The Acer gives a metallic beep, then lights up with a log-in screen. A blinking cursor, but there are only so many things her password could be. Sabine’s birthday, or mine. Our anniversary. Combinations of the dates with our names. With every try, the password dock shimmies, but it doesn’t let me in.
She would choose something that’s easy to remember. She doesn’t have hobbies, and we don’t have pets or children. I try the other people in her life, her mother, followed by her dead father. Still nothing. And then I sigh and type Ingrid’s name and birthdate into the bar—the one I should have started with, honestly—and voilà. The screen dissolves into her desktop.
I email myself the password file, from Sabine’s email program that is a giant, honking mess. More than twenty thousand unread messages, everything from stores to spam to requests for a viewing, automatically generated emails from the MLS and RE/MAX systems. It would take days to search through the chaos for anything remotely relevant, especially since I’m not even sure what I’m looking for. Instead, I flip to the sent messages and start at the top. Contracts, sales pitches, the usual stuff. After the one I just sent, the most recent message is from Tuesday, now two days ago.
I exit and head to Facebook.
Sabine has some three thousand friends, most of whom aren’t friends at all. Clients, colleagues, people from Rotary and business clubs. I go to her profile page, scrolling through post after post boasting sales numbers and pictures of homes listed and sold. No wonder she’s always on her phone, her pretty thumbs flying across the keyboard like a teenager’s. Her Facebook page is a walking advertisement for her services, her success.
Halfway down, I pause on a video from last week, a Facebook Live clip featuring a newly built house on Longmeadow Street. I’m shocked at the number below it, a counter boasting 758 views. Sabine is one of the top brokers, but still. That many?
I click on the video, and the counter ticks to 759.
The video loads, and there she is. My AWOL wife. She’s wearing her favorite summer dress, the yellow one with the ruffles around the hem, and the gold locket I gave her last Christmas, dangling from a chain around her neck. Her hair, pulled high into a ponytail, flicks cheerfully when she talks, bobbing over a tanned shoulder.
“Hey, y’all, Sabine Hardison here with the most fabulous house on the block.” She laughs. “Okay, so I know I say that about every house, but this one really is the most fabulous I’ve seen in like, ever. Four humongous bedrooms, five and a half baths—yes, people, you heard that right, a full bath for every bedroom—and a master suite you have to see to believe. Let’s take a look, shall we?”
She looks happy. Her skin is flushed, her cheeks pink with excitement as she backward-walks the camera through the house, pointing out the features. When she signed up for the real estate course in Little Rock, I bitched about the time commitment, didn’t hold back about how the house and our social life and our marriage would suffer, but I knew she’d be good at it. The truth is, that’s what I was more worried about. I lean forward on my chair, remembering when she used to smile like this at me. When I was the one to make her glow.
The computer beeps, and at the bottom of the screen, a window opens. A message from someone named Bella.
Hey you. I ran into Trevor last night at the grocery store, and he was asking about you. Like, really asking. If I’ve seen you lately, if we’ve talked, what we talked about. He wouldn’t tell me why, just gave me this big-ass smile like a canary would pop out any second. Are you the canary? I’m here for you whenever you have something to tell me. XO
I sit back on my stool.
Trevor. Who the fuck is Trevor?
I click on the list of Sabine’s friends and type the name in the search bar, with zero results. I repeat the search in her email program, and this time I get a hit. Multiple hits, actually, messages sent and received with Dr. Trevor McAdams, an ob-gyn at Jefferson Regional. Apparently, Sabine sold him a house last fall.
The most recent string is a boring exchange from November, setting up a meeting for the signing of papers, the official exchange of keys. I scan their back-and-forth, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary. No flirtatious innuendo, nothing that implies a swallow-the-canary kind of outcome. The only thing Trevor says that is even remotely personal is that he wishes her a nice Thanksgiving. She thanks him, says she hopes he and his family will be happy in their new home.
His family.
