhead of the Inn.

“Not someone you recognized?” I asked, taking the note from his hand.

“It wasn’t that Hector bloke who hangs around you guys, no,” Tom explained, that same patient tone in his voice – it was simply the way he spoke, I guessed. “But he dressed smart like him, with that same red poppy they told me to look for. Those are supposed to be the only people who come to call on you, that’s what they told me.”

I nodded, my confusion at ease a bit. At least it was someone from the O.E.O. That was safe. But it did seem odd that they would send an agent and not have him speak to me. It seemed just as strange that the note they chose to leave was written on a notepad at the Inn, not on an official piece of letterhead.

“He didn’t say what his name is though?” I asked. “And he didn’t want to see me?”

“No,” Tom replied. “Just to give you this note.”

I sighed, my confusion returning. “Alright, well thank you Tom. If you see Harry, can you send him up here? I’m kind of worried about him.”

“Of course, Lilia. Take it easy, alright?”

I nodded in a non committal way, turning back into the room and closing the door behind me. My skin suddenly began to crawl as I looked at the note in my hand, a feeling of dread overwhelming me for a reason I couldn’t quite place. Something wasn’t right here. Something just wasn’t right.

And as I opened the note, I found out just how wrong everything truly was.

Mara June,