We shimmy through the crowd and go up the stairs and I quickly fumble with the door lock. The knob feels looser than it did earlier, and I wonder again about someone being inside. Or maybe it’s just my nerves. When it opens, I invite Hobart in, but he declines and stands outside my door.
“Just hurry,” he says.
My bag is still opened on the rickety dresser, and I take my hair products and makeup off the bathroom counter and throw them in. I never hung anything up or used the drawers, so everything should still be in here. I don’t double check. My money is in my purse, so I zip the bag and drag it out. Sixty seconds. Max. Everything is going to be fine.
But of course…
“That’s the ho that’s tryna steal Marcus!”
The crazy girl is back. And she has two friends with her this time, who fall in line behind her as she approaches the bottom of the steps, and the melee begins. They start shouting over each other at me.
“Oh, girl, you in trouble, girl!”
“Think you hot shit, bitch?”
Hobart charges down anyway, and I follow closely. “Just gettin’ her stuff and gettin’ her outta here anyway. You don’t gotta worry about this no more,” he says.
Crazy girl doesn’t negotiate as she tries to make eye contact with me beyond Hobart. “He yo’ damn keeper? Cat got ya tongue?” She produces a switchblade, hits the button and extends the sharp end. “Maybe I should cut it out.”
Fuck!
Before I even have a chance to panic, Hobart pulls a gun from his waistband and brandishes it in the air.
“GUN!” someone in the crowd screams, and everyone scatters.
“That’s right. Ain’t y’all so tough now. Get out of the way!” Hobart shouts.
All day I’ve been riding around with someone who was strapped. I hate guns. Unfortunately, I’ve had them pointed in my direction more than once. One mentally ill foster brother. One of the Assholes. Wait, two of the Assholes.
Of course, I’m grateful for its presence now.
I quickly follow Hobart to the cab and jump into the back seat with my suitcase, and he starts the engine and peels off.
“Sorry ’bout that.” He looks at me in the rearview mirror. “You doin’ okay?”
What’s okay? My heart is racing so fast that Hobart can probably see my veins throbbing through my skin, and my fingers are tingling. The gun is comfortably lying on the passenger seat, in full view. Small, shiny, metallic. One that you see in the movies when they play Russian roulette, with the thing that spins. Not one of those guns with a clip that you smack into the bottom.
I’ve seen John Wick.
All I’ve been trying to do is get away from the violence in my life and start over. I never should’ve put myself in this position to begin with. I consider myself lucky that I’ve left the situation unscathed. I should go buy a lottery ticket.
“Yeah. Thanks.” I pause, and I don’t want to talk about it, but I have to ask him. “Why do you have a gun?”
His right hand drifts on top of it in the next seat, like he’s making sure it’s still there. “You can never be too safe. I drive a cab. Been robbed before. Had a gun held to my head before. I ain’t takin’ no chances no more. I got a wife. Three kids. Grown, but they ain’t needin’ to go to their old man’s funeral.”
Hobart has more in common with me than he realizes.
“I’ve had a gun held to my head before too,” I say quietly.
“You been robbed?”
“No. Just asshole exes.”
“Ah, kid. I don’t understand that shit. Threatening a woman. How low can you go?”
I decide that even if I sign up for Uber and Lyft, Hobart is going to be my friend.
We arrive at the new hotel. Nothing but cars in the parking lot—no people, no parties, no music or drug addicts or prostitutes. I take my bag out and it thuds onto the ground.
“Thanks again. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you today.” I really mean that.
“No problem. If you need anything else, let me know.”
I pay him his fare plus an extra twenty, which he tries to refuse but to be honest my life is worth more than the Andrew Jackson I throw at him. I may not see him much going forward since I’ll be starting an Uber account, but I don’t tell him that. I’ll use him occasionally just so he knows I’m okay. I’ll text him every once in a while, to make sure he’s okay too.
It’s after midnight when I check in to the new hotel, which seems to be only a few blocks from where I had dinner. The room is ninety-nine dollars tonight and tomorrow, and seventy-nine Sunday through Thursday. They charge me the full ninety-nine for tonight even though I just got here. But at least the place looks clean and safe, so I don’t negotiate. I pay cash for tonight and promise to give them a credit card to keep on file the next day, which Ellen, the lady behind the counter, accepts because it’s so late. And to be honest, I think my makeup is fading and she sees the black eye.
Sisterhood. She’s probably seen people check in late because they were running from something. I’m grateful for the second time that night and vow to get the prepaid credit cards first thing in the morning.
Thankfully, this place gives me a keycard instead of a metal key, and it has an elevator that takes me to the fifth floor. The top. The penthouse, I guess, even though I’m positive all the rooms are the same. Inside, the room is contemporary. Ugly carpet, but there are artsy pictures on the wall, not water stains like the last place. The bed looks big and comfortable with a white down duvet, and I can’t wait to sink into it.
It’s been a long day. I’ve only been away from Asshole for twenty-four hours.
I wonder if he’s caught on yet.
