Nathan sat on the sofa, staring blankly at the glass of whiskey in his hand. The liquid sloshed gently as his fingers trembled, but he didn't take a sip. It was his third glass of the evening—or was it the fourth? He'd lost count.
Papers were scattered on the table in front of him. They contained reports, statements, etc but they were all useless. The police had been investigating for six days, but there was no progress, not even a leading clue as to where Fiona had suddenly vanished to, How could she just disappear without a trace? Even his spy was useless.
Nathan leaned back on the sofa, his head tilting toward the ceiling. His jaw clenched as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the images that haunted him. Her face, her smile and the sound of her laughter. He could still hear it, like a cruel echo in the back of his mind.
