Hector Saurez Less than 24 hours ago some of you were pretty convinced it was Jacob Andrews.
Carolyn Castillo New information, Hector. Keep up.
Kerry LeBlanc I hope wherever she is she’s healthy and safe.
Anthony Castillo Well there’s one vote for Sabine taking off and leaving.
Hillary Danners That’s not exactly what I’m saying.
Carolyn Castillo Monica is guilty as hell.
Monica Claiborne If you guys have something to say, why don’t you say it to my face?
Thirty-One
It takes Tish twenty minutes before she returns to my house winded and hysterical. There’s no sign of a video camera. She’s thrown open every cabinet and tells me she found zilch. No wires. Nothing hidden in her kitchen or tucked behind a shelf. For good measure, she tore through the rest of her house looking for cameras too.
“I don’t understand!” she says. “I couldn’t find anything!”
Nothing in the living room. And I shudder—nothing in her bedroom either.
Someone crept back into her house and took it. Or what I’m wondering, Jacob set up the camera in the first place. He placed it there Saturday night wanting the extra insurance for proving his alibi to the police.
He anticipated this…
But if Jacob sent her the video, he doesn’t respond to her text. He doesn’t deny it either.
That evening, a message comes through from Terry.
I feel bad about today. Let me make it up to you?
I’m sitting in bed, exhausted. Tish is resting next to me, one arm flung over her head from the Tylenol PM she’s knocked back to get some sleep. Charlie snuggles beside her.
What an insane series of events. And now here is Terry wanting to make up for part of it.
Sure, I text back, thinking I could use a break from this madness.
Are you upset with me?
I sigh. My irritation about our shortened date has long since been eclipsed by everything else that’s happening.
No, just have a lot on my mind.
I didn’t mean to cut out so early.
I know you didn’t.
What about tomorrow? Want to get together?
I immediately think about how I don’t want to return to that same bar.
I get to pick, remember? How about a hike in the morning?
There’s no way I’m going to the office tomorrow. The questions from everyone at work will be laser focused on Tish, an onslaught, and made worse when they corner me at my desk and ask directly. Everyone will want to know if I knew about her boyfriend—and I grimace—the very man who may or may not have planted a camera in her kitchen.
A hike is what I need. A chance to get outside, move around. Work off some steam.
That’s an interesting idea, Terry says.
I have meetings until ten. How about after that?
How about 10:30? Meet me near Honeycomb by the lake. It’s beautiful there.
I haven’t been to this trail since last summer when I went with the kids for a picnic. The lake isn’t far from the walking path with plenty of trees for creating shade.
See you tomorrow, he tells me. I hope I can get your mind off some things.
Entering the parking lot, my car kicks up gray dust near the starting point of the trail. It’s not so much a parking lot but a cleared space for maybe three or four cars to pull to one side, a thin layer of gravel spread across its width. At the fence, a sign that reads Honeycomb and beside the sign, Terry is standing and waiting for me.
I smile, pleased to see he’s arrived early for once. We’re the only two people at this spot, his truck splashed with mud where he must have hit the pothole at the curve, the pothole I carefully avoided.
Terry greets me with a kiss on the cheek, another baseball cap on his head, although instead of his usual jeans and polo shirts from work, he’s changed into shorts. “I came prepared,” he says, motioning at his tennis shoes. And as a peace offering, he adds with that drawn-out Southern twang, “I put my work phone on silent. Scout’s honor. You have my undivided attention.”
“For how long?”
He gives a sly grin. “An hour, tops. And then I gotta jet.”
My heart sinks. I thought so.
“It’s been a crazy week.”
I temper the emotion in my voice. “Well, we’d better get going then.”
The trail takes us beneath a hillside canopy, the temperature cooling considerably as we walk beneath the branches of white oaks and pines. On either side of us, the dense forest is filled with yellow buckeye and elm. Further ahead, sugar maples and a cluster of sharp-thorned shrubs, a scattering of wildflowers. The air smells sweet with the scent of dampened leaves from an early morning rainstorm, one of those showers that lasted a minute before drying up quickly again, the sun reappearing from the clouds.
We’re silent at first with Terry leading. There’s so much I want to tell him, so much I want to share with him about my last few days, but I don’t know where to begin. We don’t know each other that well yet and I don’t want to scare him off.
I start simply with, “Thank you for going hiking with me.”
“Sure, no problem. It’s a fun idea.” He looks to his right, a scurrying in the brush that grabs our attention. Something shoots off through the bushes—a squirrel darting between fallen branches.
The way he’s standing and looking out toward the woods, looking so contemplative, I take his picture.
His eyes round at the sight of my phone in my hands. “I’m not very photogenic.”
“Sure you are.” And I snap another picture.
“It’s a beautiful day,” I comment, peering up at the sunlight between the trees. “The lighting looks great on you.”
He smiles shyly. “Let’s keep going.”
We lapse into silence with me following in his footsteps as he maneuvers around a patch of wet mud, and then another area of muck.
