The Thinnest Air

by Minka Kent

  “That’s a blanket statement,” Vince says. “Be careful with that, Jeannie.”

  “Let’s stay on track here,” Lindsey says. “We need to find Meredith. Someone out there knows what happened. Someone out there has seen her. We’re going to show her photo on the screen again. Johnny, can you pull that up? There we go.”

  A photo of my sister, which was clearly stolen from her Facebook page, shows her smiling ear to ear on her wedding day, Andrew by her side.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I say.

  No one looks like themselves on their wedding day. If she’s out there, held captive by some lunatic, I highly doubt she’s sporting an updo and a full face of Chanel makeup.

  Idiots.

  “We need to consider the fact that it might not be either of them,” a fourth man with curly gray hair and thick glasses chimes in.

  “Thank you,” I mutter under my breath, throwing my hands in the air.

  “Of course,” Yellow Tie says. “But right now we’re running out of time. This case is about to run out of gas, and we’re barely coasting on fumes here. We need to work with what we have if we’re going to get anywhere with this.”

  “But if what you have is useless . . . ,” the curly-haired man says.

  “This is depressing.” I reach for the remote again.

  “I want to hear it,” Mom says, her lips pursed as she shoots me a look that dares me to touch the remote. “It’s interesting to see what they think. You never know, they might actually say something that makes sense one of these times.”

  Exhaling, I take a seat at the kitchen table. We all seem to gather here most days, like we’re all sitting around waiting for a call to drop into our laps, a knock on the door from someone saying they found her safe and sound, or some twist in the case we never saw coming.

  When my mother’s back is turned, I text Ronan from my phone and tell him to watch Channel 222. I’m testing him. I want to see if he’s nervous or worked up now that all his dirty laundry is being aired.

  Little busy now, he writes back, sending a picture of the current state of his driveway. The street is lined with news vans, local and national, and anchors with microphones speak into cameras pointed at their faces, framing the shot with Ronan’s house.

  Jesus Christ.

  “Hi, Andrew.” My mother’s voice pulls me back to reality.

  Standing frozen, arms crossed, he listens to the pundits theorize and speculate, arguing why it’s Ronan and then countering as to why all signs point to Andrew.

  “You shouldn’t watch this,” Mom says, reaching to shut the TV off, but before she gets the chance, he leaves, misty-eyed and visibly shaken.

  I wish I knew if those were tears of a bruised ego.

  Or tears of regret.

  Or maybe, something else entirely.

  CHAPTER 25

  MEREDITH

  Twenty Months Ago

  Andrew kissed me this morning, slow and lingering, and then we made love in the bed of our New York hotel suite. Not once but twice.

  We’ve been doing that a lot lately.

  The day I left Ronan’s, I came straight home, poured myself a gin and tonic, and waited for Andrew to return from work.

  That night I told him about everything—except Ronan—the second he walked in the door. I dropped it all on him. I told him I felt as if I were losing him, that he didn’t love me anymore. I told him I wondered if he was just with me because he wanted a trophy wife to go with his collection of sports cars. I told him he was too detached in bed. I told him about the couples in Thailand and how I didn’t want to be like them.

  Then I told him he was losing me. And if we didn’t fix it now, we weren’t going to make it.

  He dropped his briefcase, came to my side, and took my hands in his. Andrew Price isn’t a fearful man. He isn’t a gushy, lovey-dovey man. He’s a businessman. He’s serious and well in control of his emotions. But I’ll be damned if he didn’t look absolutely terrified at the thought of losing me in that moment.

  “I took you for granted,” he said to me. “I’ve been selfish this past year, and I know that. I’m going to fix this, I promise.”

  Since that moment, Andrew’s been husband of the year. Bringing me coffee in bed before he takes his early morning runs. Whisking me away on kid-free weekends. Taking his time between the sheets, ensuring I’m always left satisfied when we’re finished and then some.

  So far, so good.

