She noticed the silence like someone noticing the sudden absence of birdsong. The giggling had stopped. The commentary about colors and sequins had evaporated. Dakota lowered a jacket she was considering and called, "Takoda?" in a voice that assumed the child had only wandered into a nearby cubicle.
No answer. She moved through the boutique methodically—around mannequins, between racks, peering into fitting rooms where curtains hung like answers waiting to be drawn. The plush carpet muted her steps, but it could not muffle the small knot tightening in her stomach.
"Takoda," she said again, firmer this time.
Elena and Erin looked up. The atmosphere shifted in the room as if someone had turned the temperature down. The staff stilled in their careful choreography, customers paused mid-gesture. It is amazing how fast lightness can be replaced by something else: tension, that taut, waiting thing that sits under the skin when something has gone quietly wrong.
