Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha-Chapter 78: Mike’s Disappearance

The elevator doors slide open, and I step into the office, my mind still on Princess Paws and her new cat tower. The usual morning buzz fills the air—phones ringing, keyboards clacking, coffee machines gurgling (I have no idea if it’s actually gurgling, but the smell’s there).

Despite how normal everything is... Something’s off.

Heads turn as I walk past. Whispers follow in my wake. A prickle of unease crawls up my spine.

I reach my cubicle and set my purse down, frowning at the sudden hush that’s fallen over the room. When I look up, a sea of eyes dart away, suddenly fascinated by computer screens and coffee mugs.

"Hey, Nicole."

I turn to find Jake, another consultant, hovering nearby, looking concerned. "Have you heard from Mike?"

My stomach does an uncomfortable flip. "No, why?"

Jake shifts his weight, clearly uncomfortable. "He didn’t come in yesterday. We’re all waiting to see if he shows up today. Last anyone saw him, he was with you."

The memory of Mike’s drunken advances in the car floods back. Damn it. If something happened to him... I’m going to be the first one they suspect. Again.

The panther had told me to be careful. I should have ditched Mike and damned the consequences.

"What happened?" I ask, my mouth suddenly dry.

Jake shrugs. "No call no show."

"Has anyone called for a well-check?"

"Not yet. We’re waiting to see if he comes in today."

The dread in my stomach solidifies into a cold, hard knot. I nod mechanically, barely registering Jake’s words as he continues talking. My mind races, replaying that night over and over.

I’d left Mike at his apartment building. He was drunk, but he made it inside, right? I saw him go through the door. But what if he fell? What if he choked? What if—

No. I can’t let my imagination run wild. There could be a perfectly innocent explanation for his absence. Maybe he’s sick and forgot to call in. Maybe his phone died. Maybe—

"Nicole?" Jake’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. "You okay? You look a little pale."

I force a smile, hoping it doesn’t look as strained as it feels. "Yeah, I’m fine. Just... worried about Mike, I guess."

Jake nods sympathetically. "We all are. But I’m sure he’ll be here soon. Probably was just nursing one hell of a hangover."

His attempt at levity falls flat, but I appreciate the effort. I mumble something noncommittal and turn back to my desk, desperate for a moment to collect myself.

Thirty minutes past the start of our workday, there’s still no sign of him. The knot in my stomach tightens. I can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong. The memory of that night replays in my head on a loop—Mike’s drunken advances, my firm rejection, leaving him at his apartment building. Did I miss something?

I can’t take it anymore. With trembling hands, I reach for my phone and dial the non-emergency police number. The line rings twice before a bored-sounding dispatcher answers.

"Hi," I croak. I clear my throat and try again. "I’d like to request a well-check on my coworker. He didn’t show up for work yesterday or today, and it’s not like him."

The dispatcher asks for details, and I provide Mike’s name and address. As I recite the information, I feel eyes on me. Jake’s hovering nearby, listening intently.

"Thank you for your concern, ma’am. We’ll send an officer to check on him," the dispatcher assures me.

I hang up, my heart pounding. Jake lets out a low whistle.

"Wow, you two must be really close for you to know his address like that," he says, eyebrows raised.

"Not really," I mutter, turning back to my computer. "I just drove him home the other night after drinks. That’s all."

"Oh." He drums his fingers over the edge of my cubicle wall, then sighs. "Well, let us know what they say."

"I will."

Time crawls by. Every time the elevator dings, my head snaps up, hoping to see Mike stumble in with some ridiculous excuse for his absence. But it’s never him.

An hour passes. Then two. The tension in the office is palpable. Whispered conversations die down as soon as I approach. I catch snippets here and there. My name comes up way too often, but that’s to be expected.

My phone rings. Unknown number. My heart leaps into my throat as I answer.

"Ms. d’Armand?" a gruff voice asks.

"Yes, that’s me."

"This is Officer Ramirez. We conducted the well-check you requested on Michael Donovan."

I hold my breath, bracing for the worst.

"Mr. Donovan is fine. He was home, suffering from a severe bout of food poisoning. Didn’t look so great, so we brought him to the hospital, but he’s stable."

Relief washes over me like a tidal wave. "Oh, thank God," I breathe. "Thank you, Officer."

As I hang up, I notice Jake hovering nearby again. "Good news?" he asks, his expression hopeful.

I nod, managing a weak smile. "Mike’s okay. Food poisoning. He’ll call in soon."

The news spreads through the office like wildfire. The tension dissipates, replaced by a buzz of speculation about what could have caused Mike’s illness. I tune it out, focusing on the steady rhythm of my heartbeat as it slowly returns to normal.

I still have no idea what the panther was warning me about, but so far, I seem to have made it through relatively unscathed.

A sick coworker. The vitriol of Scott’s other woman. Those are nothing compared to the strange situations that have happened lately.

The relief of Mike’s safety allows my mind to finally settle, and I click through my tiny mountain of e-mails.

One trip to a client’s house for a brief security consult and multiple appointments scheduled for tomorrow, along with addressing multiple inquiries, leave me satisfied at the end of the day. Maybe I won’t need a new job, after all.

My inbox is nearly empty, my calendar neatly organized. I’m ready to head home, maybe spend some quality time with Princess Paws. The thought of a quiet evening almost makes me giddy. I’m still high on relief that I’m not a murder suspect again.

Reaching for my mouse, I’m ready to shut down my computer when a new email notification pops up. My cursor hovers over the ’x’ button, tempted to ignore it until tomorrow. But something makes me pause.

The subject line reads: Catalyst?

My hand trembles slightly as I click to open the email. The message loads, revealing a stark white page with a single line of text:

You don’t know what you are. But we do.