The Thinnest Air

by Minka Kent

  “No signs of foul play, no. Her phone and purse were on the passenger seat. Keys in the ignition.”

  “So if someone took her, it’s someone she knew.”

  He shrugs, palms in the air. “It’s hard to know. Maybe she was held up? I-I don’t know. I don’t know a damn thing.”

  My brother-in-law turns, scanning the room, full of strangers who should be doing more than standing around in this ostentatious chef’s kitchen, and he points.

  “That’s Detective McCormack,” he says, clearing his throat and pulling his shoulders tight. There’s a curious look on his face; his eyes squint as he nods in that direction. “He’s leading the investigation.”

  A man with striking russet hair, a dimpled chin, and broad shoulders nurses a Styrofoam cup of coffee, looking much too young to have accumulated enough work experience to lead a missing persons case.

  He’s too pretty, too smooth, too green to be here. There are no dark circles under his eyes, no yellow pallor to his skin to suggest he decompresses with a six-pack of Coors Light every evening.

  “How many missing persons cases has he solved?” I ask.

  “Excuse me?” Andrew takes offense at my question.

  “He’s standing around sipping coffee. Why isn’t he out asking questions?”

  “He spent all day yesterday talking to people. Until he has more leads, there’s not much he can do.” He keeps his voice low, as if me scrutinizing the well-rested detective assigned to my sister’s case would reflect poorly on him.

  Too bad for him. I don’t give a damn what people think.

  My jaw tightens. “He needs to go find the leads. The leads aren’t going to find him. They’re not just going to land in his lap. For Christ’s sake, this is his job.”

  “Calm down.”

  I purse my lips until I can trust what’s about to come out of them.

  “It doesn’t bother you that everyone’s just standing around like they’re waiting for the phone to ring?” I ask, knowing full well I’m overreacting, but I expected to see more bustle, more frenzy. The lack of frenetic energy among the ones who are supposed to be finding my sister only intensifies my anxiety.

  Andrew hooks my elbow a little too abruptly, pulling me into an empty hallway off the kitchen, away from the horde of uniformed do-nothings.

  “There are people at the station fielding calls on a dedicated tip line.” His lips pinch as he exhales, and he keeps his voice low. “Meredith’s picture is being broadcast on every local news station in the area, as well as dozens of national programs. They’ve dusted her car for prints. They’ve gone through her cell phone. I was at the police station for hours yesterday, telling them everything they could possibly want to know about her, right down to the cherry-shape birthmark on her left ass cheek. So if you want to sit here and act like nobody’s doing anything, if you think you could do a better job, then be my fucking guest.”

  Andrew has never sworn at me before. He’s never scowled or squinted or grabbed my arm so tight, his hands trembling.

  “She disappeared into thin air, Greer,” he says, stepping away. His hands lift and fall with a hopeless slap at his sides. “They’ve got nothing. They’ve got nothing to work with. We’re all just . . . doing the best we can.”

  Folding my arms across my chest, I study his face, though I’m not sure what I’m looking for. A man with vast wealth and endless resources could make a person disappear without a trace if he wanted to, though last I knew, they were both equally crazy about each other, still trucking along like he wasn’t just using her for sex and she wasn’t just using him to fill the void of never knowing her father, never knowing what it was like to have a reliable, responsible adult take care of her.

  I had finally been starting to accept the fact that he might be good for her, that she needed the stability and adoration he offered, never having experienced those before.

  Detective McCormack appears from around the corner, and Andrew follows my gaze in that direction.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” he says. “We just got a call into the tip line. I’m going to head back to the station, call them back, and ask a few more questions. I’ll let you know if anything comes of it.”

  My ears perk, my focus alternating between the two of them, neither of whom seems particularly hopeful. Maybe it’s a man thing, not wanting to invest in hope.

  “Of course.” Andrew crosses his cashmere-covered arms, his tone sounding more like that of a concerned father accepting responsibility for a runaway teen daughter than a spouse beside himself with grief. “Keep me posted.”

