Three Days Missing

by Kimberly Belle

  “Wait, you two haven’t talked to each other since Josh got back?” My gaze whips between Sam and Josh, reading their expressions, then sticks to Josh. “But you were on the way to City Hall Friday night, to find Sam. You couldn’t stay because he was waiting for you. And then yesterday, when you met me at the school, you said Sam sent you in his place. You made it sound like he told you to come.”

  Josh looks at me—looks straight into my eyes—and lies. “No, I didn’t.”

  “Oh, yes you did. You said, and I quote, ‘Sam told me to tell you he’s sorry but he can’t make it.’” I look up at Sam, but his gaze is laser-locked on Josh. “He said that, Sam. I swear.”

  But Josh seems unaffected. He leans a shoulder against the wall and shakes his head. “You must be confused, Stef. I said Sam was in a meeting, and that I was volunteering to go instead. And anyway, I don’t see why it matters so mu—”

  “How’d you know I was in a meeting?”

  Josh’s head whips up, and something changes on his face. Something small and barely noticeable, a tightening around his eyes. He sips from his glass, his gaze fishing away like Sammy’s does when I ask why there’s an empty box of cookies in the pantry. A silent alarm starts up in my head. “I have access to your schedule, remember?”

  Sam’s eyes go squinty with suspicion. “That meeting wasn’t on my schedule.”

  Lying, again.

  Josh sighs, now, for the first time, becoming agitated. He pushes off the wall and moves farther into the house, the fingers of his free hand turning fidgety. “Why are we splitting hairs about this? I knew you couldn’t make it to the school meeting and I figured Stef could use some moral support. And as for where I’ve been all weekend, I’ve been putting out fires all over town. Tomorrow’s AJC is not going to be kind, Sam, and not just about what happened here today. Someone’s been talking to them about the Marietta deal. I hate to break it to you, but I’m pretty sure we have a leak.”

  Okay, now I know I’m not crazy. When Josh stopped by here Friday night, he asked if Sam had told me about the leaks. We talked about Nick, the four-and-a-half-point split, how he and Sam have had conversations about who it might be. And now Josh is acting like he’s telling Sam for the first time? Nothing about this makes any sense.

  “Interesting,” Sam murmurs, shaking his head at Josh.

  Josh frowns. “What is?”

  “That you chose this weekend to go MIA. That you disappear off the face of the earth the same weekend Stef receives a phone call about the Bell Building and some reporter starts asking questions about Marietta.” Sam takes two steps in Josh’s direction. “Your deal.”

  Josh’s brows dip into a V. “It’s not my deal. You’re the mayor.”

  “But you’re the one who convinced me to make it the centerpiece of the campaign. You’re the one who convinced me the benefits outweighed the risks.”

  “Not if you keep the Bell Building, they don’t.”

  “Would you shut up about the Bell Building? I’m more concerned about who talked to the reporter. Who talked to Nick.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

  “Swear to God, Josh, if you had something to do with this—”

  “I didn’t.”

  “If you even looked at that reporter funny—”

  “Jesus Christ, Sam. I didn’t.” Josh’s back goes straight with indignation. He stalks to the center of the foyer. “And I’d advise you to be very careful. I don’t like what you’re implying.”

  Sam stands his ground, lifting a nonchalant shoulder. “I mean sure, I suppose it’s possible you can’t make ends meet on a quarter-million-dollar salary, though I can’t imagine why not. You’re single. You don’t have kids. Where does all that money go?”

  Josh glares across the foyer, but his voice is eerily calm. “Of course you think this is all about money. You’re a Huntington.”

  “So are you.”

  “No. I’m a Murrill. There’s a big fucking difference of seven or eight extra zeros in the bank, last time I looked. And if I didn’t already know my place in our family tree, your daddy sure as hell reminded me every chance he got. Do you remember what he said when I asked him for a college loan?” Josh pauses, but at Sam’s blank expression he grimaces. “He said no, and that one day I’d thank him. He said I’d appreciate having pulled myself up by the bootstraps. Newsflash, he was wrong. I only ended up hating him more.”