He doesn’t know the betrayal that’s about to fall upon him. The wave of accusation headed his way. I even gave my little evidence-planting buddy a burner phone to use for when I do call and text, so there is no proof that we’ve been in touch. I picture the Asshole, smug, assuming everyone is on his side.
They’re not.
He deserves every bit of the shitstorm that is about to come his way.
11
James
James’s best friend and civil litigator lawyer, Evan Soderberg, showed up at three p.m. and James walked him through the events of the day so far, starting with last night. Evan’s face crumpled when James told him the details of Tessa’s disappearance. He’d only met her a handful of times, but James knew he liked her.
Everyone liked Tessa. Even Evan’s parents. There was nothing not to like.
James grabbed two beers out of the refrigerator and set them down on the counter. At the kitchen table, Evan readjusted his glasses and let out a sigh. “I think you’re going to need a criminal defense attorney.”
“What?” James said. “I haven’t been charged with anything. I had nothing to do with this!”
If she ran, James knew why. But she wouldn’t run over something as silly as him “pointing” a gun at her.
Evan raised an eyebrow. “You know the husband is always the first suspect.”
“Suspect? They haven’t found a body, Evan. I don’t even want to think about that. Right now, she’s just—missing.”
“But there’s foul play involved. I’d bet my last paintbrush that they’re looking into you and everything about you.” Evan did watercolor paintings as a side hobby and took his brushes very seriously. “Interviewing everyone you know. Trying to build a case. You better be squeaky clean, bro.”
James knew what he meant, but was anyone squeaky clean? The doorbell rang again, Candy barked again, and James had already resigned to not answering the door. It was reporters. One after the other. All damn day. His exhilaration hearing the bell, thinking it was Solomon with information on Tessa, was replaced with him wanting to rip the damn thing out of the wall.
“You’ve got to help me prepare what to say.”
Evan took his glasses off and let them hit the glass table with a clank. He pinched the top of his nose, then rub
bed his thick beard. “Just be honest.”
Easier said than done.
When five P.M. rolled around, James was showered and dressed and ready for the throngs of reporters outside his door. He wore tan slacks and a navy-blue V-neck sweater with a white collared shirt underneath. Respectable. An everyman. A loving husband with a missing wife.
He’d memorized his statement that Evan prepared, but still had it on a folded piece of paper in his hand. He didn’t want to reference it—it showed nervousness—but he needed it just in case he fumbled his words.
“You ready?” Evan asked.
With a deep breath, James opened his front door and immediately camera flashes went off in his face like an Alabama thunderstorm. People all talked at once, pointing microphones and cell phones and cameras toward him.
Evan stepped in front of him and put up his right hand, indicating he was about to speak.
“I’m Evan Soderberg, a close friend and attorney. I’ve advised my client to give a statement. There will be no questions answered.” He looked at James and nodded. “Go ahead.”
James had the speech in his left hand but didn’t open it. Instead, he cleared his throat and waited for silence. When he got it, he started.
“My name is James Montgomery. Yesterday, sometime before nine P.M., my wife, Tessa Smyth, went missing. I had an event with clients after work, and when I got home, there was broken glass in my kitchen and blood on the floor. Tessa’s personal belongings were still in the house. I immediately called the Valley Lake PD, who came to investigate with a forensics unit. So far, we have no idea of her whereabouts.”
He paused and people started shouting questions at him, which Evan told him to ignore, and then he continued.
“My wife Tessa is a beautiful person inside and out.” He produced his favorite wedding picture, the one of them staring into each other’s eyes and held it toward the cameras. “If anyone has seen her, please, contact the police department immediately. If anyone has her”—his voice cracked in his throat—“I’m begging you for her safe return. The Valley Lake PD has been nothing short of amazing, and I have full confidence in them to find out what happened to her, and I expect her safe return.”
They knew when his speech was over because Evan clapped a hand on James’s right shoulder, and James’s posture relaxed. Over and out. His right hand was on the doorknob when, of course, everyone started talking over each other.
“Did you have problems in your marriage?”
“Can anyone corroborate where you were last night?”
“Did you notify Tessa’s family?”
“Do the police think she was kidnapped?”
“Have you been contacted for ransom?”
He ignored them all—Evan said not to answer any questions. But of course that grating voice that Carina Killhorn had spoke volumes above everyone else.
“I heard you had blood on your shirt last night. Did you kill your wife, Mr. Montgomery?”
The other questions were docile in nature, for the most part, but this was out of line. Where did she hear that about the blood? Who opened their mouth? Despite being told not to talk, James whipped around, furious. “No, Ms. Killhorn, I didn’t kill my wife. Why would you say such a thing?” He was mad, a vein protruding in his forehead, as Evan tried to guide him back inside. Everyone’s eyes were now trained on James, a murderer as far as they were all concerned. He couldn’t have that. James shoved Evan off him and looked directly at Carina. “You want to be good at your job? Go find my wife.”
The crowd didn’t like that—boos and hisses and general disgruntled moans escaped from their mouths—and the questions kept coming. More like the accusations. He’d screwed up. He should’ve just kept to the prepared speech. Emotions were good; losing control was not.
