The Thinnest Air

by Minka Kent

Ronan shakes his head. “Amateur.”

  “Me?” I press my finger against my chest.

  “Everything I need to know is going to be in the way he reacts to my question,” he says. “What he says won’t matter. How he acts will.”

  Connie Mayweather rises from her chair, placing her mic pack on a nearby coffee table as she chats with a producer. Either they’re done, or they’re taking a break.

  “Now’s your chance,” I tell him.

  Ronan cuts through the small crowd, making a beeline for Andrew, who keeps a solemn expression in his presence. From here, I watch Andrew drag his hand along his jaw, furrow his brow, and shake his head. Ronan does most of the talking, never taking his eyes off Andrew, and when a producer approaches them, the conversation ends.

  When Ronan returns, I ask, “You find what you were looking for?”

  “Not exactly,” he says. “But I think I’m getting close.”

  “So? What’d he say?”

  Ronan’s mouth forms a straight line as he eyes the nearest door. “Looks like I’ve got a few things to check into.”

  “So he knows the guy? The van?” I lift a brow.

  He shakes his head.

  “So he reacted in a way that makes you suspect something?” I ask.

  “Greer, I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?” He grips my shoulder in passing. And then he’s gone.

  I get it. This is an active investigation. He can’t tell me everything.

  Peering across the room, I watch as Andrew speaks to a crew member, nodding, his arms across his chest.

  So help me God, if he’s remotely involved in this . . .

  CHAPTER 11

  MEREDITH

  Twenty-Seven Months Ago

  “There’s something on your windshield.” Allison points at my car as we walk out of hot yoga on a brisk Monday morning. All I want is a lukewarm shower, clean clothes that don’t stick to every crevice of my body, and an iced coffee with Splenda and sugar-free mocha syrup.

  “It’s probably one of those flyers for that new pizza place on Pike,” I say. “Last week I got four of them.”

  I yank the white paper from beneath my wiper blade, but I don’t crumple it yet. There’s no pizza logo. Nothing on the outside. Just a white sheet of paper folded into thirds.

  Something falls, landing at my shoes, and I swipe it off the ground, finding myself face-to-face with a photo of myself taken just last week. I’m with Andrew, leaving the home of one of his colleagues after a dinner party that ran much too late. This had to have been two in the morning.

  “What is it?” Allison comes around the front of my car, peering over my shoulder as I read a handwritten letter.

  My Meredith,

  Always watching.

  X

  “Holy shit, that’s creepy.” Allison covers her chest with an open palm, mouth agape.

  My hands tremble. “What do I do? Do I take it to the police? I mean, it’s not a threat, but it’s . . . I don’t know . . . it feels violating. Who the hell takes a picture of me leaving a party with my husband in the middle of the night? Who is this asshole? And how does he know us?”

  “Just some lunatic,” she says. “Some weirdos get off on this stuff. They do it just for fun. But yes, you should go to the police. This needs to be on record . . . in case anything happens.”

  My eyes scan the letter again, tracing the small, careful handwriting, noting how he dotted his I’s with little circles and that his capital letters are enormous in comparison to their lowercase counterparts.

  “Will you go with me?” I ask, an unsettled queasiness resting in my stomach. I’m still so unknown around Glacier Park, and my circle consists of mainly Andrew and Allison. For some crazy person to notice me and follow me . . . it’s bone-chilling to say the least.

  “Of course. Want me to drive you? You’re all shaken up.” Allison places her arm around my shoulder, leading me to her parked Audi and helping me in.

  Five minutes later, we pull in to the visitor parking lot of the Glacier Park Police Department. Allison leads me inside and does most of the talking once we reach the front desk. We’re not seated for more than ten minutes before a detective calls for us.

  “Meredith Price?” he asks, his eyes moving between Allison and myself.

  I lift a hand, rising. “I’m Meredith.”

  “Detective Ronan McCormack.” His eyes linger on mine. “Come on back.”

  He leads us down a sterile white hallway covered in posed photos of retired captains, sergeants, and lieutenants. His office is at the end, across from the chief’s corner digs.