  Sam tosses his hands into the air. “So my father could be a tightwad and an asshole. Lots of people hated him. Hell, I did, too, most of the time.”

  “My mother had to work two jobs, scrubbing toilets and making beds, just to make ends meet.”

  “You just said this wasn’t about money.”

  I wince, not because Sam is wrong but at Josh’s expression. He gives Sam such a look of abject hatred, I wonder if I should call Gary and Diego in here to pat Josh down for weapons.

  “Not all of us were born with a trust fund, Sam.”

  And there it is, this tiny fissure that’s been quaking between them since before either of them were born. Even though Josh has never said the words out loud, it must suck to be the hard-up cousin, the loser relegated to coach while Sam is living it up in first class.

  “I’m not going to argue about something that happened long before you and I were born. I had nothing to do with what my grandfather did or didn’t do, and whatever is going on here, whatever the feds find, it has nothing to do with me. My hands are clean.” Behind him, the sun punches through a cloud and lights up the yard, blinding me with its brilliance. It glows around Sam, creating a spiky halo around his head—the golden boy. He stabs a finger in Josh’s direction. “Whatever those agents found here today, you are taking the fall, not me.”

  “How’s that gonna work? This is your house the FBI just raided. This’ll be tomorrow’s headline on every newspaper in the nation.”

  Sam’s expression turns rabid, but he doesn’t deny it because it’s true. It will be. The reporters down at the gate are probably filing their reports this minute.

  “Do not fucking move.” Sam storms to the front door and yanks it open, hollering out into the yard. “Gary. Diego. Somebody give me a goddamn cell.”

  It’s the last thing I hear before he slams the door hard enough to shake the foundation.

  KAT

  57 hours, 1 minute missing

  They have to peel me off the asphalt. Andrew on one side of me, Mac on the other, both of them heaving me up by my armpits. I am sobbing, the grief washing over me in great, full-body convulsions. I can’t look at Mac, can’t stop howling long enough to hear the awful words he’s come to say. I was wrong before, when I made him promise to be gentle. There’s no gentle way to slice open a mother’s heart.

  “Kat, listen to me,” he says, and I howl harder. His lips are moving, but the words are not pushing through the noise. The kindness in his expression only makes me sob harder.

  He presses his hands on either side of my face, tips it up to look into his. “It’s not what you think. That’s not why I’m here. This isn’t about Ethan.”

  I haul a stuttering breath. “It’s not?”

  He releases me, shaking his head. “Well, it is, but it’s not what you think. Didn’t you get my text?”

  My fingers flutter to my back pocket, feeling for the shape of my cell. If it beeped, I didn’t hear it. Probably because I was shoving my ex across the asphalt.

  “I should have followed it up with a phone call,” Mac says, keeping his eyes on mine but shifting to keep one on Andrew, as well. “The last thing I wanted was to scare you like that. I’m sorry.”

  I nod because I know just how sorry.

  Mac’s gaze wanders to Andrew, just for a second or two, and I can’t believe I ever had trouble reading this man’s thoughts. His is not a poker face. It’s a neon sign, proje
cting his every deliberation with twitchy lips, squinty eyes, an intentionally cocked brow. So this is the ex, it says now. Standing less than three feet away. And when his gaze lands on mine, You okay?

  I give him a slow nod.

  “I didn’t touch her,” Andrew says, his tone defiant. “She pushed me, but I didn’t touch her.”

  Mac flicks him a dismissive glance. “We might have a line on Ethan, but I need some more information to be sure.”

  My heart gives a hard kick. “You found him?”

  “We haven’t found anything yet. We don’t even know for sure that it’s him. But I need to know if Ethan owns an Xbox.”

  “No,” I say, at the same time Andrew says, “Yes.”

  I turn, frowning at him. “Since when?”

  “Since Christmas. Didn’t he tell you?”

  I shake my head, trying not to let the hurt show on my face. I keep telling myself it’s not about things, keep trying not to measure my salary to Andrew’s, but Ethan is old enough to notice the difference. It’s hard not to feel like Andrew’s winning.

