Page 145 of Nine Week Nanny

Weeks. I missed her by a few weeks.

The man notices my expression and holds up a finger. "Hang on." He disappears inside, returning with a small stack of mail. "You know her? You can take this. I keep meaning to drop it with the landlord."

I take the bundle, barely finding my voice. "Thank you."

The door closes with a click. Disappointment because it isn’t her. Relief because he’s not her boyfriend.

I stare down at the envelopes. It looks like credit card offers, utility bills, her name printed in block letters. Tangible proof she lived here. Proof she’s gone.

I walk back toward the rental car, my legs strangely disconnected from my body. The damp Georgia air clings to my skin, heavy with the promise of rain. Gray clouds hang low enough to touch.

Sliding into the driver's seat, I fan the small stack of mail across my lap. Her name stares back at me in bold black lettering. SLOANE BRENNAN.

Worthless paper that's somehow the most precious thing I've touched in months.

I flip through the envelopes again, my fingers tracing the edges. There has to be something here, some clue. An address change form. A forwarding location. Anything.

Nothing.

A hollow thud echoes in my chest, like someone's removed something vital and left an empty space.

Before I flew here, I'd convinced myself I was doing the right thing, paying my respects, delivering a simple thank you, and walking away. That's what a decent man would do. Let her rebuild her life without me complicating it further.

But standing at that door, hearing those words made something inside me snap. The restraint I'd practiced for months shattered into a thousand pieces.

My phone is in my hand before I've consciously reached for it. I stare at the screen for only a moment before pulling up a contact I haven't used in years.

"Stevens." The voice on the other end is clipped and professional.

"I need you to find someone." My voice comes out as a command, not a plea.

"Sure. Give it to me."

"Name's Sloane Brennan. Last known address is Augusta, Georgia. She moved out a few weeks ago. I want every lead you can get."

"Spelling on the name?" Stevens asks, all business.

"S-L-O-A-N-E. B-R-E-N-N-A-N. She's twenty-five. Pediatric behavioral therapist. Originally from Augusta. Has an undergraduate degree from Wofford College and a master's from Clemson University.”

"Employment history? Family contacts?"

"Last employed at Coastal Children's in Palm Beach, Florida. Before that, clinical rotations in Charleston." I leave out the nanny position. If that even registers, I don't want it to be connected with the scandal.

“Parents still live in Augusta, I think. She has a friend named Maris who lives here in Augusta, I think. But I'm not sure of the last name.”

“Timeline for results?”

“Yesterday.”

“Mr. Carrigan?—”

“I don’t care what it costs. Find her.”

THIRTY-NINE

Sloane

The Charleston air hangs heavy tonight, too warm for February but that's the South for you.