  Except for those still, small moments when thoughts of Ronan creep into my mind. It doesn’t help that I see him everywhere, always driving his unmarked squad car, dressed in his black suit, his shield hanging from his neck.

  I saw him at a stoplight once, felt his stare lingering on me.

  I couldn’t bring myself to wave or smile or acknowledge him.

  Not that I didn’t want to, but I’ve closed that chapter. I’ve locked that door.

  Ronan McCormack was a phase, a reckless decision that spiraled out of control.

  And I’m not that girl anymore.

  I’m Mrs. Andrew Price, now and forever.

  Rolling out of the hotel bed in a posh little boutique hotel in Greenwich Village, I draw the curtains and stare down seventeen stories to a city sidewalk filled with people going about their normal business.

  And I’m about to be one of them.

  It feels good to be back to normal again.

  “Don’t you ever call first?” Harris rolls his eyes when I stroll into Steam later that morning. I can never tell if he’s joking or actually finds it obnoxious that I show up unannounced every time I’m in the city.

  “Where’s the fun in that?” I ask.

  “You know G hates surprises.”

  I shrug. “But I love them, and G loves me, so it all works out.”

  “She’s not here.” He turns his back to me, making a cappuccino for a foot-tapping woman, and I take a seat at an empty bar with the sole intention of bugging the shit out of him because I can.

  “Where’d she go?” I ask.

  “Errands,” he says, taking the drink to the customer and flashing a charming smile in her direction, the kind of smile that could bring a woman back here time and time again.

  I’m not the biggest fan of Harris, but I can’t deny how ridiculously attractive he is—but it’s not in a Times Square billboard model sort of way; it’s more in a hot-nerd, Joseph Gordon-Levitt kind of way. He can talk about any topic with ease, knows his way around the city like he’s lived here his whole life, paints the most incredible abstract watercolors, cooks almost any type of cuisine and makes it taste better than takeout, can fix almost anything, and reads a book a day.

  How he has time for all that, I haven’t a clue, but I see the allure of it.

  I can see what my sister sees in him.

  He’s a fixer. And he’s smart. He’s her safety net.

  She never had a father to call when she needed help with her homework or when her refrigerator broke down and was leaking fluid all over her floor and she couldn’t afford to call a technician.

  She never had a father to praise her intelligence over her beauty, to tell her never to settle, and to keep shooting for the top.

  She never had a father . . . but she had Harris.

  “When are you and Greer getting back together?” I ask, resting my chin on my hands and winking.

  “Ship sailed long ago,” he says, refusing to meet my curious stare.

  “But you don’t act like it. You still love her. I know you do,” I say. “And she still loves you. She loves the hell out of you. I know you know.”

  Harris shakes his head, wiping the counter with a red-striped rag. “I don’t believe in marriage.”

  “Oh. One of those.”

  He scoffs. “Marriage is an outdated concept. People aren’t meant to be with one person the rest of their lives; we’re just not. Nobody belongs to anyone. If we love someone, we can be with them if we want, but we don’t need an expensive ring and
a flimsy piece of paper that you’re going to tuck away in a filing cabinet and never look at again.”

  Funny he says this because for a while he and Greer were thinking of tying the knot. Guess people change and their opinions follow suit.

  “It’s romantic, though,” I say. “It’s a sign of commitment.”

  “We must have completely different ideas of romance, then.”

  “Clearly.” I rise up, peering over the counter. “Hey, Harris. If you’re bored, you want to make me an iced chai?”

  I’d request a London Fog, but I can’t enjoy one without thinking about Ronan, and I’ve been doing so well with that lately.

  His shoulders sink, and I think he’s pretending to be annoyed, but he does it anyway. A moment later, he slides my drink in front of me and greets a Gucci loafer–wearing woman at the register.

  At all their other locations, they have baristas and cashiers and the whole setup. But this is their flagship shop, a mere six hundred square feet up front, and he likes to be up close and personal with the patrons.