  “Have a seat, ladies.” He closes the door behind us. Neither of us speak. “What are we looking at here?”

  Retrieving the letter and photograph from my purse, I slide them across the desk. “This was on my windshield this morning.”

  His face tenses as he reads the words and checks out the photo. “Is this the first time this person has tried to contact you?”

  “Yes,” I say. “But this picture was from last week. And he knows my name. And the way he signs it? Always watching?”

  “And he called her ‘My Meredith,’” Allison says.

  “That’s a fear tactic,” he says, his eyes dancing between ours. “Most stalkers, they want their victims to be afraid. Sometimes they’ll use possessive phrasing to accomplish that. Can you think of anyone who might want to scare you, Meredith?”

  My name is sweet and gentle on his tongue, and he has kind eyes.

  I shake my head. “No one. I get along with everyone.”

  “Except your husband’s ex,” Allison says, her voice soft as she nudges me.

  “Erica wouldn’t do this. She’s crazy, but she’s not this kind of crazy,” I say. “Plus, I know her handwriting. This isn’t it.”

  “Maybe she hired someone?” Allison shrugs.

  “We find that most victims know their stalkers,” Ronan says. “More than likely, this is someone you’ve interacted with in the past. I mean, it could be someone who saw you once and followed you and figured out who you were, but the odds of that are slim. I won’t rule it out, but just so you know. Statistically speaking and all.”

  “So what happens now?”

  “Technically it’s not stalking unless there are a series of acts and repeated victimization. A single incident isn’t enough to get someone on a stalking charge,” he says. “Did you happen to see anyone around your vehicle? Did anyone else see anything unusual?”

  “We were at the gym, parked out back,” I say. “I can ask if there are cameras . . .”

  Detective McCormack’s lips flatten as he exhales. “If this person knows what they’re doing, they wouldn’t have risked being caught on film. It’s worth a check, and I’ll handle that for you, but I don’t want you to get your hopes up.”

  “I understand,” I say.

  “Without a description of the suspect, there’s not much we can do from here,” he says. “For now, you need to be hypervigilant. Pay attention to your surroundings, watch for any strange faces in crowds, anyone watching you—following you. If anything happens again, I want you to call the station, all right?”

  He grabs a business card from a holder behind his phone, handing it over and pointing to the number printed along the bottom.

  “That’s my work cell,” he says, sliding it toward me. “I’ll have the guys do some patrolling in your area for the next week or so, too. See if we find any unusual activity around your home.”

  “Thank you.”

  I know he’s doing all he can, but I’m still unsettled, uneasy. My stomach is clenched, my vision blurred from stress. Even here, in the cinderblock-walled office in the local police station, I find my gaze darting around, unable to shake the feeling that someone’s watching me.

  “We should go.” I turn to Allison, gathering my things. I need to try Andrew again. I’d phoned him on the drive here, but his receptionist said he was in a meeting with a new client. She took a message. That was an ho
ur ago.

  Detective McCormack shows us out, returning us to the lobby.

  “You did the right thing coming here today,” he says. “You know, I teach a women’s self-defense class at the community center in Ridgewood Heights on Tuesdays. Seven o’clock. You’re welcome to join us. Free to the public.”

  Allison glances my way, brows arched. “Might not be a bad idea.”

  The detective offers a boyish half smile, though I suspect he’s only slightly older than me—late twenties, thirty at most. His presence is calming, the way he takes everything in stride.

  My eyes trace over his broad shoulders, and I find myself inappropriately fixated on the way his arms fill the sleeves of his navy button-down, the fabric straining against the outline of his muscles. Self-discipline’s written all over him, and I imagine him waking at 5:00 a.m. on the dot each morning, going for a run—rain, snow, or shine—and returning for a protein shake, hard-boiled eggs, and a fistful of vitamins and supplements.

  Then I find myself wondering if he has a girlfriend, if she’s pretty and sweet or the kind of girl who takes advantage of nice guys like Ronan.

