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

by Georgina Cross

  “But years later you end up in the same neighborhood and you don’t even acknowledge each other? I’ve seen you walk right past her. We’ll be at the grocery store and she’ll move right past us too. You don’t act like you’re upset, or she’s upset, or there’s anything wrong. You act like strangers. Except for…” And her eyes widen. “What happened that night at the event. The school auction. That’s the only time…” Her eyes search mine. “Is that what went down? A fight from high school and neither of you are over it and that’s why you got in each other’s faces?”

  I don’t answer.

  “The way you screamed at each other,” Tish remembers. “It was so out of left field. I didn’t understand before… but now…”

  I look away and lean forward, pressing my fingers to the bridge of my nose and pushing tight. A headache looms, my heart pounding with the memory.

  That charity event. The neighborhood clubhouse decorated with flickering golden lights and a jazz band that played in the corner. A fundraiser for the school where Tish talked excitedly about the silent auction. “They always have those fantastic gift baskets,” Tish said. “Maybe we can find something for the kids’ birthdays.”

  And she was right. The auction paired gift certificates for roller-skating parties and ice-cream cake. A party pack for kids’ bounce houses that also included pizza. Entire birthday packages ready to go with convenience and fun tucked inside cellophane-wrapped gift baskets. You just needed to be the winning bid to bring the prize home.

  And with Taylor’s birthday in less than two weeks, winning one of these would be a special treat. It would also ease my wallet.

  The night should have been simple. It shouldn’t have gone the way it did.

  Within minutes, I’d found the perfect party package: a children’s paint class complete with cupcakes where children could paint their own canvases. As a budding first-grade artist, Taylor would be over the moon.

  Adding my name to the bid sheet, I marked my first entry at $60.

  Tish called me over for another glass of wine, telling me about a petting zoo party for Charlie that she was almost positive she would win, joking that no one else seemed interested in the animals and wanted laser tag parties instead. I hoped the same for the painting class.

  But when I returned to the table, someone had outbid me at $100. They didn’t bother with the suggested increment of ten dollars but shot straight to a higher bid. This was a school fundraiser, but still. Who would do that?

  I stared hard at the name written on the page in cursive, looped letters: Sabine Miller.

  Why on earth would she be needing a child’s painting party?

  I glanced around and found her standing near the event organizer, laughing and sipping champagne. But when she burst out with raucous giggles a second later, it sounded odd. Reckless. Loud. She was half-drunk and didn’t seem to notice I was staring at her.

  Picking up the pen, I increased my entry by another twenty bucks.

  Amanda swooped by, asking me to check out a pair of earrings on the other side of the room. If she didn’t win, she had bid sheets marked for a spa day and shopping spree too. We reviewed the number of boutiques together, each shop boasting their latest fashions, when the bell rang marking the last five minutes of the auction.

  A scurry of activity ensued as people checked on their bids. Some were laughing and poking fun at one another, increasing their amounts and telling their neighbors to back off—friendly competition.

  But I was livid. In the time I’d stood with Amanda, it appeared Sabine had walked back to the table and entered $300, more than twice the original value of the painting party.

  Tossing back the rest of my wine, I glared at the numbers. It shouldn’t have bothered me. I know I shouldn’t have let her get under my skin… but she did.

  I was picking up the pen when the sound of her voice came up behind me—a voice that hadn’t been issued in my direction in years. “I really want to win that,” she said, her voice slurred. Husky. An intense orange scent wafting from her expensive Dior perfume.

  I halted—it was the first time we’d spoken since high school. And now here she was outbidding me for a kid’s birthday package.

  “I said, I really want to win that,” she repeated.

  I wrapped my fingers around the pen. How much could I put down? This was mad—it would be cheaper for me to book the party on my own, but then the money wouldn’t be a fundraiser for the school. But $300? How would I top that? Something told me Sabine would be marking over my next bid anyway. No restrictions to her unlimited credit card.