  I shove the insecurities aside, concentrate on the more important matter. “Why are you asking about an Xbox?”

  “Because a boy from his class, Sammy Huntington, thinks he may have seen Ethan online—”

  “What?” Andrew and I say in unison.

  My heart starts to pound, tripping over itself with excitement, with hope. “When?”

  “Earlier this morning. A couple of times yesterday. By the time Sammy alerted his parents, Ethan was already offline. But since the Xbox wasn’t on the list of electronics you provided us, I thought I’d double-check.”

  I stand there for a long moment, listening to my blood pound in my ears and trying to process what I just heard. Sammy saw Ethan on an Xbox game. I hold my breath and pray this means what I think it does—that all this time, while cops were out searching seven hundred miles of shoreline, he has been sitting in some room somewhere, playing a video game. Could it be true? I press a hand to my chest, the possibility making me breathless.

  Mac directs his next question to Andrew. “Can you confirm your son’s Xbox handle?”

  “He set it up himself,” Andrew says. “I don’t ever go on the thing.”

  Meaning, Andrew doesn’t know.

  “Where’s the device now?” Mac says.

  “At my house. In Dunwoody.”

  Mac reaches for his cell. “Is there somebody there to let one of my guys in?”

  Andrew shakes his head, right as a throaty rumble blooms down the street, the unmistakable sound of a big bike moving closer. Lucas leans into the curve like it’s a racetrack, careening toward us at twice the legal speed. He squeals to a stop by Mac’s car, kills the engine and whips off his helmet, and under all that dark stubble, his cheeks are pale.

  “A kid from school thought he saw Ethan on the Xbox,” I tell Lucas, “and we’re trying to figure out if it’s really him.”

  Air rushes out of Lucas in a big whoosh, and he punches the kickstand with a heel. “Seriously?”

  “We’re trying to confirm his handle,” Mac says.

  “MadIQ158.” He swings a leg over the bike and climbs off. “Ethan and I play together when he’s at Daddy Dickweed’s.”

  “I’m standing right here,” Andrew mutters. “Jesus.”

  Mac swipes a thumb across his cell, punches at the screen and presses it to his ear. “I’ve got confirmation on the handle from the uncle. What’s the status on the trace?”

  While Mac stares at the pavement and we wait breathlessly for whatever the person on the other end of the line has to say, Lucas worms himself between Andrew and me, a physical roadblock with a puffed-up chest and don’t-even-try-it scowl. Not even Andrew would be that stupid.

  Mac lifts his head, looking at Lucas. “They want to know your handle.”

  “TNTomcat.”

  Mac repeats the handle into the phone, then listens without interrupting for what feels like an eternity. “Text me the coordinates,” he says, already moving to his car. “Tell them we’re on the way.”

  STEF

  57 hours, 29 minutes missing

  I stand at the foyer window, watching Sam pace the driveway, one of the guards’ phones pressed to an ear. He seems oblivious to the reporters down at the gate, watching his every move, and I wonder who he’s talking to. The attorneys, probably. Isn’t that the first thing you’re supposed to do when the FBI shows up with a warrant, call your attorneys to swoop in and save the day?

  Only, how can this day be saved? I imagine tomorrow’s headlines, the news alerts about to pop up on cell phones all across town. The FBI doesn’t just show up unless they’re certain they’re going to find something, and Sam wouldn’t point a finger at Josh—a cousin, his blood family, a trusted member of his staff—unless he was pretty darn sure Josh was guilty of something. I push away from the window and return to the living room, thinking he doesn’t look guilty. No darting eyes, no jittery muscles. He lounges on the leather chair, looking relaxed and unruffled.

  He also looks a little drunk. His movements are sluggish and syrupy, and the corners of his mouth droop in a way that makes me think that glass of bourbon in his fist isn’t his first of the day.

  “Josh, how’s your sister really?”

  “Huh?” He looks over, seeming genuinely surprised at the question. “Oh, she’s fine. She says to give y’all her love.”

