CHAPTER 1

"Ooops!" Antigone let the doorknob slip through her fingers. Her coquettish laughter punctuated the sound of wood connecting, the insult of the lock clapping home. Just as she had intended. Antigone was always grumpy when she didn't drink the night before but her day turned out just the same.

She was halfway across her spacious, carefully appointed living room, one delicate Kenneth Cole strappy sandal embedded in the plush carpeting and left in her wake, before Marc had gotten his key in the lock. Allowing herself one more amused chuckle, she dismissed him from her thoughts, mentally ticking off her to-do list. Her understudy Tina was on tonight, freeing her up, but she still had a million things to do. Lynn had left her a message earlier that day and she needed to confirm an interview with "Theater Plus" as well as have all the flowers sent over to Brooklyn Hospital before six.

Distracted by her thoughts, half in and half out of her floor-length fur, she had made it to the bedroom and was pulling open the heavy double doors of her closet by the time her boyfriend let himself into their TriBeCa loft.

But Antigone didn't hear him slip in or the dead bolt drop. The Brooklyn Tabernacle could have begun "Thine Eyes Have Seen The Glory of The Coming of The Lord" in her living room and meant it, and it wouldn't have registered. Her closets were empty. There was nary a finger-tempting silk blouse in vibrant tangerine or one pair of Hepburn inspired black wool, elephant-leg trousers. And her purses. Normally Coach, Kate Spade, Prada, and Vuitton, dominated the top shelf--which the maid had been instructed never to touch--keeping a vigilant alligator, kid, leather, snaps and whistles eye on the cashmere, satin, linen and jersey wool below. But they were nowhere to be seen.

Antigone turned slowly, afraid to make any sudden moves, lest she frighten the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse who were surely perched on the king-sized sleigh bed behind her. But no, there was nothing. No one. She was genuinely puzzled to find herself alone in the room. Even though she could practically hear the sound of chain mail and stomping hooves. Her puzzlement deepened. The room looked as if it had been swept clean, as if no one lived there.

She shook her head in disbelief. Not no one, not just anyone, but her. All of her things were gone. Only her things were gone. Everything. From the picture of her father and niece she kept on her bedside table, down to the simple yellow silk scarf she wrapped her hair up in before bed. Her eyes went towards the back of the huge closet where unworn clothes, winter coats, and her "break from Tom, Dick, and Marc" shoebox was stored. It was all gone. She had been removed. Disappeared.

Taking a final look around, like a drunk eyeballing the bottom of the bottle, she made her way into the living room...

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