Disengaged

By Cindi Rockett and Nadezhda Seiler

Stanford law student Brian Deiritz has it allmoney, a talented fiance, and a bright futureuntil he vanishes in his hometown of San Francisco one month before the wedding. The police and his family wonder if its suicide, murder, or kidnapping. But his bride-to-be, Hope Day, thinks he just might be walking out on his commitment to her.

Distraught after the police question her, Hope flees to Germany, where she and Brian were supposed to honeymoon. She prays against all odds that her betrothed will be waiting for her, but it is not to be. Meanwhile, Vic, who is Hopes best friend and Brians sister, launches her own search for her missing brother in San Francisco. Ironically, she becomes a whiz at being a grieving sister, investigator, ex-lover, and new lover all at once.

Searching for the truth behind Brians disappearance, Hope and Vic find themselves separated by half a world and enmeshed in events that occurred six decades ago, during World War II. Their letters, filled with updates on their discoveries, start flying back and forth from Bavaria to California. Will their determination and love for Brian help them find him and the answers to their mystery?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: Mar 14, 2012
• ISBN: 9781458202413

Cindi Rockett

Nadezhda Seiler, a former English teacher, lives with her husband and their golden retriever in Springfield, Virginia. Cindi Rockett, a junior high school librarian, lives with her husband and their two children in Euless, Texas.

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Copyright © 2012 Nadezhda Seiler and Cindi Rockett

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4582-0240-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-0241-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012903372

Printed in the United States of America

Abbott Press rev. date:3/6/2012

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Acknowledgements

For Elvina

SKU-000542560_TEXT.pdf

This novel of romantic suspense was written as the Letter Game. The two authors used to work side by side at a junior high school in Texas. Before one moved to Germany for several years, the other suggested that they write a novel as a way of keeping in touch. They invented two characters, Hope Day and Vic Deiritz; the problem: the disappearance of Hope’s fiancé/Vic’s brother, Brian; and the setting: San Francisco in California and Garmisch-Partenkirchen in Germany. The authors launched Hope’s and Vic’s correspondence without knowing what they would do or who they would meet down the road in their search for Brian. As they progressed in their letters, however, they became so involved in the story that they tried to do everything possible to help the girls on their journey.

Chapter 1

Wealthy Law Student Missing Since Halloween

Stanford law student Brian Deiritz, age 27, has not been seen since Wednesday, October 29. His family reported him missing on Saturday, November 1, after he had failed to meet his sister for a dinner engagement the previous night. Police immediately began an investigation after seeing the state of Deiritz’s apartment. Amid clutter and debris uncharacteristic of the law student, blood all over the bathroom gave the Deiritz family significant reason to be concerned about his continued absence. Experts say the blood loss occurred on October 31. The last time anyone saw Deiritz was Wednesday morning in a class on the Stanford campus. He was wearing khaki pants and a long-sleeved white shirt—typical attire for Deiritz, according to his classmates and family. He is 6’1’’ with dark blond hair and gray eyes. Anyone having seen a man of this description is asked to contact the SFPD at 555-254-6208. Also missing is his car, a 1968 blue Porsche, license plate number 4SRD631.

Stunned by his disappearance, the family and friends of Deiritz are claiming it must be the result of foul play. Deiritz is known in the San Francisco community to be a caring individual, giving of his time and money to various charity organizations. He is close to his family, which includes a younger sister and paternal grandmother. Merely three weeks before his wedding to local artist Hope Day, the disappearance is a shock to those who know him.

Nov. 7

Hope,

This has been the most horrific week of my life. My promise to keep you informed has been the last thing on my mind since you left. Sorry…

So how’s Germany? Is it the asylum you were hoping it’d be? I have my doubts personally. Although most days I wish I could have escaped with you. Of course, you really can’t go anywhere to escape what’s in your head, now, can you? How about the dreadful flight? I worried so much about that small charter plane making such a long journey. But at least now you have obtained geographical distance from the chaos. Unfortunately, from me as well. I’m sorry we didn’t part on the best of terms. I do understand your need to be away from this. Don’t get me wrong—I haven’t changed my opinion of you going to Germany so soon after Brian’s disappearance. Part of that is because I think you need to be here, getting answers from the police, but part of it is selfish. It’s just been so hard to endure this without my best friend. The terrible thoughts that have been haunting me have no outlet.

