The Missing Woman: Utterly gripping psychological suspense with heart-thumping twists

by Georgina Cross

  I look toward the hill. She’ll be joining the countless neighbors and police officers who are already combing the woods and searching the grounds behind the Millers’ home, their flashlights cutting this way and that, shining wide bands of light against the trees. The police will be trying to keep up with their search dogs, their howling and urgent tugging at leashes pulling the officers forward.

  I prick my ears and listen for anything that resembles the search—any shouts for Sabine or barks from search dogs. Will their noises carry through the woods to where we’re standing now? Will we hear repeated calls for Sabine with repeated pleas for her to answer?

  Sabine! Where are you? One voice, and then another. Ten more. A whole mob shouting one on top of the other, their voices rising as a different search group calls from one street over. Updates blaring in from police walkie-talkies. Everyone’s voices getting louder, their pitches higher. Then, strained. Exhaustion sinking in with each passing minute. The hours tumbling by.

  But an adrenaline boost. The screech of a bullhorn, the blow of a whistle, or a cop busting a U-turn in the middle of the street. A tip coming in—Have they heard anything? Do they know something? More patrol cars racing down the street.

  In the distance, the sound of something—a police siren? But no, they’re too far off. I’m only imagining things as the police won’t have made it to this end of Green Cove yet. For now, only the sounds of my air conditioning unit and every one of my neighbors’ air conditioning units buzzing loudly around me, each machine revving a constant hum. The rattle and click as another one turns on. The deep ribbit of a bullfrog. The tic-tic-fizz of a sprinkler that someone’s forgotten to turn off. Crickets. And the steady pounding of my heart.

  I stare at the woods in the distance. Once they fan out from the Millers’ home, will the search team spread through the cluster of trees next, the grove thinning out before they find themselves on the flattened turf of the golf course? Another row of houses around the corner?

  I wonder when they’ll make it across that hill. Will they carry long sticks and poke at the grass, checking every square inch? Will the police hand out whistles in case they spot something?

  I hope Amanda has taken the lantern I gave her. She can shine a thirty-foot wall of light around her in every direction so she won’t trip over anything. Most of all, so she doesn’t get scared.

  Like she said, they’ll be checking each drain, every pond, and moving from one cul-de-sac to the next, searching through playgrounds and gazebos too. I assume they’ll look for pieces of clothing—she was wearing a white bathing suit coverup, I remember that now. I see her standing at the pool: a white coverup with her hair pulled into a ponytail. Several bangles on her arm.

  One of her bracelets that’s shoved in my bag.

  My gaze rips toward the hill. Somewhere on the other side, the search team will keep their eyes pinned down. Looking to see if she dropped anything, if anything was torn from her body—more proof she’d been chased and there had been a struggle. As she ran for her life, heart in throat, breath gasping in shocked, rattled waves, her lungs desperate for air, would she have experienced a fear so sharp and painful, would it have felt as if her chest was being sliced open, a hot searing burn until she was terrified her lungs would burst and she didn’t know if she could take it anymore?

  Or would she have been debilitated with fear? After sprinting from her house, bleeding and shaken, did she succumb and buckle behind a tree, eventually giving herself away with a muffled sob, a hiccup of breath, until they found her and struck her down? Did they haul her somewhere and hope she would never be found?

  Will they find her blonde hair, pulled from the roots, wispy and left clinging to a branch and find blood on the ground too? A handprint across a tree trunk. Or a bloody smear. Another splattering of drops against the leaves.

  I shudder with another horrifying thought—or will they stumble upon her actual body? Will they realize she’s gravely hurt… or worse… that she’s dead?

  Whoever chased her, there’s a chance they may have dropped something too. Something torn from them in the process, a valiant fight from Sabine where she could have ripped a piece of their shirt or pulled off one of their gloves. Shoeprints could be left behind in the dirt—a rapid chase. Or crushed branches and broken limbs where the assailant plowed through the woods, not slowing down until they caught up with her.

