Soon, he heard the sound of rain pattering against the tall windows of the mansion.
Arnold froze. He ran a hand down his face, cursing under his breath. There was no question now—he had to find her. And fast.
Grabbing his phone, he dialed Marcel.
"Sir?" Marcel answered promptly.
"Freya. Where did you drop her?"
"She asked to be let off two blocks from her place, said she needed to walk."
"Is she alone?"
"Yes, sir."
"Prepare the car. I'm heading out. Alone."
Without changing from his rolled-up shirt and slacks, Arnold pulled on a coat and slipped into the elevator impatiently.
When he arrived at her building, he alighted the car, not minding the rain splashing his body.
He studied the quiet street, hoping she'd taken her time getting home. But no sign of her.
He entered the building and headed to her apartment.
Then he knocked.
Nothing.
He knocked again, sharper. "Freya."
Still nothing.
He fished his phone out and dialed her number.
Voicemail.
