Page 18 of Butterfly
He blinks. “No. No one. May I take a picture?”
I walk past him and speed up, even though my ankle is burning. Sod the selfie. A couple is trekking up the path. I step in front of them, without caring about the fact that I startle them. “Did you see a blonde girl with a split lip running along the path?”
Their eyes wrinkle at the corners as the man and woman stare at me.
“We didn’t see anyone,” she says.
Bugger me. I clench my jaw and keep going. Sienna can’t be wandering in the forest, right? She must’ve realised she was off the path and returned to the track, and if she didn’t go up, then she was heading downhill. Why the hell didn’t I see her then?
The sun shines low on the horizon, and my calf muscles are burning by the time I arrive at the finish line. People are gathered in the refreshment tent, but I head towards the pavilion that serves as the administration office. My name is yelled from somewhere, but I ignore whoever is calling me. I’m tired, worried, and bloody angry. That’s enough for a man to rethink his career. I search the crowd. Sweaty people, someone snapping pictures, personal assistants in clean, crispy clothes. Perhaps that guy covered in mud is Charles. Sienna isn’t anywhere.
“Evening.” I stop in front of the reception desk where a woman is typing on a laptop.
She casts a quick, disinterested glance at me, her glasses slipping down her nose. “Mr Knightley, do you need anything?” She leans closer to the screen. “I’m afraid you didn’t place well in the race. You finished two-hundred—”
“It’s all right.” I wipe my sweaty brow. “I was wondering if you could help me find a runner. Her name is Sienna.”
Her eyes narrow behind the lens. “Her number?”
Shit. Didn’t think about memorising it. Didn’t bloody notice it. I shook my head. “I’d like to know if she arrived at the finish line. Please.”
She drums her fingers on the desk before typing. “I can’t find any Sienna among the people who completed the loop. But there’s a Sienna on the list of participants.”
Cold sweat soaks my neck. “Do you have her phone number or address?”
“Why?” Suspicion laces her high-pitched voice.
Why indeed. Why do I always have to worry about Sienna? “I’m worried about her. There was an…accident in the forest, and she was injured.”
“Accident? What accident?” She adjusts her glasses and types on the keyboard, her fingertips barely touching the keys so fast they are. “I didn’t receive any notification about an accident. What happened?”
I rub my eyes. “I fell into a pit, hurt myself—”
“I thought the girl was the one who got injured.” The typing stops.
“Yes, yes.” Bloody hell. The back of my neck is damp, and fatigue and dehydration make me stutter. “I fell. She helped me out, but in the process, as I was climbing out, I hit her in the face.”
“You hit her?” Outrage rings in her tone.
Shit. This is coming out wrong. “By accident, of course. I didn’t mean to. The problem is that she panicked and fled, and I’m worried.”
She pins me with a glare that could cut through marble. “Of course, she panicked. She was alone in the middle of nowhere with no phone reception and a giant of a man who had hit her.” If distrust had a colour, it’d be that of her reddening cheeks.
The only good thing about the flare of anger is that I forget about the pain in my ankle. “Fine. Can you give me her phone number?”
“No.” She thumps a hand on the desk. “It’s against our policy to provide personal details. Even to celebrities. Especially celebrities. It’s enough that I told you she’s on the list.”
I run a hand over my face. The one time I’d like special treatment, I can’t get it. “Would you call her and make sure she’s okay then, please?”
A few moments pass. I hold her gaze. She holds mine. It’s high noon.
Sighing, she types again and picks up the desk phone. Covering the buttons with one hand, she dials. I shift my weight, cradling my chin. Cheers and yells ring from outside. The noise of a bottle of champagne being uncorked comes. Celebrating is so far down my list, it’s right after sitting in a traffic jam for hours.
The woman drums her fingers again, pursing her lips. “It isn’t ringing.”
I chew my bottom lip. Come on.
She shakes her head. “No connection. I can’t get a hold of her.”