It is impossible for me to get away from my mourning family and the incessant stream of investigators. I feel like a victim of the Inquisition. It seems like in the past week the SFPD has sent everything with two legs and a pulse to question or give us new and unhelpful information. I despise their constant attention. It’s not like I don’t appreciate their efforts. I really do. I want to know, more than anyone (except maybe you) what’s happened to my brother. But the media is too much! You would think that I would be accustomed to their attention (even understanding), given my vocation. The way I see it, anyone could be in the news for disappearing, but we get more exposure for such a mundane tragedy simply because we are part of San Francisco’s elite class, or something. It’s unbearable.

Just to fill you in, I am living with my parents temporarily. It’s hell. But I can’t be alone at a time like this. I’m having nightmares (I’ll spare you the details). Besides, they can barely handle daily tasks right now, much less things like investigations, the media, and Grandma Maggie’s calls. You know Brian was their favorite; this has left them devastated. I’m all they’ve got now, I guess, and they made me feel guilty for not wanting to join them in this house of pain. It’s difficult to breathe under their watchful eyes. Although my parents seem totally out to lunch, they are still surprisingly curious about every thing I do—and about you. Yes, they’ve asked about you. I guess with Brian gone, you’ve been demoted to the position of my best friend now, and that’s more acceptable to them. Anyway, between them and the police investigators, I keep hearing that song in my head Every Breath You Take…

I suppose I should detail the investigative efforts that have been underway since your getaway. Land searches have been done and they’ve given the obvious areas a thorough combing: the route between his apartment and Stanford, the campus itself, the areas around his apartment, the restaurant where he should have met me that night. You know, the usual. Well, I shouldn’t assume you know what’s usual just because I do. Sorry. We persuaded the police to get an air search of a wider area conducted, with a lot of pressure and a little financial influence. My parents may be numb about this whole thing, but they can certainly throw their weight around to get things done—it comes so naturally. Nonetheless, that search proved to be pointless as well: no body, no car, no clues. We’ve suggested the bay, but that’s more than the police are willing to do for us. They are looking for a reason that Brian might have been a victim of homicide. It can hardly be a suicide because there is no body, although the razor and blood by the sink are evidence enough to reconsider the theory of self-inflicted violence. Maybe they—or is it the media?—want to believe our family has been victimized. A lack of evidence of forced entry or any unusual visitors has led them away from the hypothesis that it was a robbery or kidnapping gone awry. But the place was quite a mess, according to them, which was pretty unusual if you consider Brian’s habits of tidiness.

The possibility of his being abducted by someone Brian didn’t know was thoroughly considered. But since there hasn’t been any contact or request for money or anything else, that theory loses credibility by the hour. They have initially ruled out any sort of political motivation or business dealings since he was only a law student (big surprise). Of course they did spend some time looking into those possibilities: interviewing his professors and the lawyer he interned with last summer, etc. Well, it was pretty fruitless—Brian just did his job and kind of isolated himself other than that. They’ve found no evidence of drug involvement (can you imagine!?). Our family affairs? Well, aside from being in the public eye, nothing has struck them as unusual.

So that really just leaves senseless criminal activity or the world of personal affairs, according to the experts. For example, your relationship with Brian has been a source of much speculation thanks to Juan Carlos’s reappearance in your life last summer. He’s been instructed not to leave the country until the investigation is complete. That could be months—God forbid maybe even years—from now. Welcome back to the USA, Latino lover. Great timing.

Your disappearance does not seem to be the police’s first priority, but that could change. I wish you’d followed my advice. It’s hard to say exactly what these detectives make of your absence; they aren’t sharing their theories with me. I think they wanted to believe that Juan Carlos was responsible for your being gone, but since he’s cooperating and they have nothing but prejudice against him, they can’t pin anything on him. I know that they are giving some effort into trying to find you—the suspiciously absent fiancée. They’ve questioned everyone who has ever known you, including yours truly. My interrogation by the police regarding your whereabouts went something like this:

Investigator: Miss Deiritz, we have a few more questions for you. Can you tell me about Juan Carlos Verdades? How well do you know him?

Me: Well, we were friends in college when Hope, who was living with me, dated him. I doubt he’d have done anything to Brian, if that’s what you’re getting at.

Investigator: I need to know the nature of his relationship with Hope Day, especially since his return from Argentina. How did the two of them originally meet?

Me: Oh, they had an art class together at Stanford. They started dating sometime during that semester. They were on and off for a couple of years. She broke it off entirely his last year at the university. She knew he was going back to Argentina once he got his degree—that might have been part of it. I don’t know, it was kind of a love/hate relationship, if you ask me. Anyway, they sort of remained friends until he eventually did go back.

