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.

Ignoring the woman, I grab the two bags tightly, until my knuckles turn nearly white and step out into the slowly warming afternoon sun. Strutting towards the jetty, a new nervousness itches at my fingertips. The key of the skiff I found on the desk in our room seems to weigh me down even more than the two suitcases do. With a heavy swing, the two loaded bags land on the wooden surface of the skiff.

I stand behind the steering wheel, observing all the different buttons and meters. My hands run nervously through my uncombed hair, thick strands dangling over my shoulders. After observing the skiff for a moment, the key finds its way into the connection. As I turn it, the motor comes to life.

Rubbing my fingers over each other, I nervously reach for one of the levers. Due to years of usage, the letters that should indicate anything have been worn out, making this task even harder. Once I find Reed, he will hear about this, I think as I firmly grasp for the lever and pull slowly. The skiff drifts forward and runs into the wooden jetty, causing bystanders to look up and stare at me.

Men make snide remarks but not a hair on my stubborn head thinks about asking them for advice. If they were gentlemen, they would've suggested it long before I hit the wood. 

Rethinking my actions, I push the lever in front of me, feeling the skiff slowly drifting backwards. Somehow a smile does make its way to my face as I immediately wrap my fingers around the steering wheel and glance back, careful not to hit anything else as the skiff navigates backwards. Once parallel to the jetty, I dare to throw a look at the men still grimacing on the side. Their smirks are hidden underneath their hats, obscuring their faces from the sunlight.

Gritting my teeth, I pull the lever with more force and feel the skiff shooting forward. Should I ever hit another vessel with my bayou skiff, I hope it is one of theirs. Gripping the steering wheel tight and forcing my two feet to remain steady on deck, I manage to get the skiff out of the tiny New Paris harbor and onto the Creek.

It's busy on the waterway. Remembering whatever I know of the Creek, the skiff navigates to the sides, keeping enough space for hidden roots to roam the waters without hitting the motor or hull of the skiff. On the other side, in the center of the Creek, large cargo ships drift from one distributor to the other.

The sunlight reflects golden bits and pieces on the water, causing my eyes to squint close to find the slight clarity in the vegetation that will lead me to my house.

Relief washes over me when I capture the end of our jetty with Farah standing at the end of it, a bag standing next to the firm woman. Her custard color dress forms a bright contrast with the greens and browns around her. She doesn't smile neither asks questions when I clumsily park the skiff. When I get a better look at her, I am surprised by the vacant stare she offers. Not a single curious glint shimmers in her dark eyes.

Without waiting for an interrogation that will never come, I stalk towards the house as I speak "I can't find Reed. He hasn't come to the hotel room last night and in the Marisol no one can tell me where he is."

With a surprising clarity, the reasonable voice of Farah sounds behind me. "Perhaps he needed to go to the Plantation, Ma'am." She suggests, immediately making me stop in my tracks. The logic of her reasoning hits me square in the face. Why was I worried so much when he could indeed be in the Papineau Plantation? Because he left without saying anything, a voice snarls inside me.

"You're right, Farah. Perhaps, I should call there first. It could be." I mutter as I strut down the shadowy hallways. Farah watches me, the bag dropped at her feet tugged away in comfortable brown leather shoes. I press my ear against the horn, waiting for the metal ring to be replaced by the warm voice of Reed.

"Papineau Plantation, goodday." A soft voice answers the call.

"Yes, goodday." I stammer, suddenly blanking out on the words to say. "It is Annabelle Mc... Whitacre. I am calling for my husband, Mr. Reed Whitacre."

The voice on the end of the line remains silent for two awful long counts. "Mr. Whitacre isn't here, I am afraid." The woman on the other line responds. The sudden calmness of Farah's suggestion disappears immediately. My heart starts aching, dreading the uncertainty of the situation.

"I see" my voice squeezes. "Should he arrive, ask him to call me immediately."

"Yes, Ma'am."

And with that the dry click makes an end to our conversation. I close my eyes, forcing my breathing to even. When I open them, my gaze lands on the little notebook next to the telephone. Running through the pages, I search for the telephone number of the Whitacre home in Paradise Grove.