  And then I snap out of it, remembering that I’m a married woman. Those kinds of thoughts aren’t fair to Andrew. To the sanctity of our marriage.

  “Thanks, Detective.” I force a smile, warmth blooming in my cheeks as if this man could’ve possibly read my thoughts. “I appreciate the invitation.”

  CHAPTER 12

  GREER

  Day Three

  “Is there any chance at all that Meredith left on her own?” Wade asks Andrew that night. He’s changed into a different Hawaiian shirt, this one faded and blue, nothing like the cheerful one he wore this morning. A half-eaten, room-temperature pizza sits hardened in a box between us at the kitchen table. My mother’s gaze flicks from her untouched slice to her boyfriend, as if he’s uttered pure blasphemy.

  “At this point, I’m not sure what to think,” Mom says, shoving her plate away and clucking her tongue.

  “I’m just saying, we have no leads, no evidence, nothing. Is it possible that she orchestrated this in some capacity?” he asks.

  I’m fixated on his hair for a moment, the thin, sun-streaked locks hanging limp around his wrinkled face. He’s much too old to have hair to his shoulders, and I wonder at what age he stopped surfing. Wade walks with a limp and wears a shark-tooth necklace. Meredith says he drives a vintage Corvette and has three adult children who no longer speak to him.

  He’s exactly the kind of guy my mom would find on the Internet.

  My mother twists the diamond pendant that hangs above her crinkly bronze décolletage. “She has a great life, an amazing husband, a perfect marriage. Maybe someone was jealous of her? Or maybe they wanted her for themselves?”

  I lift a brow, biting my tongue as I let Wade’s thoughts marinate. My mother walked away from dozens of relationships over her many incarnations. Is it possible she somehow instilled that behavior into my sister over the years?

  Deep down, I know anything is possible, but it’s as if my mind refuses to believe she would’ve kept anything from me. I want to believe she would’ve told me if she were leaving, but after everything that’s come to light the last few days, I’m beginning to realize my sister was drowning in an ocean of secrets, and I was inland the entire time, clueless.

  Andrew dabs his lips with a napkin, chewing his bite quickly as if he has something to say before anyone else gets a chance. I’m not sure how he can eat at a time like this. My appetite’s been nonexistent for days now, my jeans beginning to fall down my hips when I walk.

  “She was pregnant.” His words suck the air from the room.

  My mother cups her hand over her mouth, speechless for the first time ever. This bombshell is cushioned by the ones that dropped before it.

  I’m hurt, maybe.

  But not surprised.

  My attention is glued to him, scrutinizing his concentrated, businesslike mannerisms and wondering where the hell his emotion is hiding right now. Any other “loving husband” would be beside himself, hardly able to function, if his beloved wife was missing. Add an unborn baby to the mix, and that takes things to a whole new level.

  But Andrew is as stoic as ever.

  Weird.

  “She wasn’t very far along,” he says. “Just found out a few weeks ago. We hadn’t shared the news yet. Obviously. But for that reason alone, I know she would never leave on her own. She was excited about the baby, about this next chapter in our life. It was all she could talk about.”

  The fluffy fur of my sister’s black Pomeranian, Maxie, rubs against my feet. Growing up, neither of us had ever had so much as a hamster, but Andrew gifted Meredith with a puppy for Christmas one year, and suddenly she was a dog person, taking Maxie with her everywhere she went in her little Louis Vuitton carrier and joking with me about how much Maxie loved massages and manicures at the local dog spa.

  “She is her mother’s daughter,” she’d said, laughing. Meredith seemed placated by the dog. I never once suspected she was suffering from a bout of baby fever. I suppose in my mind’s eye, she was still a baby herself. Forever my helpless, knobby-kneed kid sister.

  I asked her once, shortly after she got married, if she wanted a family of her own. She’d had a far-off look in her eyes, hesitating before simply stating, “Someday. Hopefully. Yes. Andrew wants to wait a little longer.”

  It wasn’t long after that, Maxie came into the picture.

  My brother-in-law knew what he was doing.

  “Do the police know?” I ask. “About the baby?”

