The Mask of New Paris ✓

XV. Gone

The warm morning sun dashes through the open window. The sun rays sting in my sleepy eyes. The chirps of birds outside reach my ears. I turn around one more time, tucking the sheet high underneath my chin. My hand reaches out for Reed but instead meets nothing but the soft mattress.

Confused, I open one eye. Reed is not in bed. In fact, there's no sign of him in our room.

"Reed?" I call out, thinking that perhaps he is using the bathroom. When the rooms remains silent, I get up quickly and put on the robe.

Reed's side of the bed doesn't seem slept in at all, not a single one of his items is lingering anywhere. His suitcase is still standing underneath the desk. Unopened.

Worried, I call out for him again. With nothing but the sound of the birds outside and the occasional flutter of conversation from the Promenade to reply, I decide to leave the room behind. I quickly put on the simple blue wrap dress I brought, the white belt a strong contrast with the rich blue.

Clasping the key of our room in my hand, I dash through the hallways, my footsteps muffled on the thick carpet. My heart starts stammering in my chest. As I see the concierge, a sigh of relief escapes me. Perhaps, Reed decided to use the breakfast outside after all.

"Excuse me, Sir."

The older man looks up to me, his dark eyes hidden underneath a pair of bushy eyebrows. His red cap is slightly sliding off the dark gray mop of hair. His eyes hold no emotion as I continue.

"I am looking for my husband."

Pursing his lips, the concierge folds his hands behind his back. He tucks his head a little lower as if he's talking to a stubborn child.

"And who may that be, Ma'am?" His deep voice creaks with every syllable.

"Mr. Reed Whitacre."

The man's expression remains flat. He slowly walks up to a desk and throws a quick glance to the register. "Mr. Whitacre has requested for breakfast to be served in room 203, Ma'am."

I sigh from frustration. "I know that, Sir. Only, my husband is not in room 203."

He lazily blinks a few times before decisively shutting the register. "I am afraid I can't help you locate your spouse, Ma'am. Perhaps he's still lingering around in the bar."

I grit my teeth as I bid the man a good day. With rushed steps and a stammering heart, I walk towards the bar, passing employees removing the Mardi Gras decorations. The empty bar confirms my thoughts. Reed is not here.

Back in the hall, I dart over to one of the desks and inform if I can use the telephone. Dialling the number of our house in the middle of the Great Green seems odd but my heart starts to pound as the familiar metal ring echoes in my ear.

"The Whitacre Home." Farah's professional voice sounds.

"Farah, is Reed home perhaps?" I inquire, unable to hide my panic as the question rolls of my tongue.

It remains silent at the other side of the line.

"No, Ma'am. Mr. Whitacre has not returned home yet." She states, showing no further interest in the private life of her employers.

"Listen Farah, I am on my way back. Something is wrong and I need you here with me in New Paris. I'll pick you up." Without waiting for further elaboration, Farah agrees and hangs up.

Shaking my worries of my shoulders, I straighten my back and begin at the climb back to room 203. When I return in the hallway, the guests are finally deserting their rooms for the night. My eye catches Joane Boudrot, dressed in a beautiful black attire, a pair of dark sunglasses hiding her fierce eyes. Between her lips a cigarette dangles.