"Whitacres." The rough voice of Raymond echoes through my ear.

"Is Reed there?" I ask in a haste, forgetting all the etiquette one should apply when making a phone call.

"Who's this?" Raymond huffs through the horn. I flinch at the volatile tone.

"Annabelle Whitacre." I rush out before Raymond is able to hang up on me. It remains silent on the other side of the line.

"Mr. Reed has not been home for weeks, Ma'am."

"Does Amelia know anything?" I insist, unable to give up on my final hope that perhaps his mother knows where he is. Again, Raymond needs to process my words until he answers me.

"The Mister and Mistress have had an exhausting night. They have retired to their rooms and have not yet returned downstairs. I am afraid they have no idea their son isn't with you." For the first time, some sort of sentiment trickles through Raymond's voice, as if the thought of distressed Whitacres is something he can barely manage.

"Alright, thank you. Please, call me as soon as you hear something." My voice sounds weak and even I am surprised how worried I am. I am overreacting. Reed will barge into that door sooner or later, telling me that his employment had gotten in between and finally come clean with all his secrets.

The horn remains floating in my hand after Raymond has ended the conversation.

"I wait two hours. Then I am going to the Guards."

Farah remains silent, not finding the need to lecture me on my silly behavior or affected worries. As a shadow she follows me into the living room where the new window makes sure the early autumn breeze doesn't make its way into the room. I stare at the lonely piece of tape that is still stuck onto the glass when Farah leaves to prepare some tea.

Seconds feel like ages. Every few moments, my attention solely burns on the metal machine in the deserted hallway. Waiting. Hoping for the metal ring that normally irritates me.

Nothing.

After two hours, no one has heard from Reed. It even surprises me Amelia Whitacre hasn't even informed about the situation. Perhaps Raymond did not want to disturb his employers and decided not to tell about my childish worries.

Fidgeting with the keys of the skiff, I throw one more longing look to the telephone, forcing it to make a sound.

Irked by the waiting, the endless waiting, I stand up so suddenly the keys drop onto the floor. Farah looks up to me, slightly surprised and disturbed. The needle and thread she used to repair a pair of trousers remains floating in the air.

"I am going to look for him. It is impossible not a single soul knows where he is."

Without any order, Farah stands up and follows me dutifully, snatching the small bag she had left earlier in the hallway and following me outside.

The skiff jolts to life in the late afternoon sun. A golden shimmer illuminates all the wet surfaces around us as we navigate through the swamp. Silence engulves us as the stammering of my heart in my chest is accompanied by the joyful chirping of the birds.

I park the skiff too carelessly next to the jetty, ignoring curious stares from bystanders as the new Whitacre wife struts down the wooden wharf onto the Promenade, silently followed by her loyal housekeeper.

"Farah, do you have any idea where I could find the Guards?" I ask, suddenly stopping in my tracks in the middle of the busy street. Curious people pass us by, throwing surprised looks at my presence. The breeze offers a welcome refreshment against my sweaty palms.

Without really saying a word, Farah walks in front of me. She takes me through smaller streets away from the bustling Promenade further into the city of New Paris. Soon, the lush houses and gardens of Paradise Grove are replaced by apartment buildings. They are well kept but obvious lacking the grandeur of the estates of Paradise Grove. Brick walls rise up on both sides of the smaller streets. We push through people of all kinds of classes.

It is only now that I realize that New Paris has more depth than what I have been shown. The Promenade and Paradise Grove are refuges for the wealthy. But a city can't survive on the backs of the upper class. Here, in the Inner City, the entire population of New Paris comes together in a colorful blend of all types of classes.

We cross another street in silence. My eyes catch on four little girls ropeskipping on a tiny square around the corner. Their braids fall on their backs as they chant a song. I turn my head away, scanning the road in front of me for Farah's custard dress. Finally, she seems to slow down.

In front of her the Guard Station rises up. Big white columns give it the impression of a city hall. It is even grander than the city hall of Eauville. Like a shadow, Farah follows me inside.