Maybe I’m overthinking this. Trevor is an ob-gyn, so it’s not entirely impossible he could be Sabine’s doctor. Not because she’s pregnant, something that’s impossible when you haven’t had sex in five—that’s right, count ’em—five months. But women go to the gynecologist for other reasons. Maybe Sabine goes to this guy.
I scroll down to his signature, click through to his bio on the hospital website. Trevor McAdams is a decent-looking guy, probably somewhere in his early forties. Clear skin, bright eyes, full head of hair swept off a broad forehead. The type of face that plenty of women wouldn’t mind having between their legs.
Is my wife one of them?
I return to the emails and open one of the attachments. Eight months ago, Trevor plunked down just over three hundred thousand dollars for 4572 square feet of newly renovated house on a quiet street overlooking Pine Bluff Country Club. That’s a lot of square footage, and an address in the swankiest area of town. No mortgage, which means he earns a hell of a lot more than Sabine and I do added together. I jot his address on a sticky note, 1600 Country Club Lane.
I open Sabine’s calendar, in search of the address for last night’s showing, but it’s empty. She hasn’t synced it in ages, maybe never. I click the icon for the internet instead and surf to Google, where Sabine is already signed in. I pause, the cursor hovering over the symbol for Gmail.
Sabine has a Gmail account?
I stop. Stare at the screen. Breathe hard and fast through my nose. My finger lingers over the track pad because I know, I know, I goddamnitalltohell know what I’ll find once I click it.
Hundreds of IM chats, all with Trevor McFuckingAdams.
I need to see you. Even if it’s only for a minute.
I’m sitting next to him, thinking about you.
Meet me at our place in half an hour.
You said we wouldn’t fall in love. You lied. (I’m glad)
I’m ready to tell them, Sabine. I’m ready to take that step whenever you are.
OMG, are we really going to do this? Can we?
Yes, dammit. All you have to do is say the word.
I love you. Let’s tell them this weekend.
The coffee turns to oil in my stomach, and I shove the cup away. It skids across the counter and into the sink, and it’s a good thing Sabine is not here, because if she were, I would fucking kill her. No, first I would hurt her, and then I would hurt Trevor, and then I would kill them both. No wonder he swallowed the fucking canary. For the past however many months, he’s been having secret sexcapades with my wife while I played the role of clueless, foolish, idiot, ignorant husband. Somewhere across town, a bitch named Bella is laughing. At me.
Is that where Sabine is right now? In a bed somewhere, with him?
My gaze lands on the sticky note. 1600 Country Club Lane.
Ten minutes later, I’m death-gripping the wheel of my car, the pedal punched to the floor.
MARCUS
This case, I handle by the book.
I start at the show house, walking the grounds and studying the dirt for imprints—both shoes and tires. I press my face to the windows and peer into all the rooms. This place is a “show house” all right, every room packed with complicated, flashy furniture, every horizontal surface crammed with bowls and candles and crap. I try the doors, the latches on the windows, but the place is locked up tight. No sign anyone but a decorator has been here.
From there, I go to the office for a face-to-face with Sabine’s boss, Lisa, a perfumed blonde in a ruby-red suit with lips to match. According to her, not only
was Sabine a no-show for last night’s showing, she also missed a company-wide training yesterday afternoon, where she was supposed to present on building a social media platform.
“You don’t understand,” Lisa tells me, a frown pulling on her Botoxed brow. “Sabine is my hardest worker, and she’s always on time for everything, especially showings. Honestly, Detective, this is very worrisome. This isn’t like her at all.”
The other brokers I talk to say much the same. Sabine is responsible, considerate, punctual. Like Lisa, they’re worried something happened. An accident, maybe, or worse.
“Could she have booked a last-minute vacation?” I ask every one of them. “Maybe she needed to get away for a day or two.”
Head shakes all around.
I’m on my way to the station to write up a report when my phone rings. Bryn. My reaction is both instant and physical. I wince. My lungs deflate like an unleashed balloon. Three years since her husband passed—my former partner—and her calls still hit me like a punch to the gut.