  “Greer Ambrose.” I introduce myself, though I keep my hands tucked tight across my chest. “Meredith’s sister.”

  Detective McCormack studies my face, and I unfairly resent that he looks like the nicest guy in America. I bet he was an Eagle Scout. I bet he can tie impossible knots and light fires with flint, and I bet he can set up a tent in three minutes flat. I bet he had a nice childhood with nice parents, and I’m sure he’s a nice guy.

  But it’s going to take a hell of a lot more than a friendly face to find my sister.

  “Ronan,” he says, brows lifting. I’m not sure if the first-name-basis thing is an attempt to spark the beginning of some kind of interpersonal relationship or if he does this with everyone. “You have a second?”

  I wish he were older, with thick white hair and a bushy mustache. I wish he had a take-no-shit attitude and overflowing cabinets of solved case files, awards plaques on his walls—something to give me hope.

  But he’s just a regular guy who probably settled for the first job he was offered straight out of college and never left.

  I bet he’s never known tragedy, never had the one person he loved more than anything else just . . . vanish.

  I follow Ronan outside, where we stand beneath a two-story portico that magnifies each shuffle of our feet and every slow, exasperated exhalation.

  “When you get a chance, I need you to come down to the station for a DNA swab,” he says. “We need a family reference sample—standard procedure.”

  My head pounds. “Oh, I see. So in case you find a dead body, you can compare the DNA to mine to see if it’s her.”

  He says nothing, but his expression confirms this.

  “My sister’s not dead,” I say.

  “Like I said, standard procedure. It doesn’t mean anything yet.”

  I shake my head.

  I hate this.

  I hate this, I hate this, I hate this.

  “Fine.” My hands fall to my sides before resting at my hips. “I’ll do your little test, but you’re giving me a ride, and you’re bringing me back here, and when we’re finished, you’re going to help me find her.”

  “That’s the plan, Ms. Ambrose.” His dark eyes flicker—amusement perhaps? “You’re nothing like her, you know.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I knew her,” he says. “Worked with her on a stalker case a couple years back. Very lovely girl. Sweet. Little on the soft-spoken side.”

  My fingers twist the gold chain around my neck, tugging at the small diamond pendant—a gift from Harris years ago that I’ve never seemed to be able to part with. He gave it to me on our first anniversary after he’d spent a month working at the Student Union’s copy center just to save up for it. It’s an ugly little thing with infinitesimal diamonds in dire need of a good scrubbing, but I’ll never forget how proud he was when he presented me with the little velvet box over a ramen dinner in my dorm room.

  “Meredith never told me she had a stalker.” I glance away, my stomach in knots. What else don’t I know about?

  His lips flatten, and he glances around like he’s silently kicking himself for telling me. “Yeah.”

  “Did you ever figure out who it was? Do you think he could’ve had something to do with this? Why would she keep that from me?” My voice rises. “She tells me everything. That seems like a pretty big thing to keep from your sister, don’t you think?”


  “Maybe she didn’t want you to worry?” His eyes soften, and in the span of two seconds, he sees me for the neurotic, anxious worrywart I’ve always been. “Look, I’m sure she had her reasons.”

  Yes.

  I’m sure she did.

  CHAPTER 5

  MEREDITH

  Thirty-Two Months Ago

  Blood.

  There’s blood everywhere: dripping down my thighs, smeared across the marble bathroom floor, streaking down the inside of our pristine toilet bowl.

  Resting next to my vanity mirror is a little blue box containing a positive pregnancy test.

  I was going to tell Andrew tonight. I had it all planned. A romantic dinner at Sky Port, a starry drive through the mountains, and the big reveal at the end of it all, complete with a heartfelt letter I’d spent all yesterday morning penning.

  It was mostly word vomit, talking about how I never met my father and how watching him with Isabeau and Calder makes me grateful to be starting this journey with him. I gushed about how safe he made me feel, how protected and loved. The letter rambled on because, truth be told, I couldn’t ask for a better father for my unborn child than Andrew, and I wanted him to know that.

