Housewife 469
“It’s strange, isn’t it? The boss always comes back to the office after making a delivery… But tonight, who knows what’s gotten into him? It’s this late already–maybe he just went straight home.”
As Amy muttered to herself, Jonathan frowned in thought.
Outside, the rain had eased, fading to a gentle drizzle and then finally stopping altogether.
Jonathan closed his umbrella, pulled out his phone, and dialed Niamh’s number.
No answer.
He tried again–still nothing.
“Where was your boss making deliveries today?”
“I remember… it was to Mr. York at Horizon Dynamics.”
A royal blue Bentley sped off into the night, the taillights vanishing down the empty
street.
Amy stood on tiptoe, watching the luxurious car disappear, and whispered, “Mr. Thomas doesn’t seem nearly as cold and ruthless as everyone says.”
It was well past midnight. The suburbs, still glistening from the recent downpour, felt as frigid as the dead of winter.
No one was around. The world felt silent and abandoned, the kind of silence you’d find in a graveyard.
Suddenly, the pitch–dark construction site blazed to life as every single floodlight flickered on.
“Mr. Thomas, with this weather, no one worked today. There’s no way anyone you’re looking for would be here,” the foreman said, bobbing his head anxiously at Jonathan’s side. He’d been sound asleep under his warm blankets when his phone rang and his boss ordered him out of bed.
Now, every worker assigned to Mr. York’s project had been dragged out to the site, along with Jonathan’s own security team–and Prescott.
Prescott had already shown Niamh’s photo to every worker. None of them had seen
her.
About two hours earlier, Jonathan had tracked down Mr. York himself. Mr. York
1/3
09.44
explained that, yes, he’d arranged to meet Niamh for a delivery, and had chand the drop–off location to the construction site because he needed to do an Inspection there. But then, something urgent came up at his company, so hed messaged Niamh on WhatsApp to reschedule.
He swore he never saw her at all.
Jonathan also checked Niamh’s old apartment on Trinity Lane. She hadn’t returned home.
Every time he tried calling, he got the same message: The number you’re trying to reach is unavailable.
Jonathan’s gut twisted with a certainty he tried to deny–something had happened to Niamh.
He ordered Prescott to call the police. Although officers had already been dispatched, Jonathan couldn’t just sit around and wait.
Elmer and the others hadn’t been able to reach Niamh either. Word had spread that Niamh was missing, and everyone had scattered in search.
Jonathan led his team to the construction site.
Even though Mr. York insisted he had nothing to do with it, Amy’s account was clear: Niamh had left the office to deliver goods to Mr. York.
The site was isolated, surrounded by little more than fields, and with lousy cell reception. It made sense–that would explain why Niamh’s phone was out of
service.
Jonathan’s security team–more than twenty men–combed through every inch of the site, searching with the workers until they’d practically turned the place upside down. Still, there was not a trace of Niamh.
“Mr. Thomas, I promise, there’s no way anyone’s here…” The foreman sounded desperate. “If the lady you’re looking for did come to deliver something, she’d have seen the place was deserted and tried to get in touch with Mr. York. Even if her phone couldn’t get a signal, she wouldn’t have just stood here alone waiting.”
“And besides, the site’s not that big. There are only a few ditches, and even if someone fell in, it’s not like they couldn’t climb out. We’ve checked them all anyway.”
The foreman’s reasoning made a certain kind of sense. Even Prescott was beginning to think that Niamh wasn’t here.
00:44
“Did you get the security footage?” Jonathan’s voice was loy as he addresse Prescott.
“Officer Blake says the system’s still down. The storm earlier knocked it out
As soon as Prescott finished speaking, a giant raindrop landed squarely on Jonathan’s forehead.
A chill rivulet traced down the bridge of his nose.
“It’s starting up again.”
“The rain’s picking up–did anyone bring an umbrella?”
Suddenly, the site was chaos: workers scrambling for shelter, others searching for cover, umbrellas popping open all around.
“Mr. Thomas…” Prescott hurried to Jonathan’s side, holding an umbrella over him, not caring that he himself was already soaked through.
“It’s late, and the rain’s getting worse. Maybe we should head back for now and wait for the police to check in tomorrow?”