Stifling a groan, I pick up on the handsfree system. “Hey, Bryn.”
“Hi, Marcus. Do you have a minute?”
She sniffs, and I know it’s not going to be a minute—pretty much the last thing I have time for right now. I need to get my ass to the department. I need to plug Sabine’s name through all the available databases, make sure Chief Eubanks sees my hardworking face. I need to make it known around the department that I met the missing woman once, when she showed my wife and me a house, so there’s no uncomfortable questions down the road. I need to get every cop on the street watching for her car.
But once upon a time, I made a promise to Brian and to God—to watch over his sons, to be there for their birthdays and school graduations, to make sure they go to church and stay out of trouble. They’re two little hellions, but I love them like they’re my own. The only problem is I’m not so crazy about his widow, Bryn.
Scratch that. It’s not that I don’t like Bryn, it’s that I don’t always agree with her parenting methods. She babies those boys, lets them get away with far too much, and without a man in the house to counteract her coddling, her boys have the run of the place. She’s constantly calling me to bellyache—how they’re walking all over her, how they could use a good talking-to. My wife, Emma, says it’s a cry for adult male interaction—in this case, mine. For someone to shoulder the burden like Brian used to. Emma’s not the best armchair psychologist, but in this case, I think she might be right.
Bryn sighs into the phone. “I was cleaning up Timmy’s room just now, and I found a whole bunch of toys I’ve never seen before. Those spinners, you know the ones all the kids are flinging around these days, and a whole bunch of other stuff that’s not his. The problem is, I didn’t buy it, and there’s no way he could have bought it all himself. First of all, he’d need me to drive him to the store, which I didn’t do. And toys are expensive. How’d he afford so many on a dollar-a-week allowance?”
“You think he stole them?”
“I hate thinking that about my own son, but I don’t know what else it could be. He didn’t get them from me, that’s for sure.” She pauses, giving me time to make the offer. To tell her I’m on my way. “He talks to you, Marcus. He tells you things he won’t say to me.”
I don’t have time for this. I’m almost to the station, and backtracking to her house will tack on a half hour, maybe more, of driving time alone. And visits to Bryn are never quick. They involve tearful conversations and awkward hugs, endless pep talks and bottomless glasses of sweet tea. I do not have time.
But I think of Brian and I can’t say no.
I beat a fist on the wheel, then jerk it hard to the left, making a U-turn in the middle of the road. “I’ll be right over.”
Twelve minutes later, I skid to a stop in front of the house, a squat ranch that’s seen better days. The grass needs mowing, the window frames could use a fresh coat of paint, and I count at least a half dozen shingles missing on the roof. I shake my head, shake it off. Not my responsibility. No time.
I’m coming up the walkway when the front door opens, and Bryn steps outside. She’s lost more weight since the last time she called me here, less than a month ago, and it looks like she’s gotten even less sleep than I did. Pale skin, eye bags, the works. She likes to joke that her kids are trying to kill her, and not for the first time, I wonder if it might be true.
“Thanks for coming,” she says. “I didn’t know what to do, who else to call.”
How about her father, who lives just up the road? Brian’s brother in the next town, or any one of the other fifteen detectives who stood behind her when she buried her husband? I’m not just her first resort, as far as I can tell I’m the only one. I meant my promise to Brian, but in moments like these, I sure wish she’d let the other men in her life help, too.
I drop a kiss on her cheek, which is cold and pasty. “How’s he doing?”
“Pouting. Upstairs in his room.”
I pat her shoulder and step inside, taking the stairs by twos. Timmy’s door, the last at the end of the hall, is closed, but I’m pretty sure he’s not pouting. Video game sounds are coming through the wood—a car race, by the sound of it. I rap the door with a knuckle. “Yo, Timmy. It’s me, Marcus.”
