Chapter 3

The next morning, I told Derek I had a work thing. A last-minute trip to Denver for a client meeting.

Derek was buttoning his cuff. Didn't look up. "How long?"

"Three or four days."

He turned and looked at me. Smiled. "Be safe."

I smiled back.

My flight wasn't to Denver.

It was to Sedona.

The plane landed just after noon. Sedona was dry and hot, the sun so bright it made my head spin.

The last photo Sarah ever posted was taken in this city.

Red rocks. Blue sky. Clouds that looked painted on.

She was standing in front of a crystal shop, smiling, her eyes all crinkled up.

I didn't have time to cry.

I went straight to her hotel.

Sarah had sent me the location before she left, a little boutique place near Oak Creek called The Desert Rose.

I walked up to the front desk, pulled up Sarah's photo on my phone, and asked in my most polite voice, "Do you remember this woman? She stayed here about a month ago."

The receptionist looked at the photo. Shook her head.

"Her name is Sarah Mitchell. From Chicago."

The receptionist typed into her computer. Then her face shifted. "Yes. She stayed for two nights. But she never checked out. Her things are still in our storage room."

My chest tightened.

Her things were still there.

She wasn't.

I steadied my voice and asked the question I was terrified of.

"About a month ago, did a man from Chicago also stay here?"

I showed her Derek's photo.

The receptionist looked at it. Typed again. Then looked up at me with an expression I couldn't read.

"Yes. He stayed for four nights."

Four nights.

Longer than Sarah.

"What room was he in?"

"203."

"And Sarah Mitchell?"

"205."

Same floor. One room apart.

I stood at the front desk with my head buzzing.

The obvious thought was the worst one. The one that makes your stomach drop. They were having an affair. Sarah and Derek. Hiding in Sedona.

But I pushed that thought down as fast as it came.

No.

Sarah hated Derek. Not in a subtle way. Not in a polite behind-his-back way. She hated him to his face.

Every time I brought him to a party, Sarah barely spoke. And once, after a few too many drinks, she looked right at him and said, "Claire has perfect taste in everything except men."

Derek's face had gone purple.

They'd barely seen each other after that.

There was no way.

So then why was he staying next door to her?

What was he doing there?

I took a breath and looked at the receptionist.

"I need to see your security footage from that week."

The receptionist hesitated. "That's... we'd need the owner's permission."

"Then get it."

"And probably a police request."

"My best friend is missing." My voice cracked, but I didn't care. "She's been gone for a month. No body. No trace. Your hotel might be the last place she was seen alive. Do you think your owner is going to say no?"

The receptionist went quiet.

Then she picked up the phone.

Twenty minutes later, the hotel manager took me to the security room.

Small space. One computer. Two monitors.

The manager pulled up the footage from the week Sarah checked in.

I sat in the chair, my hands cold, and watched.

Day one.

Sarah walked into the lobby with her suitcase. She checked in at the front desk. She was wearing a yellow sundress, her hair down, laughing with the receptionist.

My eyes burned.

Then, in the bottom corner of the screen.

A man walked in.

Black polo shirt. Baseball cap. Sunglasses.

The way he moved. The way he stood.

It was Derek.

He didn't go to the front desk. He went to the seating area. Picked up a magazine. Pretended to read.

But his eyes weren't on the magazine.

They were on Sarah.

From check-in. To room key. To elevator.

He watched her the whole time.

A cold shiver ran down my spine.

"Fast forward," I said.

The manager sped up the footage.

Day one, afternoon. Sarah left the hotel to walk into town. Three minutes later, Derek followed. Same hat. Same sunglasses. Staying about a hundred feet back.

Day one, evening. Sarah ate dinner at a restaurant next to the hotel. Derek sat outside at a bar across the street. He ordered a drink. His table had a clear line of sight to Sarah's window.

She never noticed him.

Day two. Sarah went to the red rock trails. Derek followed. Sarah went to Tlaquepaque. Derek followed. Sarah stopped at a food truck to buy fry bread. Derek stood at a souvenir shop across the street, pretending to read a postcard.

Every frame. Every shot.

He was there.

My hands started shaking.

This wasn't an affair. Affair partners walk together. They eat together. They touch.

He never once spoke to her.

She never once looked at him.

This wasn't cheating.

This was stalking.

"What about day two after that?" I asked, my voice dry.

The manager pulled up the rest of the footage.

Day two, late afternoon. Sarah checked out of the hotel, or, she left. She had her backpack, her phone in her hand. She looked happy.

The footage showed her walking out the front door and heading north.

Three minutes later.

Derek came out the side door. He walked the same direction.

And then the footage ended.

The hotel cameras only covered about fifty yards.

Fifty yards beyond that, I couldn't see.

"Is there any other footage?" I asked.

The manager shook her head. "Just what's here. Street cameras would be with the police."

I sat there for a long moment.

Then I stood up, said thank you, and walked out.

I stood outside the hotel and pulled up a map on my phone.

Sarah had walked north.

North from here went past a few houses, some empty fields, a parking lot.

And then it hit a dead end.

The base of the mountains. A stretch of undeveloped land. Rugged. Steep. Unforgiving.

I stared at the map, my fingers frozen.

She went there.

He followed.

And then she disappeared.