After a minute, I speak again. “It feels good to get out of the house.”
He pulls on a dark green leaf of a sapling and then lets it go so the branch bounces back. Looking at me sincerely, he says, “What’s happening in Green Cove sounds like a nightmare.”
“An absolute nightmare. Tish has been staying with me.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Worried. She’s decided not to stay home alone.”
I monitor him, watching to see if there’s any reaction to Tish’s name. Surely he’s read the news but he doesn’t inquire.
“You know,” he says, stopping to stare through a patch of trees, a sudden stiffness in his shoulders. “This might sound really creepy but didn’t she run through woods like this?”
I balk. “Who? Sabine?”
“Yes.”
I follow his gaze. The dense forest. The tangle of tree branches. We’re on a cleared path but in Green Cove and especially in those woods behind Sabine’s house, she wouldn’t have had that same luxury. She would have been forcing her way through thorny bushes and low-hanging vines that—as we found out—tore at her clothes at every turn. That poor woman. My poor friend… someone from so long ago… and now look what’s happened.
I pull my arms across my chest. My idea of a hike did not involve picturing Sabine running for her life.
I say quietly, “That really is creepy.”
He spins around. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean—” He looks away. “Shoot.” His eyes drop to the ground. “Erica, I’m sorry.”
“Let’s just keep going.”
But it’s too late. Now I can’t stop thinking about Sabine. We’re approaching the shore of the lake, the glint of blue-gray water shimmering between the pines, the sight of water just as she may have spotted the lakes around the golf course. Except Sabine was running and I’m able to walk slowly. I can take my time. My heart isn’t exploding from my chest.
At the fork in the trail, Terry sidesteps a sticky stretch of mud and motions for me to do the same. He holds out his h
and, pressing his warm fingers around mine. And I try calming my jittery nerves. The newness of our relationship. This walk in the woods that I’d intended to calm me. The chance to hold his hand makes my heart beat faster.
We turn west toward the lake, the trail dropping in pitch as we move closer to the water. Through a break in the trees, a cluster of red maples in full bloom is spectacular in the sunlight.
“Can I ask you something? About your tech knowledge?”
“Sure,” he says, sounding relieved to hear me talking again.
“What do you know about those Ring doorbell cameras?”
“A lot of people have them. They’re good for security, for seeing who’s approaching your front door.” He lifts his chin over his shoulder. “Isn’t that what the cops are using to screen video on Honors Row?”
“Yes, but what about inside people’s houses?”
“Why would someone want to install a camera inside their house?”
“I don’t know, maybe to catch someone up to something. Teenagers sneaking out. A babysitter. Or maybe there’s a room they want blocked off.”
“I don’t know.” He scratches his head. “I guess they could, I reckon.”
“But people would see the camera, right? It would be pretty obvious having something like that hanging in the corner?”
He pulls on his mouth, his signature way for patting the sides of his mustache while he’s thinking. “Or you could hide it. I suppose you could hide any camera in the air vent or drill a hole in the cabinet. You could hide it on a shelf. Pretty easy stuff.” He reaches for a tree trunk and wraps his fingers around it. “Why do you ask?”
“What would you do if you found a camera?”
“Where? Inside my house?” He jolts and turns to me. “Why? Have you found one inside your house?”
“No. But I heard about it happening with one of my friends.”
His eyes widen. “Someone secretly recording them?”
“Or someone trying to prove they were there.”
He grimaces. “Sounds awful.”
I’ve stopped walking at this point, my eyes staring across the water. “What would you do?”
He stops too and shakes his head. “I don’t know, but I’d have to find out who it was. And once I did, I’d call the police.”
“Would you destroy the video?”
“Depends on what it’s catching me doing.” My eyes flip to his and he gives a low chuckle. “Relax, hon, I’m kidding.” His face turns serious again. “I would definitely call the police.”
In less than an hour we’re backtracking to the parking lot so Terry can return to work. At my car, he gives me a hug and squeezes my hand, almost looking ready to kiss me. But he doesn’t. We’re there—almost. Maybe the next date.
“I’m glad we could meet up,” he says.
Returning home, I find Tish and Charlie still camped in my living room. She’s playing a movie for him with the pair cuddling on the couch.
“Terry again?” she says, flashing a weak smile in my direction. Her dating life may have been blown to pieces but she’s still happy for me. “Things are starting to pick up between you two.”
“Kind of,” I say. “Short dates here and there.”
“But at least you’re talking…” And now her voice drops, so does her gaze. “Still no word from Jacob.”
On her shoulder, Charlie rests his head, his eyes glazed over from watching Peter Rabbit. She runs her hand along his hair and brushes it from his forehead in soft, steady strokes.
I have to ask.
“Tish, Charlie told me Jacob was always coming over to fix the dishwasher. The same dishwasher, over and over. Is that right?”
Her eyes slide back to me and she gives me a funny look.
Pulling away from Charlie, she whispers to him about getting something to drink which he barely acknowledges, he’s so engrossed in the movie. She motions for me to follow her to the kitchen.
