Tish jumps forward at this—the chance this latest revelation could direct any heat away from Jacob. “What do you know about it? Do they think Monica could have done something to hurt Sabine?”
“I don’t know what the letter says word for word, but it’s bad enough that she’s been at the police station for the last three hours.”
“How long ago did she write the letter?” Tish asks. “If it was recent, that would be pretty telling, wouldn’t it? She could have planned something. She could be behind this whole thing.”
Amanda gives her a curious look. She notes the excitement in Tish’s voice—or the desperation.
“Monica is a piece of work, don’t get me wrong,” Amanda says. “We would never be friends. I’ve never understood how Sabine or Carol can tolerate her either, she’s a total snob. But the woman was at the pool the entire time, same as you. Waiting on the fireworks.”
Tish doesn’t give up. “But there’s a chance she could have done something? Maybe she’s working with someone else. They planned it.”
Amanda nods. “The rumor mill is going rampant right now. Monica. Jacob Andrews.”
Tish flinches. “Why do people keep thinking Jacob would do this? Risk doing something so brazen? Especially when a lot of eyes are on him during this election year. It makes no sense.”
“You’ve seen it on Facebook,” Amanda says. “A bunch of people have their theories.”
“But why?” Tish asks, straining her voice. “There’s a threatening letter from Monica saying God knows what. And now Sabine is missing. How much more proof could people want?” She smacks her hands on the table, a flush blooming across her cheeks.
Amanda gives her a worried look. “You okay?”
She presses her hands together to calm herself before throwing a worried glance at her son, who remains on the couch watching cartoons, blissfully unaware of his mother’s reaction. She returns her eyes to Amanda. “I have to tell you something—”
But Amanda cuts her off. “I already know.”
“What do you mean? What do you…” Her voice trails. “About me?”
Amanda walks to the table and pulls out a chair to face Tish directly. “There’s a lot about this case I probably shouldn’t know, things I haven’t told you both. Stuff that I’m gleaning from my colleagues. But yes,” she says to Tish, “I know about you and Jacob. About him being at your house. I found out just before I came here. In fact,” she says, “that’s a lot of the reason why I’m here.”
Tish lets out a gasp.
“Wait.” I hold up my hand. “How do you know about Tish? The cops haven’t called her in yet.”
“I’m friends with an assistant at the attorney’s office. Jacob’s attorney.” She takes stock of our startled faces and says, “I know, it’s bad—attorney-client confidentiality and all that. But she knows we’re good friends and wanted to give me the heads-up. I’m giving you the heads-up too.”
Tish is turning white as a ghost. “So the police are going to want to talk to me any minute? I thought maybe Jacob had bought me some time, that he’d found a way to protect me.”
“He did. For a little while, at least. The police know it’s a girlfriend and that’s all they’ve been told, but Jacob’s attorney is going to have to provide your name soon. They’ll need to ask you a few questions just to verify that, yes, Jacob was at your house. That, yes, he sent you those pictures. That, as far as you know, he was at your house the entire time. Those text messages and time stamps have given him enough of an alibi for them to back off for now. You’ll just need to verify.”
“He has an alibi,” Tish says. “So why do people still think he did it? Monica’s letter sounds damning as all hell. A direct threat. Why would anyone think he could be the one?”
“The cops let him go, remember?” Amanda says. “Monica’s the one being questioned right now but…” She looks away. “It doesn’t explain some of his unusual behavior. A black Buick that’s seen driving near the Millers’ home last night. The same car Jacob rented yesterday afternoon before visiting your house. With cash,” Amanda says, “so he could come over to your house without being detected. That doesn’t look good either.”
I wonder if Amanda also knows about the mustache he wore as a disguise—and she must. The assistant at the attorney’s office may have divulged that information too. I squirm where I stand, hating the amount of information that is leaking from this case. It’s unbelievable, not just to Amanda but even the people in that Facebook group. The ones that already knew about Monica’s letter.
Amanda stares quizzically at Tish. “Do you know what he was doing? Do you know why Jacob was driving down their street?”
But Tish insists, “It doesn’t have to be him.”
“Did he say anything to you before you left to go to the pool? Did he say he was going anywhere else?”
She shakes her head. “No. With his text messages, I just assumed he was at my house the entire time. There’s no reason why he would leave and come back.”
“Was he checking on them or something?”
“Who? The Millers?”
“I don’t know. I guess.”
“Why would he do something like that? What reason would he have?” Tish chews the inside of her lip. “And it’s killing me because he won’t answer my calls. I want to ask him, but he told me to delete his messages. I haven’t been able to talk to him about any of it.”
“I’m sure his attorney is helping him develop a story—”
“It won’t be a story,” Tish snaps. “It’s not him. Or maybe it is him, but he just went for a drive or something.” But by the way her voice is trailing I know she’s struggling. “Will the assistant at the attorney’s office tell you more? When she hears of anything, will she call you?”
“I don’t know. It’s pretty dicey that she told me your name in the first place.”
“She could get fired.” I speak up, and Amanda glares at us both.