  After I found out she moved here, her address on Honors Row gave away her newfound life of luxury. It’s a far cry from how we grew up and now she could do whatever she wanted, including bidding on auction items as high as she fancied.

  I dropped the pen and faced her. Hazel eyes. Blonde hair pulled into an elegant twist. For the first time in years our eyes connected.

  But my anger subsided. Seeing her. Being this close.

  A memory hit me of the two of us side by side at the lake. Her hair whipping loose while I spun around in the sunshine and laughed. A time when we’d been so carefree carrying lollipops in our back pockets. The gift of matching bracelets.

  How had we let that year come between us?

  My face must have crumbled, my mouth softening to a tremble, because she flinched. Something registered in her eyes too—the emotion of seeing me again, the pair of us standing together after all this time. But she blinked, another sip of her champagne, then one more, until her glass was empty. Something hardened in her eyes. The moment, disappearing.

  “I want that gift basket,” she said coolly.

  “What for?” It was the first thing I’d said to her in twenty-five years, the first words to come out of my mouth and it was the wrong question to ask apparently because she snapped.

  “What for? What, just because I don’t have children, I wouldn’t want to buy something? I wouldn’t want to gift that to somebody? Carol’s daughter perhaps?”

  Stunned, my shoulders rolled back.

  Heads turned as I spotted guests at nearby tables sneaking glances in our direction. The curious stares as to why Sabine Miller would be raising her voice at me over an auction item, for goodness’ sake, and me standing guard in front of a child’s gift basket as if it was a stack of gold bars. Heat rose to my cheeks. Embarrassment and anger that Sabine would be talking to me this way.

  One table over, Tish and Amanda threw confused looks, ready to step in if needed.

  “I want this for Taylor’s birthday,” I said defiantly.

  Sabine’s eyes glowered. “Then put down another bid.”

  “Why? You’re just going to put a higher number on top.”

  A strange little smile. “That’s how it works.”

  “Why are you being like this?”

  Her eyes swirled. She wobbled in her step. “It must be so nice planning your daughter’s little birthday party,” she said. “So wonderful to be able to do that for your child.”

  “What are you talking about, Sabine?”

  And then I saw the look in her eyes—the flash of pain. How this was about much more than winning an auction for Sabine. It was a child’s gift and Sabine didn’t have any children. Seeing me wanting this for my daughter must have reminded her of what she’d missed.

  But I thought they chose not to have kids so Mark could focus on his career? So that Sabine could support him every step of the way. That’s what I’d heard.

  The bell rang for a second time. “Less than one minute,” someone called.

  My eyes veered back to her face. “It doesn’t have to be like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like this.”

  She scoffed. “You have no idea what I’ve been going through—all of it. Not a damn clue. Now, get out of my way so I can win this thing.” A startled gasp from someone as several more heads turned our way.

  Monica appeared, of cour
se she did. The two of them rarely not seen together. She gently pulled on Sabine’s arm while simultaneously throwing me a strange look—not so much an apology for her friend but something more akin to shock. This was so unlike Sabine and everyone knew it. As far as Monica knew, the two of us didn’t have any history. We weren’t friends. But she could tell Sabine was drunk—by now everyone noticed. She needed to drag Sabine away before a bigger scene turned this party upside down.

  But I couldn’t help it; I’d had too much to drink too. Hurt and anger rose through my stomach.

  “Nothing in your life is perfect, is it?” I shouted. “You’re struggling just like me. I see that now.”

  Sabine wrenched free from Monica’s grasp and closed the gap between us. Inches from my face, her perfume was suffocating. “You don’t know me. You don’t know anything!” And then she stopped, ready to cry. “If only you knew…” But Monica yanked on her arm and escorted her away.

  The bell rang a final time. “Auction is over!”

  And I looked down at the bid sheet. Sabine had won.

  Sitting with Tish now, I let the yearbook slide to the floor, telling her, “We can’t handle being around each other at a school fundraiser so it’s better if we go back to ignoring each other, don’t you think?”