Timmy is the oldest boy, a wiry kid with his father’s cowlick and a half-decent jump shot. He was only four when his father died, a bullet to the chest at a routine traffic stop. I heard the pop, looked up and Brian was on the ground, the kid who shot him running away. He’s currently serving life in prison, but the point is, Timmy barely remembers his father. He only remembers me, stepping into his father’s shoes.
When he doesn’t answer, I open the door, lean my head inside. “I take it you know why I’m here.”
Timmy is sprawled on his bed in sweatpants and bare feet, and he looks up with a sheepish expression—in my mind, another strike against his mother. She only calls when one of her kids need disciplining, which is all the damn time. If she’s the pushover, I’m the bad guy, the strict—well, not parent, but certainly disciplinarian. I’d much prefer the role of cool godfather.
“Yeah. I know why.” Timmy’s gaze goes back to the TV, and his thumb works the joystick in his hands. On the television screen, his car, a bright green Mustang, is tearing up a dirt track.
I step inside, shut the door behind me. “You want to explain it to me then?”
He shakes his head. “Uh-uh.”
“Come on, Timmy. Either you turn the game off, or I will.”
Timmy sighs, but he hits Pause. He stares at his lap as the room falls into silence.
I sink onto the edge of his bed. “So, here’s the thing. There’s a woman missing, and for about—” I check my watch, do the math “—twenty hours now. The most crucial hours in an investigation, and the farther out we get from the time of disappearance, the less likely it is I’ll find this woman in time. I shouldn’t even be here right now, but I am because you’re important to me, too.”
He looks up, a lightning-quick glance. “You think the woman’s dead?”
I should have known he’d latch on to that part. That’s what happens when you lose a parent at such an early age. You have an unnatural preoccupation with death and dying.
But Timmy is smart, and he knows when someone is lying to him. “I’ll tell you what, buddy, it’s not looking good.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh.” I drape a hand over his scrawny leg, give it a jiggle. “So help me out here, will you? Tell me where you got the toys.”
Timmy tosses the joystick on the bed and reaches over, pulling a notebook from his bedside table. He flips it to a page smothered in writing—big, sloppy letters and numbers lined up in crooked columns. I scan the page, taking in the list of names and toys. A logbook.
“You’ve been trading your toys and games?”
“Yeah. But only for a little while. We were gonna trade back after we’re done playing with them, only Mom took everything and now
I can’t. That’s why I kept a list, so I wouldn’t forget where all my stuff went.”
I toss the notebook to the bed, biting down on a grin. This kid may be a hellion, but he’s not a thief. In fact, he’s actually kind of brilliant. Whether he realizes it or not, this kid just created a co-op. “Okay. But you do realize if you’d just told your mom all of this, you could have saved me a trip.”
Timmy frowns, folding his scrawny arms across his chest like I said something wrong.
I’m trying to figure out what when my cell buzzes, and I check the screen. A text from Rick, another detective on the force.
Hospitals, med centers, jails and morgues all clean. No sign of car, no activity on phone, either.
I type out a reply—On my way, be there in 15—and slide it back into my pocket.
“Listen, I need you to promise me two things. Timmy, look at me.” I wait for him to meet my gaze, then I stick a thumb in the air. “First, that you’ll tell your mom the truth about the toys. Explain it to her like you did me. Show her the list. Your mom’s a smart woman, and she loves you. She’ll think you’re as smart as I do for coming up with such a plan. Do you think you can do that?”
He gives me a reluctant nod.
I uncurl a finger, hold it alongside my thumb. “And second, next time you want to see me, just pick up the phone and call. It’s a hell of a lot easier for everybody involved. Way better than getting yourself in trouble just so I’ll come over.”
The look he gives me tells me I was right. His mother is not the only one in this family looking for a little male influence. The boys need it just as much. I resolve to be better, to do better.
I ruffle his hair and stand. “As soon as this case is behind me, we’ll do something fun, just you and me, okay? A movie. A ballgame. You pick. Does that sound all right to you?”
Dear Wife Page 6