“The dishwasher?” I prompt.
“What about it?”
“Was it broken?”
“You saw the video. It was Saturday night.”
“But was it really broken? Did he need to come over and fix it?”
“Erica,” she says, her face tilting in surprise. “Of course he did.”
“But Charlie said—”
Something in her eyes flashes. “He fixed it, okay? Those texts, that video. It shows him there, clear as day.”
“But wouldn’t he tell you he planted a camera?”
“I have no idea,” she says. “But I believe him, I trust him. I need you to do the same.”
Thirty-Two
When my phone lights up with Caller Unknown, I don’t answer. I’m thinking it’s a reporter or it’s Monica or Carol, the women rearing their heads again and wanting to ask more questions.
I press end.
But whoever it is calls again. And on the third time, I answer because if it is Monica, I’ll repeat there’s nothing more I have to say. She can talk the cops’ ears off about my passport but not to me anymore.
A man’s voice identifies himself as Mark Miller.
My pulse quickens. We’ve never spoken before, not at the Chamber of Commerce or any public event where I’m sitting in the back row and he’s at the podium.
“Monica told me you knew Sabine from high school,” he says.
My hand tightens around my phone. I knew it was only a matter of time before she told him.
“Can you help me?” His words are short, clipped. Desperate. So unlike how I’ve heard him at press conferences and campaign speeches. The way he spoke confidently at last year’s State of the County address is gone.
This Mark sounds broken, shattered.
But then I remember what Monica told us. About Sabine wanting to leave him. How he would never allow it.
“I have to find my wife,” he pleads.
I’m frozen, glued to the spot. I don’t know who—or what—to believe anymore. This man who I don’t know. What Monica said about Jacob accusing him of misusing campaign funds. Her own story about Sabine wanting to leave their marriage. How that wasn’t an option.
But I wouldn’t put it past her to make up every one of these lies, any claim to further support her theory Sabine left on her own. Monica wants people to think the Millers have their own secrets and she can appear as the innocent one.
“You knew her before,” Mark says. “You know Sabine’s past. Is there anything you can tell the police?”
“It was a long time ago…” I begin.
I rise to my feet and cross the living room to the window, willing the anxiety to lower in my chest. How much does he know?
“Was there something she ever told you? Something that could explain what’s happening now?"
I peek through the blinds. "High school was twenty-five years ago. We’ve grown apart since then.”
“Please, Erica,” he says. “I have no idea what happened to my wife. Every day she’s missing… it’s intolerable… I don’t wish it on anyone.” He takes a rattled breath. “I know we’ve never spoken before and I wish we had, but under much better circumstances. But I need your help. Please, I’m desperately seeking your help.”
I squeeze my eyes shut; the pain in his voice is undeniable. I turn from the window.
“I’m sorry, Mark. I don’t know what to say.”
“I don’t know anything about Sabine from when she was a teenager. She doesn’t talk about home. She’s barely told me anything.” He takes another shaken breath, his attempt at not crying, even though I can hear him sniffling through the phone. “Do you know anything about her past? Anything you can share with me?”
“But what would that have to do with her disappearance now?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s something that’s come back to haunt her?”
“No, that wouldn’t make sense.”
“She was always so vague about school,” he continues as if not hearing me. “I felt like something happened to he
r back then but she wouldn’t talk about it. She was closed off. Secretive. It was worrying.”
Sabine never told him about the abortion, that’s painfully obvious. And of course she wouldn’t. There’s a chance he might have judged her. He could have shunned her and they would have never married.
“Nothing happened to her in high school,” I assure him.
“Then why does she act like there’s some big secret? Something upsetting her. There was never any family to ask, her parents died. She wouldn’t talk to me.”
“It was pretty traumatic after their accident. I’m sure she doesn’t want to relive her past.”
“But wouldn’t she share that with me? I’m her husband. We’re supposed to tell each other everything.” His voice cracks. “I wish I could have been there for her.”
I grip the phone tighter knowing I can’t get involved with this. I’m already caught up in Sabine’s disappearance, her recovery, more than I ever imagined, more than I ever thought possible. That damn passport, that one mishap. And then the revelation Sabine and I used to know each other.
And now, even with a crying Mark on the phone, I can’t tell him about what happened to Sabine in our senior year. That agonizing time can stay hidden. It’s not my secret to share again. She needs to be the one to tell him.
His voice softens. “And why didn’t she tell me about you? Why would she hide that you’re friends?”
“Again, that was a long time ago.”
He doesn’t want to let up. “Talk to me,” he begs. “What else do I not know about my wife? Why do I feel like you’re the one person who can tell me everything?”
Thirty-Three
I need to get outside. I want to thrash my hands in frustration, the predicament that’s growing and has been wrapping its tentacles around me—Tish included—and squeezing so tightly until I can hardly breathe.
The Missing Woman: Utterly gripping psychological suspense with heart-thumping twists Page 19