Somewhere in Santa Ana, Isabela was pacing back and forth.
There was something WRONG with her. This feeling in her gut, like a bit of nausea, and this nagging feeling on top of it. She wasn't sure what it WAS, precisely. She was beginning to wonder if the Thai food she'd gotten for dinner could be to blame.
Only that wasn't right. She never got sick off the Thai place's food. She checked her messages again, then paced some more, and finally threw her hands up.
"FINE, we'll just ... check the neighborhood Martin said it was in. Stupid little man, making me ... what is this, guilt? Feel guilty? It's his fault."
She grabbed her jacket and keys, locked the shop up, and headed for her car. She really wished she'd thought to get his phone number. She'd left a message for him that he'd never replied to.
Hopefully she'd run into him, or Martin, or extra hopefully both of them together.