  My arms tighten around my shoulders. I know I’m freaking myself out. My mind is racing, my brain in overdrive just like Amanda’s was earlier; I’m letting my thoughts consume me. I’ve got to take a deep breath to keep my hands from trembling.

  A dog barks, and I jump. But it’s the neighbor’s dog and a single bark, not like one that would come from a pack of search hounds. Get a grip, Erica.

  In the sky, a bright light. A crack and a discernible pop, a green sizzle followed by a blast of white, its embers showering down to earth.

  For a second, I think it could be a police flare—they’ve found something—and I hold my breath. But it’s not. A bottle rocket pops next accompanied by muffled laughter in the distance, maybe two streets over, and it’s unsettling. The idea a group of teenagers are lighting fireworks and having fun, their attempt at clinging to their July Fourth celebration, while for everyone else the evening has turned into a nightmare.

  Somewhere, a door slams and the fireworks stop.

  I look up again, and for the first time notice the near full moon. Another two or three days before the moon will wax full, and for tonight, plenty of light to cast a glow against the hillside. That same light helping to illuminate the woods of Green Cove too.

  The neighbor’s dog barks again and I wish they’d bring it inside. Its low howl ratchets my nerves until I’m squeezing my shoulders again.

  Standing beside me, Tish is grinding her teeth, her thoughts clearly churning in the same jittery ways as mine. She stares in the direction of a bottle rocket but doesn’t say a word.

  Finally, she says quietly, “It can’t be Jacob Andrews.”

  I remain looking ahead.

  “People can’t possibly think he’s behind this.”

  “It would be insane, wouldn’t it? The end of his career.”

  She takes my arm. “I’m telling you, it can’t be him.”

  Surprised, I turn to her. “Tish?”

  “Jacob Andrews,” she says, not letting go of my arm. “I know he didn’t hurt Sabine.”

  The hair rises on the back of my neck. “And you know this because?”

  “Because I was with him today. I’m telling you right now, he would never do this.”

  Six

  I rock back on my heels. “You were with Jacob Andrews? Today?” I sound incredulous and don’t mean to and a furious look flashes across her face.

  “He was at my house.”

  “What would Jacob Andrews be doing at your house?”

  “Remember I told you about my dishwasher. The leak—”

  “A leak?” A nervous laugh escapes from my mouth. “You mean to tell me Jacob Andrews was fixing your dishwasher? Are we talking about the same guy here?” The guy running for county commissioner?

  “He was at my house,” she repeats.

  I stare at Tish, my best friend who tells me everything—who I thought tells me everything—and wait for her to say something else. That she’s confused. It’s the wrong man. The wrong Jacob Andrews, entirely. It’s another guy from across town and not the one running for county commissioner. Not the man with the controversial business deals. Not the one people are gossiping about and accusing of going after the Millers.

  Not someone who would be fixing Tish’s dishwasher.

  “We’re seeing each other,” she says.

  And my mouth drops open.

  I choke back on another laugh but only because I don’t know what else to do, my stunned nerves making my eyes bounce up and down and all over the place until I’m forcing myself to settle down and search her face. Her jaw is set and no longer
grinding, her eyes locked on mine.

  “I was going to tell you,” she says.

  “When? For how long? Why?”

  “What do you mean why?”

  “Tish! Isn’t he still married?”

  Her eyes shoot down. “They’re getting a divorce. Once the election is over.”

  “So he’s hiding this from his wife?”

  “She knows.”

  “She knows about you?”

  “Not me specifically, but she knows the marriage is over.”

  I stare at her, dumbfounded, when what I really want to do is grab hold of her shoulders and shake her. “But it’s not final until the divorce goes through… Tish!”

  She sucks in her cheeks, her eyes cutting left and right. No one else is outside, it’s only the two of us at the end of my drive, but the warning look on her face tells me to lower my voice.