Emotions—he just remembered that Evan had told him to cry if he was able. He forgot.
But then it hit him like a freight train. He was being accused of murder. Murder.
Tears fell on his face as he was being guided inside, but it was too little too late. His little outburst was going to be everywhere.
Evan slammed the door shut behind them. “Well, that didn’t exactly go as planned. What were you thinking?”
James’s heart was beating fast, thump thump thump. Dizzy, he placed his hands on his knees and blew out a long breath.
“Sorry, man. I don’t like being accused of being a murderer. You understand?”
Evan gave him a half smile, dejected, and pat him on the back again. “You want to grab dinner somewhere?”
Evan was James’s age and still single, though he did well with the ladies. They liked his intellect, his soft side, and the hipster-meets-Wall-Street vibe he gave off. He looked like a liberal college professor with the beard and the glasses, but wore a tie most days, even if not the full suit. His schedule was always his own.
“Nah, man. Thanks. I can’t go out right now. I’m afraid to even order in. I don’t want to answer the door.” James shrugged. “I don’t even know if we have food here. Tessa did all the cooking.”
Tessa did everything. Based on what little he did know about his wife, she was always left to fend for herself growing up in the system, which always gave her a mom complex. She didn’t seem to want children, but she knew how to take care of a man. Cooking. Cleaning. Laundry. Errands. Food shopping. Dry cleaner’s. Bail.
She’d mentioned overcompensating when she was beaten in the past. She couldn’t get herself away from abusive men, no matter how hard she’d tried. She always said she was a magnet for men with nefarious motives, and she couldn’t break the cycle. It was like everyone sniffed it out on her and took advantage from the jump.
Evan looked out the window, and people still hovered. “Once this dies down, I’ll run out. Grab a pizza or something from Gianni’s and bring it back here. You’ve still got beer, right?” He smiled.
James said yes, then washed out the mugs and put them in the freezer.
12
James
James woke Saturday morning sprawled on the couch, Candy on the floor next to him. He turned over to stretch, his bones and muscles creaking and cracking, especially his neck. The throw pillows that Tessa had picked out were more for style than for comfort. He tossed the fluffy blanket to the side, another thing more for style as he’d shivered half the night. Candy woke and stuffed her wet nose onto his face for morning kisses.
Last night was as good as it could be, considering the situation he was in. After Evan got back with the Italian food, he widened his eyes and nodded toward the front door. There were still people there. Watching. Waiting. James hit the scotch after that. He remembered pizza and some sort of pasta dish with a creamy white sauce, but not much else. Evan must’ve let himself out.
James rose and fed Candy first, then let her out in the yard while he tried to find his phone. Where did he put that damn thing? In the kitchen, he searched the counter where Tessa’s phone was plugged into the charger before he gave it to the cops to scan, and his wasn’t there. He patted himself down, as if it was on his person, but he was wearing sweatpants and a long-sleeve T-shirt, neither of which had pockets. Heading to the dining room, he saw it on the bar cart, right next to the scotch. Of course.
When he pressed the home button, there were too many text messages to count, a lot from numbers he didn’t recognize, asking for comments. Fucking social media. Anyone could find out anything about anyone these days. There were also a ton of missed phone calls, but he didn’t bother scrolling through the list—he rarely used the phone to talk anyway. He scrolled through the texts until he found Evan’s, one saying he covered a drunken James with the blanket and locked the door behind him. What a good friend.
Then there was a text from his mother.
Honey, Dad and I just got a call from someone named Carina Killhorn. We’ve been calling and calling! Is something going on? She said you murdered Tessa! Where are you?
Fucking Carina, that damn climber.
James’s parents had retired to Florida about a year earlier, which fit, since they were in their sixties but acted like they were in their eighties. Five-cent coupons. Dinner at four P.M. They’d lived in the same area, less than a half hour from where James was now, their whole lives. His mother worked as a real estate assistant and retired at fifty because of her first cancer scare, which went on for ten years of cancer scares and two rounds of chemo, but there hadn’t been a thing on her scans for the last five years, thankfully. His father worked right up until sixty-seven and a half. Worked on parts for a local military base for their machinery. Not the bombs and the tanks, but the machines that made them.
They’d never met Tessa. James planned to bring her down to Florida for Thanksgiving.
Now what was he supposed to say?
James’s gut was wrecked as he thought about his parents having to deal with this shit. Especially after their first son, Tommy, his beloved older brother, died right before James was about to graduate from high school.
The eggs he burned didn’t settle the butterflies in his stomach, and the sponge he used to clean didn’t get the rot off the bottom of the pan. How did Tessa know what to do every time? He began to realize he was almost helpless without her, after only a few months. Maybe she was even better than he gave her credit for. He finally decided to pick up the phone to call his parents.
In the office, he picked up the cordless phone from the charger and pressed the green button and waited for the hum. His parents’ number and Tessa’s number were the only ones he knew by heart and was able to dial without looking them up in his cell phone. He dialed and while the phone line normally trilled for at least four rings, this time his mother picked up immediately.
Finding Tessa Page 7