  Maybe writing a letter was silly and schoolgirlish, but I figured it’d be nice to tuck away in a baby book to be read years from now.

  We hadn’t talked about starting a family just yet. The late period last month caught me completely off guard, putting me in a bit of a stunned silence for a while. It didn’t feel real, so I waited a month before testing—just to be certain.

  The twinges began shortly after lunch today, growing worse with each passing hour. I was in denial at first, Googling “early pregnancy cramping” as fast as my fingers would allow, but when I felt the trickle of blood down my inner thighs and experienced a shock of pain that nearly knocked me to my knees, I placed my phone down.

  “Mer, you in there?” Andrew’s voice calls from outside our bathroom door. “Reservation’s in a half hour. Been looking forward to this all day.”

  There’s excitement in his tone, and I’m leaning against the bathroom door, holding a white towel between my legs, pulling in deep breaths.

  I don’t want him to see me like this.

  “I’ll be out in a second,” I say, my voice breaking as I summon the strength to clean up and make myself somewhat presentable. I’m not sure if I can walk out of here and sit across from him at dinner like nothing happened, but I’m going to try.

  It was early, that much I know.

  I hadn’t been to the doctor yet. I hadn’t had an ultrasound or been given the all clear—that appointment was scheduled in the coming weeks. But tonight marked exactly four months since our wedding, and I thought this would be a special way to ring in an arbitrary anniversary.

  I’m on my hands and knees, a bottle of bathroom cleaner in one hand and a roll of paper towels under my arm as I scrub at a splotch of dried blood on the tile—the blood that once filled a now-empty womb.

  It isn’t fair.

  “Meredith.” Andrew’s voice startles me, and I turn to see him standing in the doorway. I didn’t hear the door. “My God, what happened?”

  Before I can so much as mutter a single consonant, I’m bawling.

  Andrew has never seen me so much as pout, and here I am sobbing uncontrollably, my entire body shaking, my vision blinded with the sting of hot tears.

  I feel . . . empty.

  Literally empty.

  All that love, all that hope, just . . . gone.

  He falls to his knees, his hands on my arms, and then he pulls me into his embrace. “Talk to me.”

  “I was going to tell you,” I say, my throat tight, burning.

  “Tell me what?” He leans back, though holding me still. His eyes search mine, his words rushed.

  “About the pregnancy.” I can’t bring myself to say the word “baby.” Not now.

  He’s quiet, and his hand that was once rubbing slow circles into my arm stops. A moment later, he pulls himself away, studying my face.

  “You were pregnant?” he asks, his eyes expressionless, all sympathy gone.

  I bite my lip so hard I taste blood, but I don’t feel it, and then I nod. “Yeah. I was.”

  Andrew rises, pinching the bridge of his nose before exhaling, and within seconds he’s pacing the little section of bleached floor.

  “Andrew . . .” I dry my eyes on the backs of my hands, pulling myself up to standing. This isn’t exactly the reaction I expected from him.

  “I thought you were on the pill?” His hand drags down his cheek. He won’t look at me.

  “I am—I was,” I say. “Maybe I missed one here or there? I don’t know. I just know it happened.”

  Andrew stops pacing, his hard stare fixed on me. “This can’t happen again, Meredith.”

  I’m speechless. Officially speechless. Staring at the man I married, the man I envisioned spending the rest of my life with—baby carriage, picket fence, and all—and I don’t recognize him.

  He may as well be a stranger.

  A seething, red-faced stranger.

  I’ve never seen that look on his face before: pure, unadulterated rage. He’s looking at me as if I’ve just betrayed him, betrayed his trust, and my first instinct is to get the hell out of here.

  So I do.

  Ignoring the fiery furnace in my lower belly, I push past Andrew and rifle through my half of the closet, pulling jeans and sweaters from wooden hangers and loading up as much as I can carry. When I turn to leave, he’s blocking the door.

  “What are you doing?” His expression relaxes, all hint of fury gone—like it was never there in the first place, like I imagined it. “You’re not leaving.”