  “Tish, you can’t have an affair with a married man. Especially not someone who’s running for office.”

  Her eyes drop again. “Believe me, I’ve been battling with this.”

  “So no one else knows?”

  She lifts her gaze. “No one.”

  “And he’s not filing for divorce until after the election is over?”

  “It would be bad for his ratings.”

  I cut her a look. “Isn’t getting caught having a girlfriend on the side bad too? Wouldn’t that be enough to crush his election chances? My God, Tish.”

  I shake my hands, but once again fall short of grabbing her by the shoulders. Another part of me is so frightened—stunned—I fight the need to pull her into a hug and protect her.

  “What about the other guy?” I ask. “The one you’ve been seeing?”

  “We broke it off…” Her voice teeters. “I wanted to tell you. I’ve been wanting to tell you about Jacob for a long time.”

  Now it’s my turn to look hurt. “A long time?”

  “Since January.”

  January feels like eons ago. Seven months that she’s been hiding this from me.

  “The event at the Davidson Center. We started talking. Mostly about the election and then we ran into each other again. We started emailing. We met up. It just… it sort of happened, you know?” She looks at me. Her voice has risen; she’s imploring. But she’s also talking excitedly—excited to finally be telling me about her new boyfriend—my teeth setting on edge at the realization it’s Jacob Andrews. I try easing the shock out of my face.

  “He’s nice, Erica. Really. You’d like him. I don’t think people give him enough credit. There’s so much he wants to do. So much he’s already accomplished. I really think you’d enjoy getting to know him.”

  I don’t buy it. I’m trying so hard, I love Tish so much, but this is difficult.

  “If he’s so great, then why are people saying he’d go after the Millers?” I ask. “What does that say about the man?”

  “They don’t know him like I do.”

  “No one trusts him.”

  “They’re wrong.”

  “He’s cheating on his wife,” I remind her. “He’s already a scumbag.”

  She makes a face. Her anger flashes, but this time, it’s combined with disgust. She spins on her heel and heads for the garage. “I thought you’d understand.” Her words come out a muffled sob, the emotions rising in her throat as she marches toward the house.

  “Wait,” I say, calling after her, and run to hook her elbow with my hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

  Tish stood by me when I went through my divorce, just as I did for her. But she knows how much Derek hurt me—how his affair and repeated cheating blew my marriage up in my face. And now she’s doing the one thing I absolutely despise.

  She doesn’t meet my eyes at first, her face ashamed and hurt.

  But I also apologize. “I’m sorry,” I say again. “You caught me by surprise… I wasn’t expecting this.”

  Her chin trembles. She doesn’t speak for the longest time. Finally, she looks up, thin blonde eyelashes disappearing against her pale skin. Tears forming, her eyes shining like wet glass.

  “I’m scared, Erica. He has nothing to do with this. I know it.”

  I rub her gently on the arm and sigh. “Okay, tell me what happened. Tell me about today.”

  She steadies herself. “He came over. He was helping me in the kitchen. You called about the kids wanting to go to the pool and I’d already promised Charlie about the fireworks. Charlie thinks he’s just a friend so Jacob stayed behind. He offered to finish up the dishwasher. It was so nice of him—”

  “But that was hours before Sabine went missing.”

  “He stayed until past eight.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He kept sending pictures. Progress of how he was doing.”

  I remember this now, sitting by the pool, the way Tish kept glancing at her phone, periodically typing responses. I thought she’d been catching up on work or checking Instagram. No clue she was checking in with her boyfriend.

  “He sent me pictures so I could see how it was coming together. See?” She holds up her phone.

  A series of text messages fill her screen. One picture after another. A man with dark hair. A blue baseball cap and white T-shirt. Dark brown eyes. The abbreviated smile.

  The face of Jacob Andrews—but something’s different.

  “What’s with the mustache?”

  She cringes. “It’s his way of disguising himself when he comes over.”