Surrounded by cool, white stone and marble tiling, the fresh air replaces the damp outside atmosphere as we walk towards the counter. A man with dark, ebony skin looks up as we approach him. His friendly smile greets us.

"Goodday Sir, I am looking for my husband, Reed Whitacre." I say almost immediately. Every word I pronounce is drenched in worry. The man frowns and closes the file he was working on.

Before he can ask any more questions, the story rolls of my lips to which the clerk can only listen. I tell him about the party and how Reed never showed up in the hotel room. I tell him about the phonecalls and how nobody knew where Reed was. As I talk, I feel utterly stupid for it seems like my worries are childish. Except for the knot in my stomach that warns me that something is wrong.

"With all due respect, Ma'am. Could it be that your husband might just be away for the day?" The dark skinned man replies, his vibrant blue eyes shimmering with the slightest amusement.

"I think he would've told me if he were." Comes my statement, a tone so fierce I can't remember ever using it.

"Perhaps he didn't want you to know about his whereabouts."

"He wouldn't leave without telling me."

Frustration rises higher. Luckily for him, the clerk feels my annoyance and anger grow.

"We'll file his... disappearance." He says, taking out a form and filling in a few details. "As soon as we hear something, we'll let you know."

Before I can protest, his hand stops me as he lifts it up in a demonstrative way. "Listen, Ma'am. It hasn't even been 24 hours. There's nothing we can do until that time expires."

He shoves me the form over the desk and hands me over a ballpoint pen. Still angry, I fill in the form, every pen stroke pressing onto the thin paper.

Farah and I are about to leave when commotion draws our attention to the other side of the hallway. Through the doors, someone is being dragged outside, complaining, nearly screaming. Curious, I inch closer, just in time to see Griffin Carmody being pushed through the door as he shouts another curse word towards the Guard that escorted him.

I immediately run after him, forgetting that Farah follows loyally behind me. When we go outside, Griffin is still angrily muttering to himself as he lights a cigarette.

"Griffin?"

With a sharp turn, his head faces us. A gasp escapes me at seeing his state. His fine costume is torn and his vest isn't even close in sight. The damage on his face is even worse. One of his normally shimmering brown eyes is surrounded by ugly tones of black and blue. A blood crust disgraces one of his cheeks and he has bags underneath his eyes. His skin is pale and even looks slightly yellow in the setting sunlight. He smells like alcohol and cigarettes.

"Annabelle." He sighs and for a second tears of relief form in the corners of his eyes. He blinks and suddenly stalks to me as he remembers something.

"Reed is in danger, Annabelle." He says. His words make my stomach sink.

"I figured something like that..." I say, looking away from his battered face. "But the Guards won't help me." I continue, remembering the dreadful conversation I just had.

"Annabelle, I was with him yesterday." Griffin rambles on as if I hadn't interrupted him at all. "We were quickly goin' to smoke another cigarette before he would go to his room when they came. At least four men, I swear. They jumped out of nowhere and started beatin' us up. We didn't even understand what was goin' on. We fought but somehow Reed got hit on the head and they dragged him away. I saw it happenin', Annabelle! I wanted to help him and ran after them, but I couldn't catch up. Then the Guards found me and decided it better for me to stay a night in the cells until I sobered down."

"The idiots" he added in a low grunt. "The point is, they don't believe Reed is kidnapped. But I saw it happen with my own two eyes." As to set extra power to his words, he points at the eyes he's talking about.

"Reed is kidnapped and these bastards are so full of themselves, they won't even admit that even if they searched, they wouldn't find him, unfit as they are."

His sleep deprived eyes look at me, shame and guilt washing over them. "I tried to tell them, Annabelle, but the Guards did not believe me."

He looks away, a pained expression on his face.

"The Guards won't be looking for him." He finally declares.

"I don't know if Reed's still alive, Annabelle. I don't know what happened to him. But I swear to you, I won't rest until I find him."

With as much sincerity as fear his voice could possibly master, he added. "Dead or alive. And the bastards who did it to him, will pay."