Not even five minutes later, Mr. and Mrs. Stratherton walk into the coffee shop and couldn’t look more out of place if they tried. Mr. Stratherton, the second named partner in the law firm of Stratherton, Stratherton, and Stratherton, is wearing a three-piece suit, and Mrs. Stratherton is in a skirt and jacket with modest heels paired with pantyhose and pearls at her neck.
I wave to get their attention, assuming they might get a coffee first, but they don’t. They head straight toward me, and I can tell by their expressions that things are dire in their world.
But I already know that.
I stand out of politeness, but I don’t expect any type of warm greeting. These people haven’t given me the time of day on the occasions we’ve met in the past, but I do feel sorry for them, so here I am.
Mrs. Stratherton is polite as she takes the seat her husband pulls out. “Thank you, Finley, for meeting with us.”
“Of course,” I say with a soft smile.
Mr. Stratherton sits next to his wife and seems to have regained his composure. He puts one forearm on the table and leans forward. “I don’t want to mince words or sugarcoat things, so I just want to lay it out there, but we think your sister has something to do with Blain’s disappearance.”
“I can understand why you would think that,” I say carefully. “Something is very off with my sister.”
“Tell us everything you know,” Blain’s father demands.
“Not much,” I admit. “As you know, Fallon and I weren’t overly close.”
They would know this because I didn’t go to any of the dinners I was invited to. The Strathertons nod at my assessment.
“But these last several weeks,” I continue. “It’s like she’s changed into a different person.”
Like into an evil Dark Fae who happens to be Queen of the Underworld, but I don’t go there.
“Yes,” Mrs. Stratherton exclaims. “That’s exactly the way I’d describe it. She’s become cold, detached, and completely unconcerned about Blain missing.”
I decide the best way to handle this is to stick as close to the truth as I can. “While we mostly communicate by text, I’d felt something was very off. So, I went by her shop two weeks ago to see her. She was very dismissive of me and didn’t have time to talk. I didn’t stay but maybe for a few minutes and left. I haven’t talked to her since.”
“Did you know her shop was closed down?” Mr. Stratherton asks angrily.
“I did not,” I point-blank lie. “I haven’t been over that way since I saw her two weeks ago.”
“It’s all boarded up,” Mrs. Stratherton says, her voice thick with worry. “She won’t answer our calls or texts. We’ve contacted a few of her friends from college who were going to be in the wedding, and no one has heard from her. She hasn’t been at their condo in over a week.”
Yeah… she’s moved.
“We just don’t know what to do,” Mrs. Stratherton says on a choked sob.
“Have you talked to the police about this?” I query.
Mr. Stratherton huffs with indignation. “Of course, we have. The head of the Bern police in Switzerland as well as the police here. I’m good friends with Seattle’s chief. They’re looking for Fallon but nothing so far.”
His boastful ire fizzles quickly, his eyes starting to water. I know I won’t be able to handle it if the man starts crying, so I move in with assurances.
“Mr. and Mrs. Stratherton,” I say with genuine sincerity. “I’m just so sorry that Blain is missing. But you must not give up hope. As for my sister, I can’t apologize for her because I don’t understand what’s wrong with her. Because we weren’t all that close to begin with, I just can’t offer you any insight. I don’t know what causes a person to change their personality a hundred and eighty degrees seemingly overnight, but I really hope the police can find her and she can answer some questions.”
The parents across from me nod, faces drawn in grief and despair. We spend a few more minutes chatting about what the police have done so far, and I offer my future help if they want it. While I don’t want to get involved at all, it would look suspicious if I wasn’t helpful.
After another round of condolences, I tell them that I need to get back to work, and they thank me for my time. I toss my half-full cup of coffee in the trash, hitch my backpack up higher on my shoulder, and step outside where it has thankfully stopped spitting rain for the moment.
Turning left to head west, I make it no more than two steps before someone is fisting the back of my jacket and jerking me to a halt.
My hand reaches for my whip, but that wrist is caught in a hold like a vice grip, and I am slung around to face an enraged Carrick Byrne.