By nine o’clock, he stood at the window staring down, not focusing on anything in particular except where his Jude was. He finally gave in and called. It went to voicemail after four rings, so he hung up and grabbed his jacket. Within minutes he was in a cab heading to the Boehler’s.

The lack of plan didn’t hit him until he was paying the driver. He should have thought this through better, but what if they were happy, accepting, celebrating even? What if they’ve caused her to cry, caused Jude pain? He didn’t know what he was walking into but as he stood on the sidewalk in front of the Boehler’s brownstone, the unease that had been smoldering inside him grew.

From the sidewalk there was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to see. The lights were on, but there were no shadows, nor silhouettes, no life to be spied at all.

He trudged up the stairs, rejoining his heart that had already leaped. There was nothing that would keep him away at this stage, but he still had no idea what to expect. Expecting the worst and hoping for the best gave too much credit to how he felt. He was anxious and irritated, his breathing slightly labored as he tried to calm his growing distress.

Knocking on the door, he was solid, composed, but ready to see Jude, hoping he had misread the confusing signs that led to this moment. The housekeeper who caught him that one morning as he snuck out answered. There was no greeting and her expression fell as she grabbed hold of the door, appearing to need the support. Taylor said, “I’m here for Jude.”

“She’s not here, Mr. Barrett.”

“Where is she?”

She looked down and away from him. “I should get Mr. Boehler.”

“Why?” he asked, as she walked away leaving the door wide open. Taylor entered and shut the door. He didn’t wait in the foyer. He ran up the stairs taking them by two and straight into Jude’s room. His feet came to a sudden halt and panic seized him as he took in the scene—suitcase by the door, hole in the wall, phone on the floor. “Jude?” It only took him seconds to piece together what had happened.

Running back out, he started yelling, “Jude? Jude?” He called for her all the way downstairs. “Jude? Answer me. Jude?” Two men were waiting for him. One he recognized as her stepfather. The other, he didn’t.

“Where is she?” Taylor shouted, staring down her stepfather.

With his hands clasped in front of his belly, Brewster Boehler, said, “Get out of my house before I call the police.”

Taylor stopped in front of him, not intimidated, but furious. “Where’s my wife?”

“My daughter is a sick young woman that you have clearly taken advantage of. We have sent her away to get the help she needs.”

“She’s not sick. You’re medicating her to make her sick.”

“Mr. Barrett, our Judith is a bit on the insane side. This will be news to you, but she’s tried to commit suicide twice. She can’t be trusted with her own life. Your marriage is a sham. I’m sorry to tell you this as it seems you care for her, but she’s not in her right mind.” He stepped aside. “Roman, please show him out.”

Taylor rubbed his forehead. “Bullshit. All of this is the same bullshit you tell her. I know about all of this. I know about her uncle and her brother and Bleekman’s. I know everything and you know why I know everything? Because when she was with me, she wasn’t drugged or out of her right mind. She was thoughtful and insightful, open and free. You’ll pay for what you’ve done. I’ll make sure of it.”

He stormed out, but before he reached the sidewalk, the man he didn’t know called him, “You’re Hazel?”

Taylor stopped and looked over his shoulder, taking one step back up. He was surprised to hear that name from anyone other than Jude. “Yeah?”

“One moment.” He disappeared, but a few minutes later, just as Taylor was starting to lose patience, he returned with her suitcase and his phone. “Bleekman’s won’t be open tonight. You won’t be able to get on the property until after nine in the morning.”

Taylor took the phone and the suitcase. “Thank you,” he said, somberly. “When was she taken?”

“Around six.”

Around six, Taylor thought. Forty minutes after she’d left our home. He wondered how that was possible. Had Isla given them forewarning? As if Roman could read Taylor’s thoughts, he added, “Bleekman’s has a location here in the city, a satellite office. As if he’s ordering a pizza, Mr. Boehler calls and they deliver two men to your door within thirty minutes.”

Taylor pondered the lost hours—wasted—where he could have saved her. He didn’t understand completely what that meant, but felt fueled with anger. “I saw the hole in the wall. Did they hurt her?”

“She felt nothing once they injected the shot.”

His phone was almost crushed as Taylor imagined how it played out. “What’s your name?”

“Roman. Say hello to Hummingbird for me.”

“Hummingbird?”

It was slight, but Roman smiled. “She’s small, but fast, a good escape artist—usually. She’s strong. She’ll be okay tonight. She won’t wake until morning.”

“I’ll be there when she does.”

“I have no doubt.” Roman stepped back inside, and said conspiratorially, “Good luck.”

“Thank you.” Taylor watched as the man shut the door and was left with a small shred of hope that maybe Roman had helped Jude as he had helped him. That maybe when Jude was here, she had him. No one could truly help her in the past, but hopefully she had someone on her side to listen, to be there, to comfort her when she’d needed it most.

On the ride home, he saw his missed call on the phone, but there were no other signs of use. Setting it down, he researched Bleekman’s and noted it was three hours northeast of the city, close to the Berkshires. He would get a plan together as soon as he got home. There was no way he would leave Jude in there.

When he arrived home, the suitcase tipped over just inside the apartment and Taylor bent down in the middle of the entry to open it. He felt around the edges, searching for anything besides clothes and shoes, a clue to something, anything that would give him an answer, a lead, something to pursue. Or to solve the mystery that was Jude. As he patted the clothes that looked as though they had been thrown in the case in haste, the fact that she had been packing to come home to him hit hard. He became desperate to find something of her, needing a piece of her to hold on to before he lost his mind.

Rifling under a soft blue sweater, he felt something hard and pulled the photo frame. The eyes staring back were familiar, the same coloring as Jude’s but maybe more green than blue. Ryan. He flipped it over needing the reprieve from her brother’s piercing eyes. When he looked at the photo again, guilt engulfed him. He hadn’t just let Jude down, but he had failed her brother. Taylor was supposed to take care of her. How could he let them take her away? Why had he let her go in the first place?

Remorse ravaged his soul and the tremors appeared. Fisting his hand, he pounded the hardwood floors trying to make it stop, trying to gain control over his weakness. When his hand was sore, leaning toward bruised, he stopped. He stretched his fingers. They ached, but it was better than the shakes. Getting up, he looked around his apartment, looking for her presence that was lacking in her suitcase where her life once touched. Reaching down, he took the frame and put it on the kitchen bar and went to his computer. Taylor stayed up until midnight contacting his lawyer and making arrangements.

Since he couldn’t sleep, he showered and changed clothes, packed his overnight bag, and put some of Jude’s clothes in along with some of her toiletries from the bathroom. The GPS was set on his phone, and he sat, waiting. Five o’clock couldn’t come soon enough. Eager to see his wife, he was standing curbside when a taxi pulled up to take him to the rental car company. The sooner he could get there, the better. With his charger, snacks, bottled water, and overnight bag in hand, he got in, ready to retrieve his wife, ready to have her home again.