  He’s also a control freak who needs to know what’s going on at all times and make sure the coffees are brewed at a perfect 205 degrees Fahrenheit and no single cup of tea is steeped longer than three to five minutes.

  This may be the smallest store, but it makes the most money, and Harris isn’t shy about taking credit for that.

  He returns to make the lady at the counter a double mocha frozen coffee, and she tips him a twenty-dollar bill.

  “So back to Greer,” I say.

  Harris’s jaw flexes.

  “You have to admit, you’ve been stringing her along for years.”

  “According to whom?”

  “It’s not a matter of opinion.” I sip my iced chai. It’s perfection. Maybe he doesn’t hate me after all? Or he’s just extremely anal about quality. Probably the latter. “It’s fact.”

  “Not sure what you expect me to do,” he says. “We work together. We’re always together. And she’s my best friend. I can assure you, no one’s stringing anyone along. This is just . . . how it is. This is what works for us right now. And need I remind you, she’s the one who decided to move out?”

  I exhale, contemplating the small lilt in my sister’s voice anytime she mentions Harris. She still loves him. She still has hope. And looking at him now, I see he has zero intention of going back to the way they were. If he wanted her back, he would’ve fought harder for her. If he can fight for climate change initiatives, he can fight for the woman he loves.

  “Anyone ever tell you you’re kind of an asshole?” I ask. And selfish.

  Harris smirks. “Never.”

  “You are.” I take a sip. “It’s because you’re the only boy.”

  “What?”

  “You’re the only boy in your family. And the baby,” I say. “You think everything’s about you. And you’ve never had to share the spotlight. That’s why you’re such an asshole.”

  “Wow.” He’s quiet for a rare moment. “That’s, uh, that’s pretty harsh, Meredith.”

  “I think you could be nicer,” I say. “But you’re going to have to work at it.”

  “I am nice.” One brow lifts.

  “Not to me,” I say.

  “I’m only hard on you because I care. You’re like the little sister I never had. And it stresses Greer the fuck out when you do stupid shit like . . . I don’t know . . . marrying a man twice your age.”

  My jaw falls. “Seriously, Harris? You’re going to bring my husband into this?”

  “Not your husband. Your marriage,” he says. “It’s kind of a joke, don’t you think?”

  I shake my head and glance down. My marriage isn’t a joke, but his words sting.

  The bells on the door jingle. Greer strides across the shop, her phone glued to her ear as she passes me by without looking up. A moment later, she shuts the door to her office.

  Climbing down from the stool, I head back, letting myself in. Greer doesn’t smile when she sees me. She doesn’t seem shocked or fazed. When she ends her call, she buries her head in her hands.

  “What? What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Just got off the phone with our accountant,” she says. “We’re going to have to start closing down shops.”

  “Shops . . . plural . . . as in more than one?” I ask.

  Her arms fold across her chest, and she leans back in her chair, eyes glassy. “Yeah. At least three of the five.”

  “How?”

  She shakes her head. “Profits are down. Some of the stores aren’t performing.”

  “Okay, so you just need to trim the fat. Focus on the ones that are making you money,” I say.

  She’s quiet, stewing in her failure.

  “Come on. Let’s grab drinks. My treat,” I say. “I might have a Xanax in my purse that you can have if you want it.”

  Her pale blue eyes flick onto mine, and I realize I’ve become one of those pill-toting housewives who are somehow able to get any drug they need from their trusted family doctor with the snap of their manicured fingers.

  “I’m kidding,” I say. Not really. “But let’s go. Let’s get out of here. Harris is being a douche anyway.”

  “I can’t deal with you two,” she says. “Not today.”

  “I’m kidding.” I lie again. “He’s great. We were actually talking about you.”

  Six words is all it takes to capture her interest and distract her from her despair.

  Hooking my arm around hers, I pull her out of her chair and grab her purse. “Come on. Let’s get a drink, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  CHAPTER 26

  GREER

  Day Eight

  The FindMeredithPrice website is particularly buzzing today. Ever since the Ronan development was made public yesterday, every cable news network is recycling and rehashing the same warped theories, and people can’t get enough.

