At 2:57 in the afternoon, my sister came into the room where I was waiting and said, “Chris, where’s Hannah?”
“With the photographer.”
“She’s not.
I just came from there.”
I checked the terrace.
I checked the kitchen.
I went up to the guest rooms and down the main hall, and I asked four people, and every one of them said some version of I saw her earlier.
The service corridor runs behind the kitchen toward the loading area.
I went down it because I had run out of other places, and about halfway along I heard something behind a door with a laminated sign on it that said LAUNDRY — STAFF ONLY.
I tried the handle and it didn’t move.
“Hannah?”
There was a silence that went on long enough that I hit the door with the flat of my hand.