Investigator: Okay. And why did he return to California this past summer? Do you know if they corresponded with one another in the interim?

Me: No, not that I know of. Hope started dating Brian not too long after Juan Carlos left. She would know more about this than I do, especially about why he came back. Seems like he wasn’t having much luck in Argentina finding a job. He was looking for one here instead. There aren’t many people in this area that he knows very well other than us, so he looked us up—probably just to see some familiar faces. Maybe he thought Hope would have some contacts who could help him out somehow.

Investigator: All right, thank you. I do have one last question for you. We can’t seem to locate Miss Day for questioning. Can you tell me where I might find her? We have reason to believe that, as her best friend, you might be able to help us, Miss Deiritz.

Me (naively, of course): Well, I talked to her when she got back from New York. She’s not at her apartment?

Investigator: No, ma’am, we haven’t been able to get in touch with her. Her apartment appears deserted.

Me: She finished her exhibit in New York, but maybe she went back?

Investigator: Hmm. Does she have any relatives she might visit?

Me: Well, her mom’s dead and she’s estranged from her dad—I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t want to see him. She’s got an uncle in Reno, her mom’s brother, but that’s it, really. She’s an only child. Oh, I’ve got a copy of the wedding guest list, if that would help you.

Investigator: Yes, thank you, that might be useful.

That was pretty much it. Your uncle and father were both contacted after that. Uncle Larry called the house right after his phone conversation with the police to get answers to his own questions. Luckily, I answered the phone, not one of my parents. I told him not to worry, that you’d be okay eventually, but just couldn’t be here at a time like this. He seemed reassured that I knew more than I let on. Your father even called Larry after talking to the police, to see what was going on—guess he knows about the wedding now. Well, wedding plans I should say. Damn. It’s hard being semantic when everything is so uncertain.

Can you believe that investigator—with his air of superiority and shiny badge—assuming that I don’t know anything about your interrogation? What does he hope to gain by misleading me? Listen, though, I continue to worry that they might be able to find you. They are looking. It seems risky for me to be communicating with you. I have no idea what kind of advanced technology they have these days. Big brother is always watching, right? Are you prepared for the possibility of being tracked down? I don’t really know if the investigation is important enough for them to warrant the effort, or expense, it might require to locate you, but you know how people like these detectives hate being outsmarted. It could be a matter of personal pride with them. Just a warning—be careful, okay?

So my own private investigation has revealed nothing of actual use thus far. The paper offered me a few days off, but I refused. It’s not like I have a funeral to attend. And I don’t want idle time on my hands. I try to stay busy with my assignments at work. Unfortunately, it feels like I’m just running in place. I get so little done. I haven’t been able to do anything that won’t attract undue attention as of yet. Everyone is watching to see what I’ll do, how I’ll handle this travesty.

Being the scene of the crime, Brian’s apartment hasn’t been accessible. And I’ve been so busy that I haven’t yet had a chance to see about going through his things. I want to look through what he boxed up from his year spent studying in Germany. He was never the same after that year. You’ll have to trust me on that one. I can’t explain it exactly, but he just didn’t have a passion for things like he used to, except where you were concerned, of course. Maybe there were signs that he was disturbed or something was different, but I was too busy to notice. As a sister, I feel like I must have failed him by not getting him to talk about it. I guess now is the time to find out what was going on. Except it’s going to be a lot harder with him gone.

I’m hoping you’ve had more luck than I have. Have the papers I gave you on our genealogical research been of any help? I guess you must have something figured out, or you wouldn’t have argued so forcefully about going. You never were much of a liar, so I know you meant it when you said you’d find everything you could about our German ancestors. What have you been able to do in the past week?

More importantly, how are you dealing with all of this? Personally, I feel cheated. I lost my brother and my best friend in one cruel twist of fate. Sometimes it just hits me like a ton of bricks in the stomach that I might never see him again. That stoical reporter’s attitude usually keeps me in check, but this is pretty damn close to the beating icicle I call my heart. I feel so empty inside. It’s a good thing that I don’t even have the time to grieve. What good would that do me?

I think that’s all I can handle telling you about at the moment, although it’s only the tip of the proverbial iceberg. There are probably other things you want to know that I’ve completely left out. Ask me whatever you need to. I promise to keep you apprised of what’s going on here during your absence. Like I told you at the airport, there is nothing more important to me right now than to find out the truth about what happened to Brian, no matter how horrible or painful it may be. No matter the consequences.