  According to a poll on CNN, 84 percent of their viewers believe Ronan’s behind the disappearance.

  I place my phone on the kitchen table when my mom walks in, Wade in tow. It’s morning, and they’re fixing breakfast. How they can continue to eat so normally at a time like this is beyond me, but my mother’s feet are planted more firmly in denial than ever before.

  She’s compartmentalizing.

  We all are.

  Shock has stolen my appetite, though. That’s what happens when I’m stressed. My body shuts down. It won’t sleep or eat. It enters survival mode, sending thirst signals to my brain to remind me to drink water every now and again.

  “Greer, would you like some toast?” Mom asks, pulling a loaf of artisan bread from the pantry.

  “No thanks.”

  “You need to eat something,” she says, tsk-tsking. “You’re skinny as a rail.”

  “Kind of focused on more important things,” I say.

  “We all are, Greer,” Wade says. I hate how he uses my name like he’s trying to be my friend. “But you know your brain functions better on a full stomach. It’s proven. Backed by science.”

  I tried to eat some oatmeal last night after I woke up at two in the morning with a growling stomach, but the second I took my third bite, it all threatened to come up the way it went in, so I stopped.

  “I’ll fix myself something later,” I say just to get them to shut up. I catch Andrew’s outline in my periphery vision.

  “Good morning, Andrew.” My mother presses her lips together, speaking to him the way you would a toy poodle or a two-year-old. “How’d you sleep, sweetheart?”

  She rubs his back like a child, despite the fact that they’re a mere fifteen years apart in age, give or take.

  He mutters a groggy “good morning” before heading to the built-in espresso maker next to the fridge. Fixing himself a small cup, he takes a seat next to me at the table.

  “You hear from the new detective lately?” I ask. “What’s his name?”

  His eyes flick to mine, their dark circles more noticeable than ever.

>   “Bixby. And yesterday,” he says. “They’re still working on it.”

  “That’s all they tell you? They’re still working on it?” My jaw aches from grinding my teeth lately. “What are they doing? Specifically? What are they doing to find her?”

  He takes a sip of his espresso, staring out toward their picturesque backyard. Fog obscures the mountains, save for their frosty peaks, but it’s a beautiful scene for such an ugly day.

  “They’ve had search crews combing the woods in the area all week,” he says. “Mostly volunteers, working around the clock. People have flown in from all over the world. Search and rescue planes have been using infrared cameras, heat sensing, and all that. They’re not sitting around waiting for the phone to ring, I can promise you that.”

  He seems annoyed with me, but he was the one who offered a vague response, so I don’t feel bad.

  “They’re sending a dog out today,” he says.

  “A cadaver dog?”

  “Something like that.”

  “So they’re looking for a body.” My heart sinks, not because I think she’s dead, but because they do. They’re giving up on her.

  “They’re looking for anything they can find.” He exhales, refusing to meet my cutting stare.

  “And why aren’t you looking?” I ask. “Seems the heat’s been taken off you and placed on Ronan. It’s safe for you to come out now.”

  “Greer.” My mother’s voice scolds, but it has no effect on me, and it rarely did as a child. I could never respect her or take her seriously then. Still don’t now.

  Andrew’s demeanor snaps, and he rises from the table, pounding his fist against the wood. “Stop.”

  My brows lift. “Stop what? Stop pointing out the things that everyone else refuses to acknowledge? Stop looking for my sister? What, Andrew? Stop what?”

  He glares. “Stop being such a fucking bitch.”

  When Andrew moves toward the doorway to the kitchen, he lingers, his fists clenched in the air and his mouth pinched, as if he wants to say more. But he stops himself. His arms fall at his sides, limp.

  Isabeau pulls up a seat at the table, her dark hair ruffled from a night of sleeping in her princess canopy bed. She yawns, watching the two of us like we’re her personal entertainment.