  I start toward him, searing pain and all. “Of course I am.”

  Stepping toward me, he gathers the clothes from my arms and drops them on the ground by our feet. They land on the plush carpet with an unsatisfying thud.

  “No, no,” he says, talking to me the way you would speak to a person about to jump from the top of a skyscraper. “You’re not going to do that. It’s not a good idea.”

  A thick tear runs down my cheek.

  Andrew wipes it away.

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  I don’t speak.

  “I was in shock,” he continues, his voice soft, his gaze softer. “I didn’t choose my words . . . I shouldn’t have reacted that way . . . I didn’t mean to upset you.” He brushes a light strand of hair from my eyes. “I should’ve held you, comforted you. You’re my wife, Mer. You’re the love of my life. You were hurting, and all I could think about was myself. I was wrong . . . forgive me?”

  Our eyes hold for what feels like forever, but I can’t stop seeing his face from a few minutes ago. His twisted brows. His clenched jaw. His flaring nostrils. The subzero chill in his eyes.

  He kisses me, his lips warm and gentle, his hands in my hair, but it doesn’t feel the same as before. It’s tainted, marred.

  Andrew’s hands trail down my arms, stopping at my fingers and interlacing them with his. Kissing my forehead, he gives a slow, slight smile.

  “We hadn’t talked about starting a family yet,” he says.

  “It wasn’t planned.”

  “I know,” he says, his head cocked as he peers down his perfect, straight nose at me. “Just be careful from now on, okay? You’re going to make the most beautiful mother . . . someday. Until then, I want to enjoy what we have right now. Why rush it? It’s absolutely perfect, don’t you think?”

  He lifts my hand to his mouth, depositing a lingering kiss, and I’m taken back to last night, when he whispered in my ear that his life finally felt perfect, and all I could think about was how much more perfect it was going to be with the baby.

  How wrong I was.

  “I’m not ready to share you yet,” he says, maybe teasing, maybe not. “Sorry, but I’m keeping you all to myself for as long as possible.”

  A week ago, those words would
’ve sent a flutter of butterflies to my stomach and a warm fullness to my chest, but in this moment, I’m numb.

  His words, his touch . . . they do nothing for me.

  “I’m going to lie down.” I pull my hands from his and turn back into the bedroom.

  He lets me walk away, and I crawl beneath the mass of downy plush covers on our enormous bed. Rolling to my side, I shut my eyes and breathe in the lavender scent of our freshly washed-and-pressed sheets. His footsteps are soft on the carpet, and the soft creak of the door is followed by dead silence.

  A short while later, my husband whispers in my ear. “Meredith.” I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here, and I hadn’t heard him come back. The bed dips on my side. “I brought you some water and something for the pain. Sit up.”

  Opening my eyes, I roll toward him and push myself up. He fluffs the pillows behind me before dropping two matte-brown pills in my palm and handing me a glass of still water.

  The light from our bathroom casts shadows on the wall, and I watch as he leaves my side and changes into a silk pajama set before climbing into bed.

  “I canceled our reservations,” he says, moving close and placing his arm around me. He pulls me into the warm bend of his shoulder before resting his chin on top of my head. “I’m here for you, Mer. Anything you need.”

  In this moment, I almost forget what happened earlier.

  Almost.

  CHAPTER 6

  GREER

  Day Two

  A woman with latex gloves runs swab sticks along the inside of my cheeks as I’m seated in a metal folding chair in Ronan’s office. From here, I can see past the doorway, where he’s fixing himself coffee from a stained machine on a counter next to an almond-colored fridge in a break room.

  He takes it black. No cream, no sugar.

  My favorite customers back home take their coffee black. They’re the ones who don’t have time for bullshit. They don’t stand at the counter making chitchat about the weather or their upcoming vacation to the Hamptons. They get in line, pay their five bucks, and walk away with their perfect, steaming cup of high-quality caffeine.

  I resolve to try to like this detective, as unseasoned as he may be, because he could very well surprise me.