Your eternal friend,

Vic

Chapter 2

Nov. 14

Vic hi,

I needed your letter—if not for bringing peace of mind, then at least for shaking me out of the stupor that I’ve been in since I arrived here. Yes, stupor. Which only confirms that your warnings against my trip weren’t groundless after all: my escape turned out to be as futile as it was impulsive. The flight was dreadful. I couldn’t wait to finally set foot in this country and fall into Brian’s arms. I wasted my breath, obviously. So much for the sign he’d left for me—those rose petals strewn on my bed that I had found upon my return from New York. All through the long hours on the plane I couldn’t get them out of my mind. I even imagined the clouds serenely spread beneath me to be those same petals. Silly me…

In Munich, I took a train to Garmisch-Partenkirchen, where I went straight to Tourist Information. Luckily it was within walking distance. Finding a place to stay was a challenge, though. A guy at Information showered me with booklets on the sights and activities but when I asked about a hotel room for a couple of months, he said that everything had already been reserved. The skiing season was about to start, so even if I could get a room until that time, I’d have to vacate it in a few days.

Imagine my state of mind. What was I supposed to do? Haul my suitcase back to the train station and look for another city, farther away from the Alps? I couldn’t do it. Not only was I emotionally and physically drained from the flight and everything, I couldn’t picture myself anywhere else but in this city. It was Brian’s choice for our honeymoon, I kept thinking, even if he didn’t meet me, what if he were here…what if…

I bit my lip, suppressing the sudden sobs rising in my throat, and dragged myself and my luggage away from the counter. I stopped at a stand displaying magazines and brochures and stared blindly. I needed time to pull myself together and assess my situation. If only I had a place to stay for at least a couple of weeks, until I could find the hotel where Brian had booked a room for us… It wouldn’t be impossible to track that down, would it? Unless he’d cancelled it… No, don’t think that, I told myself, you can’t afford to go to pieces…not yet…

Miss?

I turned my head. It was another employee, a woman.

I just called my aunt, she said quietly. She has a cancellation. If you agree to a very small room, I’ll give you her address.

I was so relieved I could’ve kissed her.

So here’s where I live now: Blumen Strasse 32. It’s a two-story guest house with a wooden deck on the second floor and a fresco of shepherds herding goats above the entrance. Very Bavarian. But its best feature, aside from the fresco, is my room. It is tiny, true, but it’s furnished and neat and right under the roof. In the attic, actually (don’t cringe, Vic), but it has a balcony just for me. Gives me a chance to admire the Alps in solitude and to think things through.

So Frau Schultz, the owner, seems quite content with such a quiet mouse of a renter. I like her too. She’s in her seventies, gray-haired and round, wearing cotton dresses and aprons in pastel colors, looking like one of those soft rolls that she serves for breakfast. And her eyes sparkle with kindness. I only wish she didn’t expect me to speak more German than I actually do. But it’s a minor thing, compared to my situation, right? I mean, I should feel lucky about my lodging, and I do. It gives me protection from…

No, let me tell you from the beginning. That first night, I spent hours calling every hotel and even B&Bs in town about Brian’s reservation, but there was none, not even a cancellation. The next morning, I went out and spent most of the day in Partenkirchen, the oldest part of the city, peppered with quaint restaurants and shops and ancient buildings. Ludwig Strasse was Brian’s favorite street, so I showed his picture in every place possible. No one recognized him, but I couldn’t give up. I was roaming the streets like a stray dog searching for its owner, my heart pounding each time I caught a glimpse of a seemingly familiar silhouette. I would quicken my pace and catch up with him, only to realize that it was yet another tall stranger. Once I bumped into a man who had suddenly stopped at the intersection, but I was so preoccupied I didn’t even feel embarrassed. He smiled at me and crossed the street. Then I went to Garmisch, the city’s more contemporary-looking counterpart, and walked there until my feet ached. I kept thinking that Brian could be wandering somewhere right over there…on that street…or on that one around the corner…or across that little bridge…and if I just hurried… God, it was pathetic.

When I got to my room late at night, I was so spent I slept in my clothes.

The next day I didn’t expect to see Brian. I just wandered aimlessly, gazing at the frescos on the buildings, listening to the chimes of the church bells, breathing in the crisp mountain air. I understood why Brian had chosen late fall for our wedding and honeymoon. He’d known how much I’d want to paint this courtship of colors—the golden stars of maple leaves slowly descending on the green hedges, and the sentinels of pine trees witnessing this love affair. Or was it a marriage of colors, I asked myself, considering the time of year when everything in nature seemed finalized? Not in my case, I concluded bitterly, since there was no wedding now.