“That’s why we’re not going to say anything about her, okay?” she says firmly. “She told me to help you. I’m here to help you, you got it?”
Tish nods slowly.
“If Jacob is innocent, Monica’s letter is what will get him off the hook for good. She may have hurt the woman,” Amanda adds.
Tish nods again but she doesn’t say anything more. She picks at spaghetti sauce that has spilled from one of the kids’ plates, a blob of red that is hardening on the table, her finger picking up speed until she scrapes at it violently.
And the guilt is rising in me too. What I heard Mark and Monica talk about at the pool. The bracelet that’s tucked away in my bathroom. There is so much information coming out, and yet, I’m keeping a lot of things quiet. Several details I’m holding close to my chest.
But I know I need to talk to the police. I’ll need to talk to them very soon.
A statement is released from Mark Miller’s camp this evening.
“Due to a phone conversation between Mark Miller and Jacob Andrews which Mr. Miller considered to be hostile in nature, Mr. Miller, in an emotional and panicked state once he discovered his wife was missing, believed the car he saw on his way home was a Tesla belonging to Jacob Andrews. The threatening phone call in question occurred the night before Sabine Miller went missing.
“Mark Miller has now retracted his statement about the vehicle. However, police are investigating a black Buick LaCrosse that was spotted. Police are also following additional leads at this time. Anyone with information is strongly encouraged to contact the missing persons tip line set up with the Huntsville Police Department.”
I drop my phone, my blood running cold.
Eighteen
Amanda says she’s leaving to go home and shower. She won’t be joining the search tomorrow since she’ll be at work.
“What about you two?” she asks.
“I’ll call in sick. With the kids at Derek’s, I can help with the search in the morning.”
She turns to Tish. “Are you
thinking about lying low for a few days?”
“I can’t imagine being at the office.” She glances at me. “I’ll send a note and call in sick too. Charlie can take a break from summer camp. We need to get through the next few days somehow.” She places her hands on the table and pushes to a standing position. “But we’re going home, Erica. Thank you for having us for so long but we should go.”
“You don’t have to leave. Stay here as long as you need to.”
She casts me an appreciative look. “I should get Charlie back to his room and his things… that will be best.” She sighs at the sight of Charlie with his head sunk lower, his legs scooped beneath him as he watches cartoons.
“If the police contact you, call me,” I tell her. “I’ll come over and watch Charlie. Or I can bring him here if I need to.”
“Thanks.” Tears form in her eyes and she blinks them away.
Amanda stands too. “If I hear anything else, I’ll let you know.” She puts a hand on Tish’s back and pulls her in for a hug. I do the same.
“We’re here for you,” Amanda tells her.
“We’ve got you,” I whisper too.
Tish falters a little in my arms. Her body trembles and I’m starting to reconsider, thinking maybe it’s not the best thing for her to be going home alone after all. But she eventually pulls away and insists on putting on a brave face—and with a start, I realize, I’ve seen that look before. The same resolve Sabine Miller had when she turned away from the pool. These brave women who are trying to power through everything.
I stand at the garage door and watch them go, their cars pulling out of the drive as Charlie waves goodbye from the backseat. Tish waves goodbye too when my phone dings. I look down and my heart does a double beat. It’s Terry—he must finally be home from his work trip.
You doing okay?
I’m relieved to hear from him. An entire weekend isn’t going to pass without us talking to one another.
I’m okay, I respond. How about you?
I just heard the news. Any sign of her yet?
No, not yet.
It’s so close to your home.
There is so much to say in response to this, but I don’t know where to start. I don’t know how much I can say either, the last twenty-four hours being unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. The disappearance of Sabine Miller and surrounding circumstances—hell, one of the suspects—hitting way too close to my circle of friends.
It’s very close, I tell him.
Are the kids scared? I hope they’re all right.
They’re worried, especially Lydia. But they’ve gone back to Derek’s.
I add: Do you want to get together this week? It would be nice to see you.
A pause. He doesn’t respond right away and an irritated pang hits the back of my throat. Why is he taking so long to answer? Does he have to think it over?
Relax, I tell myself. He’s probably checking his calendar and wants to make sure he’s not booked. He’s been traveling a lot these last few months, he told me, his job taking him to countless sales meetings and conferences.
Waiting for him to agree feels like an eternity when in reality it’s more like twenty seconds. But in a new relationship where nothing is locked in, firm or steady, any hesitation can shake my insecurity about dating. It makes me wonder if we’ll see each other again, if he’s really that interested. If I should have asked him out in the first place.
A message appears.
Sorry about that. A package delivery at my door.
Another text and the pang in my throat subsides.
Sure, he says. How about tomorrow? Lunch. I’m pretty slammed this week.
Lunch? Okay, so I was hoping for dinner, but lunch will work too. Maybe his calendar will free up more this weekend.
Sounds good.
Terry writes:
I’ve got a meeting on Hwy 72. Can you drive that way to meet?
I’m about to ask him where when I already know what’s on his mind.