  I let out my breath. “Oh my God, Tish.”

  “I know, it’s crazy. His idea,” she adds, as if that makes it any better. “He uses a different car when he comes over too. It’s a precaution,” she assures me.

  “This is so bad…”

  But she continues scrolling through pictures.

  There’s Jacob Andrews, smiling and giving a thumbs-up while holding a wrench and some kind of rubber tubing. In another, he’s pointing to a part number. In another, a close-up of where he’s pulled the dishwasher out of the wall, pipes and wires and plastic molding showing in the cavernous space behind the counter.

  I look closely. The checkered tile floor that is unmistakably Tish’s kitchen. The blue dish towel with the rooster design I gave her last Christmas. The half-drunk bottle of wine we left beside the sink two nights ago—a bottle of pinot noir I brought over for her. The wine, one of her favorites.

  Did she share a glass with him?

  Tish’s kitchen. The dish towel on the counter. Jacob Andrews at her house.

  Evidence he was there and not somewhere else. Not breaking into the Millers’ home. Not hurting Sabine. An alibi like Amanda said he would be needing.

  But I can’t get past the ridiculous mustache. The wave of anger that he would disguise himself and drive a different car so he can sneak over to another woman’s house. His various ploys so he won’t get caught.

  The thoughts and fears and implications weigh heavily inside my head. Shock and outrage too. What has Tish gotten herself caught up in?

  “You see,” she says, swiping to another photo. “He was there for hours.”

  She points to the gray light that is falling outside her window, the dusk that is coming. In another selfie, Jacob is standing in front of the dishwasher, parts and pieces and wires finally put away, a satisfied look on his face as the project appears completed, the dishwasher repaired. The sky behind him turning dark.

  Jacob Andrews was alone in her house while on the other side of the neighborhood, fireworks rocketed into the sky. And I sat, unknowingly, beside Tish and our kids.

  Who knew the man could be so handy?

  Who knew he’d been sleeping with my best friend?

  “He was there past the time they said Sabine went home,” Tish insists. “Past the time Mark called the police.”

  She points at the read receipts.

  6:43 p.m.

  7:15 p.m.

  7:42 p.m.

  If the Facebook post was right, he was texting Tish while the world
was falling down around Sabine.

  “He was texting when the fireworks started too.”

  8:15 p.m.

  8:24 p.m.

  By that time, Mark was calling the police.

  “Don’t you see, it can’t be Jacob. He was there the entire time.”

  “Does he know what people are saying? About him? The accusations?”

  “Yes. I hated it but I sent him screenshots of the Facebook group.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He’s upset. Outraged. Worried.”

  “Worried because his alibi is at your house?”

  Tish shoots me another look. “Yes, of course. But also that people are saying those things. That they would even conceive he could do something like this. Those are potential voters.”

  “Doesn’t sound like they’re voting for him.” As soon as the words come out, I bite my lip.

  “Erica, please try to understand. Please try to be on my side.”

  “I am on your side. More than anything in the world. But this is freaking me out.”

  “I had to tell you. After what Amanda said. After what those people were saying online, I had to tell you. Show you.” She shakes her phone.

  I nod but my head is swimming. The message thread is blaring white hot in her hands.

  “I’m so worried they’re going to go after him,” she says. “The wrong person. They won’t know.”

  “Maybe the police won’t ask.”

  “If people are posting things like this on Facebook, private group or not, the cops will find out. He’ll be one of the people they consider anyway, don’t you think? He’s Mark’s opponent.”

  “Will he tell them about you?” I ask. “The messages sent from your house. That’s proof. Time stamps and all.”

  The look on her face sickens. “But it will get out about us.”

  “It’s a hell of a lot better than being suspected of the disappearance of his opponent’s wife, don’t you think?”

  Her eyes pinch again.

  I glance at the house, the fact we’ve been standing out here long enough and should be going back inside. The kids will be wondering where we are.