  “Neither of you have wanted to try?”

  “Clearly she’s still upset and so am I. We’re different people now. We have nothing in common. She’s got her own circle of fancy friends. An important husband. A lifestyle I’ll never match.”

  “But you have history.”

  “Yes, but I guess sometimes that’s not enough.”

  Tish rests back on her hands, thinking. “Wow. That must have been some fight in high school for both of you to still react that way. What happened?”

  I look at her warily.

  She sees the apprehension on my face. “Erica, tell me. You can trust me.”

  And I muse over the word trust. The 800-pound gorilla sitting on my chest. But Tish and I aren’t teenagers.

  I tell her about high school. Starting off slowly, I speed up, glossing over some of the Lake Tahoe details because it’s just too painful. I describe those final months and a horrible argument that came between us. How much it hurt when I found out her parents had died and we didn’t speak at the funeral.

  But I don’t tell her about the clinic or the reaction from her parents. I will never betray Sabine about that again.

  “And you had no idea she’d moved to Huntsville? The two of you had no clue you were in the same neighborhood?”

  “I moved for a job, you know that. Same as you. It wasn’t until the divorce when I bought this house that I ran into her for the first time.”

  “That must have been intense.”

  I take a breath. “It was like time stopped. Literally, physically stopped. She was standing in the produce aisle of the grocery store—can you imagine? The grocery store of all places. And I came around the corner and froze. She froze. We were both shocked and turned away.”

  “And that was it? Neither of you tried making contact?”

  “What for?” I splutter. “The odds were so insane. I never imagined we’d end up living in the same town. We both left college and I lost track of her after that.”

  “But didn’t one of you want to reach out to the other?” Tish asks. “Weren’t you even tempted?”

  “No.” And I say this so firmly that Tish jumps. “We were done.”

  Tish shakes her head. “I keep thinking about that look she gave you at the pool, and then you finding one of her bracelets. I said before it seemed like maybe she was sending you a message. She was reaching out to you—someone she used to be really close with. Something bad was happening in her life and she saw you. Maybe she thought you’d understand.” Tish’s voice is gentle. “Do you want to tell the police now?”

  My body stiffens. “You also said before I should stay out of their mess.” I flick my eyes to her. “Aren’t we involved enough as it is?”

  Tish winces and I instantly regret what I said.

  “It’s just a bracelet,” I say, softening the edge to my voice and I touch her arm. “Anyone could have found it. She didn’t leave it for me at the pool.”

  “You don’t think she was asking for help?”

  I draw up my legs and wrap my hands around my knees, feeling a looming dread inside my bones. “Of all people, I don’t think she’d pick me to help.”

  Twenty-Eight

  It’s approaching 3:30 in the afternoon when I hear Amanda saying, “Don’t be mad,” which is never how I want to hear someone begin their sentence, “but I talked to someone at work about your missing passport. Sabine’s address is too similar.”

  I grip the phone, squeezing my eyes shut. “Amanda…” I warn.

  “If Sabine got your passport in the mail, she could have used it.”

  “But we—”

  “You look enough alike. Blonde hair. She could say she got recent highlights. Her hazel eyes can look brown like yours depending on what she’s wearing.” Amanda pauses. “She could have done this. She could have—”

  I’m still waiting on the bombshell. “Amanda, what’s happening? Who else did you tell?”

  “They pushed it up the chain.”

  “The chain?”

  “I didn’t think they would.”

  “But you said you were going to ask a friend. That you didn’t want this to get out if it turns out to be nothing.”

  “Turns out it might not be nothing. And it also turns out who my friend told is super tight with Monica’s husband. They shared this information with the cops. I think it’s their way of getting Monica off the hook.”

  I slap my hand to my head. “They can say, yes, she wrote the letter, but she didn’t do anything to hurt Sabine? This can support their theory of Sabine leaving on her own?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Amanda—”

  “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to get you involved but what if it’s true? What if there’s something to this?”

  I rub at my temples. “So what happens now?”