  “Want to tell me what’s going on here, then?”

  His gaze creeps past me, and I look over my shoulder at Sammy and Mom, standing at the edge of the room. I wonder how long they’ve been standing there, stiff with shock, how much of the drama they’ve witnessed. I frown at my mother, who’s never been keen on following directions from anyone but the great beyond.

  Sammy waves. “Hi, Uncle Josh.”

  “Hey, buddy.” He makes the shape of a gun with his free hand, pretends to shoot.

  Mom wraps an arm around Sammy’s shoulders, a protective stance. “Darling, when you get a minute, Sammy and I would like to talk to you.” She’s speaking to me, but her gaze is on Josh. “In private.”

  “Mother, I’m kind of in the middle of a crisis here.”

  “I understand that, dear, but Sammy has something he’d like to say. Something he needs to get off his chest.”

  I know my mother means well, and later I will thank her for keeping my son entertained while I dealt with disaster downstairs, but now a burst of irritation heats me from the inside out. We are in crisis mode, and Mom wants to navigate a kumbaya moment. I’m thinking her energy healing mumbo jumbo can wait.

  “I’ll be up as soon as I can.”

  “But—”

  “Mother, please.”

  Disappointment slides up her face, but she turns and drags Sammy back up the stairs.

  Josh waits until a door closes in the upstairs hallway before speaking again. “I’ve always liked your mom, but she’s a bit of a kook.”

  Tell me about it. I place the focus back on him. “Please talk to me. Sam might be angry right now, but I know him. You’re family. He’ll want to help, you know.”

  Josh doesn’t answer, but his snort comes across loud and clear.

  “What is going on here?” I am unsure where this sudden hostility is coming from. “Why are you acting like you’re angry at me?”

  Without a word, Josh heaves himself to his feet. Something black and boxy falls out of his pants pocket, bouncing off the leather and onto the carpet under the lounger. His wallet, I think, until I look again. It’s a phone, an old-school model I haven’t seen for ten years, maybe more. I open my mouth to tell him he dropped it, but Josh beats me to the punch.

  “You thought you could talk him out of it, didn’t you?” he says, shuffling off for the bar.

  I shake my head, confused. “Talk who out of
what?”

  For the longest time, the only sounds in the room are the hollow glugging of liquid, the clinking of glass on glass, a squeaking as he recorks the bottle. He turns for the living room with a full glass, then rethinks and returns for the bottle. He carries both back to the lounger and falls into it with a groan, plunking the bottle onto the carpet.

  “Sam, of course. You thought you could talk him out of this life, even though I could have saved you the trouble. If you’d have asked me at the time, I would have told you he was bred for this.” He arcs a hand through the air, gesturing to the room and the house and beyond, and whiskey swells over the side of his glass onto the custom cashmere and silk carpet. “Atlanta’s Golden Boy Mayor and his pretty Barbie-doll wife.”

  I rear back, stung. Josh has known me almost as long as Sam has, and he’s never treated me like the mayor’s arm candy. His words now are intended to cause pain, and I chalk them up to the alcohol. I swallow down my pride, keep the focus on the problem at hand.

  “Maybe you missed the memo, Josh, but the FBI just came by with a warrant. A warrant. Even if they find nothing, there are fifty reporters down at the gate uploading the pictures to the internet as we speak. Sam’s sheen is already tarnished. He’ll never live it down.”

  “Oh, please. Stop playing the part of the martyr. We all know if he loses this election, you’re not gonna be heartbroken.” He swings his feet up onto the leather and leans back, wriggling around like he’s settling in for a nap. “You know what I can’t figure out? Is how Nick Clemmons got his hands on our polling. How did he get the results of our market research or our list of donors?”

  Nick Clemmons. Sam’s opponent. The one breathing down his neck with a four-point split. The one who came out of nowhere.

  “Because your office has sprung a leak. You told me that, remember?”

  Josh pokes a finger at the ceiling. “Exactly. That’s how he knew about Roy Perkins, too.”