That was the beginning of my descent into this trance. On the third day, I did force myself to go to Passau to see Dr. Weber, but only because I was sure that Brian would have contacted him if he’d come back to Germany. Brian thought of him as a mentor, not just as an academic advisor. They had become friends and Brian had talked of him often. I hoped that if Dr. Weber had seen Brian recently, he would mention it. Unfortunately, the trip was useless because Dr. Weber was out that day. So I walked around the campus, then took a train back, planning to return later.

On the train I was watching the countryside out of the window—the fleeting images of fields, villages, and lampposts—and it hit me that my days would be flying by just like that, one day replaced by another, and without Brian they all would look similar, like a blur. What’s the use of staying in this country? I thought. Every street, every restaurant, every bridge that he had told me about would remind me of him. Should I wallow here in self-pity, alone? I’d rather be home. So I decided to get on a plane first thing in the morning. But in the morning, while tearing my clothes from the hangers and hurling them into my suitcase, I saw your genealogical research and Brian’s folder with some notes that he’d left at my place some time ago. Okay, I thought, I’d just look at them and then head for the airport. I made a cup of coffee, wrapped myself in Brian’s woolen scarf to ward off the chill, and sat on a lawn chair on my balcony, papers in my lap, and…that’s where I landed. This balcony and its magnificent view have become my retreat from reality.

The Alps, Vic, the Alps! So breathtaking! Every morning they’re veiled in fog—so thick that even the chimney smoke can’t rise, drifting sideways in ribbons and rings. Through this density I can only see the peaks of the mountains or the slopes or sometimes nothing at all. This thick whiteness enshrouds me too, binding my legs and arms, weighing my body down. But my mind, like the hazy fog, makes me weightless, fleshless, and lifts me into the labyrinth of my memories. I have this recurring scene of my second meeting with Brian, waltzing, waltzing through my mind in slow motion. How I walked on campus and how I heard Hello, D-D behind me and how I thought, What a pretty name.

Hello, D-D. I heard again but kept walking. The voice, a little bit raspy, was familiar. Then a slight touch on my shoulder. I turned around and there he was—Brian. I couldn’t look at him without shielding my eyes from the blinding sun with the palm of my hand, but my heart was racing.

Oh hi, I said, trying to conceal my excitement. Who is D-D?

You, he said, grinning. Day-Deiritz, hyphenated.

Why?

When I heard your name last night, I somehow tied it to mine. Hope Day-Deiritz. Hope D-D. He seemed to savor the letters. Has a ring to it, eh?

I shrugged. This gorgeous guy was saying it to me?

What are we going to do about it? he asked, his deep-set gray eyes piercing mine.

About the acronym? Let me think… I pretended to think, but I knew right away that I would love to be called that—by him. So I said, I could get used to it, eventually, but right now I’m starving.

Me, too. Where do you want to eat?

Moonbean’s. I could live on their pastries and coffee, I said, thinking that I didn’t really care anymore about those sweet éclairs melting in my mouth and that awesome coffee, if he was going to be sitting across from me, with me.

Sounds good. He touched my shoulder again and we headed for the café. Listen, last night you were telling me that you liked to paint movement. I thought it was interesting. But then you disappeared. That was pretty sudden.

I laughed. "That was movement! Sorry. I had to drop my paintings at the dealer’s. But yes, gliding, flying, running, fleeing…that’s what I like to paint."

He brought his brows together and said very seriously, I’d love to see your work. But promise you won’t flee from me like that again?

I promise, I said solemnly, my hand on my heart, and we laughed.

After a couple of hours at the café, fleeing had lost its appeal to me. When our heads bent over the sketches, which I’d pulled out of my canvas bag, and our eyes moved from them to each other’s face, I wanted that moment to last forever and I didn’t want to flee from him ever again. (And look who fled now, huh?)

That was in the morning, but I didn’t get back to our apartment until way after midnight. I was so wild with excitement that I woke you up (remember?) and wouldn’t let you sleep for hours, spilling everything—what we talked about, what he said and what I said, and how he draped his sweater over my shoulders when it got chilly during our drive along the coast in his convertible, and how he gently pulled out the strands of my hair caught inside my sweater because, he said, he liked to look at my long, wavy hair flying in the wind. And that was it—the acronym D-D tied us. Remember