  “Well, for starters, don’t travel anywhere. The cops are searching for flights where she could have used your name. Anywhere that Erica Holloway has booked a ticket or shown up on a plane manifest.”

  “Anything yet?”

  “They’re still searching. But if this is happening—if this is really what she’s done—who’s to say she’s not waiting before she travels?”

  “But then she’ll get caught. They’ll flag my name and they’ll find her.”

  “True,” Amanda says, and pauses. “Or she left Saturday night before all hell broke loose.”

  Tish is still reeling from the discovery that Sabine and I were friends in high school and now I’m telling her our passport theory has moved from Amanda’s lips to someone who has notified the police.

  “Why would Amanda do that?” she asks.

  We’ve moved out of the closet—the yearbook and bracelets I insisted be stored in the box and shoved on the shelf—and back in the living room where I’ve finished Amanda’s phone call.

  “She’s just trying to be helpful,” I tell her.

  “But now Monica will grasp onto this. She’ll want the cops to think this too.”

  “She’s already got the cops thinking this.”

  “But now they know about your passport.”

  “Yes, they do.”

  “This is ludicrous,” Tish says. “Where do they think she would go? Where would she hide? Why?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “She wouldn’t be trying to get away from Mark. This is Monica’s doing, I know it is,” she says. “She’s jealous of Mark and Sabine. This is all part of her set-up and now she’s going to use your passport mishap to throw everyone off her.”

  A pounding at the door.

  Tish sits straight up, and so do I.

  My first thought: the police.

  Tish’s first thought: the rep
orters found me.

  She whirls off the couch and retreats to the kitchen. “Tell them, no comment.”

  But it’s not a news crew because a voice on the other side of the door says, “Erica Holloway? Detective Matthews with Huntsville PD.” Another loud bang. “Open up, please.”

  My stomach squeezes. A panicked tremor along my jaw until my teeth ache and my mouth runs dry.

  “Answer it,” Tish encourages me.

  The man on my porch introduces himself as Detective Matthews. He’s short, less than five foot eight, and wearing khaki pants and a button-down shirt. He’s not smiling as I imagine his search for Sabine Miller has been twisting and turning with every hour with still no sign of her.

  The detective looks over my shoulder at Tish. “Hello again, Ms. Abbott.”

  She croaks a hello in response.

  He slides his eyes back to me. “Can I come in? I have a few questions.”

  I lead him to the dining-room table, thinking this is a more formal setting for having a police detective in my home. I certainly don’t want him sitting on the couch where there are bound to be crumbs or colored ink from one of the kids—the same place where Tish and I fell asleep two nights ago, the cushions crumpled with one of them still tossed on the floor.

  The detective’s eyes are steel-gray in color, his nose sharp and bent like a hawk’s beak with thinning hair combed across his scalp. Another study of his face and I spot dark rings below his eyes, shades of black and plum radiating below slowly blinking eyelashes. He looks like someone who hasn’t slept for days.

  Removing a notepad from his pocket, he asks, “Ms. Holloway, what is this about your missing passport? Can you explain it to me?” His last question is followed with a sigh.

  But the way he asks—so bored and so without urgency—strikes something cold inside.

  He unfolds the notepad but there’s no pen in sight. The lack of keen discovery in his face, the fact, now that I come to think of it, he has arrived here with no partner—certainly there must be a team of police officers working this case—but he’s arrived here on his own. His eyes, dead and lifeless. He’s not just tired; he doesn’t care about my passport. He doesn’t think this is a worthy lead. He’s only here as a formality. And I realize, Monica and her husband may have friends in high places, they want people to believe this latest information involving my passport, but Mark Miller has trumped her. He has friends in even higher circles, and they’ll want to protect any notion Mark Miller’s wife would ever leave him. The idea of that is preposterous especially when the couple renewed their wedding vows earlier this year. Mark’s team is working every day to protect the couple’s reputation, including this detective. Someone has taken Sabine Miller and any other theory is a distraction.