  Andrew sinks back in his chair, contemplating his answer. “They do. I mentioned it to the detective . . . McCormack.”

  “I’m surprised the police haven’t fed that detail to the media yet. Missing pregnant woman would sell a hell of a lot better than missing woman.” My voice is sarcastic and my words sting even myself, yet I speak the truth. The more news outlets discussing this case and sharing my sister’s photo, the better.

  “Greer.” My mother snips my name, and I can’t help but wonder if Meredith ever worried about what kind of mother she was going to be. We didn’t exactly have a shining example.

  “I’m just saying.” I turn my focus to Andrew again. “It’s odd, don’t you think? Wouldn’t they want as much publicity on the case as possible?”

  “For whatever reason, the police haven’t made that public yet,” Andrew says, unaffected by the tone I’ve taken.

  Wade blows a breath through his thin lips, his brow wrinkling. “I’m inclined to agree with you on that, Greer. I find that a bit peculiar.”

  Good old Wade.

  He might be the only other person sitting at this table who’s worth a damn, and as much as everything about him annoys the ever-loving shit out of me, he just might be one of the more tolerable gentlemen my mother has sidled up to over the past thirty-odd years.

  Our conversation ceases, the four of us sharing a round of awkward silence. If the police haven’t made this information public, it must mean they’re suspecting it could be some kind of motive . . . Andrew’s?

  The doorbell slices through our nonexistent conversation like a sharp knife, and Andrew wastes no time excusing himself from the table. When he returns with a little blonde thing barely out of college, she offers an awkward wave and takes a seat beside my mother.

  “This is Britt,” he says. He is so the kind of guy who would hire someone like Britt. I bet he uses the excuse “It’s easier to train the young ones than to break the bad habits of the experienced ones.” Jackass. “She’s my executive assistant, and she’ll be fielding calls, answering the door, and keeping me from losing my sanity until we figure out where the hell my wife is.”

  He speaks of Meredith as if she’s just run off, like a teenager who’s bound to come home eventually. Whether he’s fueled by denial or hope, I’ve yet to figure out.

  Britt glances at Andrew with the roundest eyes I’ve ever seen, like she finds
him equal parts fascinating and heroic. Enchanting almost. He has that effect on people, though I’ve never understood why. I can’t help but wonder if he’d hold the same sex appeal if he were donning a plumber’s uniform and driving a rusted pickup truck.

  I’ve never been more grateful for my immunity to pompous, Rolex-wearing douchebags with bleached smiles and fast cars.

  She lifts the lid of her MacBook, tapping in a password and clicking on an icon when the screen lights.

  “I have some e-mails to go over with you when you get a second,” she says, her eyes lifting to mine when she feels the weight of my stare. “They’re not work related. Your inbox has been blowing up with offers from talk shows and radio shows. Everybody wants to talk to you about Meredith.”

  Andrew levels his posture, pinching the bridge of his nose. He can act like this annoys him all he wants, but this man loves the attention he’s getting. Andrew lives for this shit. He’s an attention whore. I knew it from the moment he plucked my beautiful sister out of obscurity and pinned her to his lapel like a prom boutonniere.

  “You’ve also been receiving some, um, inappropriate e-mails,” she says, biting her lip. “I’m deleting them, just so you know.”

  “Inappropriate?” my clueless mother asks. “Like threats? Mean things?”

  “Fan mail–type letters . . . offers . . . ,” Britt adds. “From women . . .”

  “Oh, good God.” Mom throws her hands in the air, muttering under her breath. Within seconds, she leaves the table, heading back to the kitchen and plundering the wine cabinet, bottles plinking as she rifles.

  Good to see some things haven’t changed.

  Without saying a word, I exit this circus stage right and head to my room. I can’t remember the last time I showered. Or ate a decent meal. Or checked in with Harris. This entire week so far has been a blur, a foggy nightmare where everything feels real and fake all at the same time.

  Locking my door, I grab my phone and call my ex.

  He answers almost immediately, like he’s been on standby. “Greer. Hey.”

  It’s so good to hear his voice, but I don’t tell him that.