How about 11:30 at that bar & grill on West Elm? he asks.
West Elm, the same place we met the last time, except it was a Thursday night and I beat him in darts. The grill is about a thirty-minute drive from here.
You sure have a lot of meetings in Scottsboro, I tell him.
Sorry about that.
Next time, some place closer, okay? And I get to pick the place.
He sends me a smiley face emoji.
Sure thing. Have a good night, Erica.
He adds: I sure hope they find that woman.
On Monday morning, a text from Amanda tells me the search in Green Cove is halted for now and I don’t need to meet up. She’s on her way to city hall and was told the sheriff’s department is no longer organizing neighborhood groups but are expanding their search with additional police precincts and FBI agents. It’s been nearly thirty-six hours and with no sign of her body or her safe recovery in Green Cove, they have reason to believe she’s been taken elsewhere.
Overnight, it’s also been confirmed that Jacob Andrews was driving a black Buick LaCrosse when he was initially called in by the police, that he did in fact leave his Tesla at home as his wife confirmed, but the car he was driving on Saturday may not be the same vehicle that was seen traveling down Honors Row. The license plates for the vehicles don’t match up. Police are now trying to track down the owner of the other Buick.
But, Amanda reminds me, anyone can switch license plates. It could take a person five minutes, which means Jacob isn’t in the clear yet.
I know we shouldn’t be saying that about Tish’s boyfriend but… and she doesn’t finish the rest of her message.
Amanda adds:
Also, Monica needs to be sweating right now. I found out what she wrote in her letter.
I bolt straight up.
You’ve seen it?
No way. That’s police evidence.
I raise my eyebrows. Well, to be fair, Amanda, you’ve gotten ahold of a lot of other information you shouldn’t have been privy to…
They got in a huge fight, Amanda texts.
Some dinner party at the Miller house Friday night. Everybody got way too drunk and Sabine accused Monica of having an affair.
With Mark?!
Monica says someone else.
Does anyone believe that?
Not sure yet. Didn’t know they used to date before.
I think about the revelation made in that Facebook group.
Me either.
According to the cops Monica said they were yelling at each other and it got super-heated. She was emotional and said things she shouldn’t have. Sabine too. Monica’s husband got upset. Carol was yelling. Sounds like a complete shitshow.
So what about the letter? I ask.
It happened Friday night. The same night they got spooked. Before Sabine went missing.
I think about the statement Mark’s camp released about Jacob making a threatening phone call the night before.
Monica admits she wrote it in a drunken rage. Scribbled it on a piece of paper and threw it on the floor. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. She regrets it. Doesn’t want anything bad to happen to Sabine.
Her letter said: I hate you. I wish you would die.
I hope your life ends the way you said it would. And we’ll never see you anymore.
Dear God.
Reading this, it takes me a moment to catch my breath. The anger from Monica, so visceral. Her threat, so cut-throat.
Amanda is sending this to me by line-by-line as a text, but I can only imagine the dramatic ink-to-paper fashion in which Monica wrote it. Drunk. Wailing. Tears streaming down her face—or maybe no tears—only pure rage, her eyes turning as dark as her black hair. Leaning across the table, she must have clutched a pen and written these words in hard cutting lines across the page, the ink blotting, the jab of the i’s and slash of the t’s as she told Sabine exactly how she was feeling. Writing to her such horrible things I’m assuming she would wake in a few hou
rs to regret—if she regretted them.
What’s crazy is the letter was written Friday night, but by Saturday afternoon, Monica, Carol, and Sabine were at the pool together, laughing and talking and watching their children swim. Even if Sabine had never found the letter—say, after the last dinner guest left, Sabine went to sleep and never saw it on the floor, Mark never picked it up either, the letter swept into a corner of the room or drifting beneath a table—there had still had been a vicious fight between those two. An accusation made by Sabine. Monica either lying through her teeth or defending herself in front of her husband.
Carol would have been present, her husband, Monica’s husband, and Mark too. They would have witnessed the argument. Mark would have already been on edge after the phone call he said he had with Jacob. He would have seen how upset his wife was after fighting with her friend.
How did Monica and Sabine go from screaming at each other to sitting poolside and sharing wine spritzers twelve hours later? How in the world does something like that happen?
But a new message flashes across my phone and I can’t answer Amanda anymore. I’m sprinting from my bed.
It’s Tish.
I need you. The cops were here.
Nineteen
It takes me less than a minute before I’m leaping into my car and racing to Tish’s house. She doesn’t live far, and the only stop sign between my house and hers, I blow right through. It’s still early; most people are either asleep or at work so I don’t have to slow down behind anyone else. There’s one jogger and he steps out of the way as my car careens around the corner.
Tish’s street is laid out just like mine: cookie-cutter-style houses with arched windows and bleached-white sidewalks. But something I haven’t paid much attention to before: the location of Tish’s house. She lives at the far end of the street. The very last house. No cul-de-sac but a dead end.
The Missing Woman: Utterly gripping psychological suspense with heart-thumping twists Page 11