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

by Georgina Cross

  I push against the back door and spring forward, the afternoon heat settling upon my head. Kicking off my tennis shoes, the bottoms caked with mud from my hike with Terry, the dry crunchiness of the grass presses against my toes.

  Taking in deep calming breaths, I walk the length of the backyard, pacing and cursing silently. What have we gotten ourselves into?

  Absently, I kick at one of the girls’ soccer balls and watch it spin across the grass. It rolls with a thud against my shed, the outdoor project I’ve been wanting to tackle for months. The shed is nothing elaborate, one of those eight by fifteen mockups on a concrete slab with a single window and a side-entry door large enough for my lawnmower.

  I installed air conditioning when the kids were younger and Taylor would come out here and play. We built a reading bench in the corner and she said she didn’t mind sitting among the pots and shovels, declaring this as her very own She Shed. But time passed, the girls played on a new trampoline instead, and ultimately the shed filled with junk.

  I open the door. A low hum rumbles from the back wall made with aluminum siding, and to my surprise, the air conditioning unit is working again. The air, much cooler than the steady heat of the summer sun.

  But the person sitting there is not a surprise.

  On the reading bench, with a pillow by her side, is a woman. She looks tired. Haggard. But despite this, her face invokes strength, a mirror of calm. Fierce determination. She’ll wait out here for as long as she needs to. For as long as it’s humanly possible. As long as it takes.

  Her eyes stare back at me, hazel in color. Blonde hair tucked behind her ears. A pair of dangling earrings.

  She’s content to stay here a little while longer—at least we hope that’s the case. Because any day now, the plan will work. Our plan. Our plan for moving her safely.

  The woman smiles and says, “Hello, Erica.”

  And I smile in return. “Hang in there, Sabine.” Sitting beside her, squeezing her hand, I say, “Not much longer now.”

  Part Four

  Two weeks earlier

  Thirty-Four

  The downtown library is one of my favorite places for bringing the girls, especially Taylor.

  In the children’s section, she finds a stack of books called Secret Kingdom by Rosie Banks and squeals excitedly, “Ella told me about these!” She carries several of them to a table and spreads the glossy paperbacks in front of her. “I’m going to read them too.”

  “That’s great, Taylor.” I gaze at the shelf, admiring the twenty or more books left in the collection. “If you’re a fan it looks like you’ve got plenty.”

  She cracks open the first spine, already entranced, leaving me to wander my way toward the fiction section. “If you need me, I’ll be over here.” She nods quickly, her eyes not lifting from the page.

  I meander through the aisles, selecting a few books and admiring others I make a note to pick up next month. Today, one look at the growing stack in my hands and I’m on a crime thriller kick.

  But as I step around the bookshelf, I stop short.

  Sabine Miller is standing in the middle of the aisle. She’s blocking my path.

  She’s staring at me, her pink-tinted lips set in a firm line, gold earrings, a long-sleeved blouse covering her thin frame. She blinks once—the lightest touch of mascara on her lashes—before opening her eyes again.

  We haven’t been this close to each other since that disastrous argument at the auction last year… and now this.

  My heart pounds and I step away, thinking this is exactly what we should do. I’ll pretend I didn’t see her. She’ll do the same.

  But she does nothing of the sort.

  Instead, she reaches out her hand, the firm line of her mouth turning into a tremble. And I’m starting to think she’s not surprised to see me here. She came looking for me.

  “Erica,” she says, her voice, an undeniable shake. “I need your help. What happened in the past, let’s move on. It’s time. Because the truth is,” she cries, “I really need you. I’ve never needed you more in my life.”

  It takes me a long time to come to grips with what she’s saying, but after bringing me to the furthest section of the library, a set of chairs in a study hall where we find no other visitors, Sabine proceeds to tell me everything.

  Her marriage. The sham she considers her life. What she fears her husband is up to. The numerous affairs. And what I’m struggling with the most: what he does to her behind closed doors when no one is looking.

  This can’t be right… Her marriage is a disaster. And Mark is abusing her? A terror rips through my body.

  But she’s never let on, she’s never told anybody. She says she can’t—she can’t let anyone know—he would kill her if she did. He would chase her down until she suffered the consequences.

  He would also be barred from office. His career, over, and he would never forgive her for this.

  This man… I’m sick to my stomach… this man with the dashing good looks and unrelenting dedication to building our community. Everything he said he stood for. He’s a monster.

  He’s hurting Sabine. He’s hurting his wife.

  Visions of Mark and Sabine smiling to us from billboards flash through my mind. Their images in magazines, the consummate, successful couple. Sabine, looking so happy. Her efforts applauded at the kids’ school as she turned and thanked her husband for his support.

  Except everything is fake. It’s not real—nothing about their marriage is real. She is living with a terror. Everything she’s projected, what he’s projected. It’s all lies.

  They live in glass castles, I see that now, setting up false pretenses so no one will know the truth. So no one will guess what is really happening behind closed doors. And to think I used to view them as perfect.

  I search Sabine’s face. This poor, poor woman.

  And once upon a time, one of my dearest friends…

  “You were right,” she tells me. “That night at the auction. When you said nothing in my life is perfect. That I’ve been pretending.” She looks down. “You were right about everything.”

  She lifts her shirt sleeve and, to my horror, reveals a string of bruises wrapped around her elbow. Another bruise, a deepening shade of black and purple, spreads across her forearm, broken capillaries near her wrist. The pain cuts me as sharply as if someone has shoved against my arm too, twisted it back and done the exact same vicious things, similar bruises now breaking across my skin.

  “My God, Sabine…”

  She’s trying not to cry, but after one look at my face, she winces and lowers her sleeve.

  And I want to weep. For everything that’s happening to her. The very fact we are speaking again.

  “He takes it out on me,” she breathes.

  An icy fear drops at the back of my throat. “Takes what out on you?”

  “That I can’t get pregnant.”

  My heart grinds to a halt.

  “I’ve never been able to get pregnant. After high school… what happened. The doctors think it was botched. It’s what you feared.” She’s sobbing quietly. “He doesn’t know what I did—he can never know. I’ve never wanted anyone to know!” And my heart aches with the painful memory. “He would have never married me in the first place. A rising politician with someone who’s…” And her eyes shoot wide, searching the area where we sit, but no one’s in sight. Swinging her head back to me, she whispers, “… had an abortion. Can you imagine? As conservative as everyone is here? In the South? I’d be crucified. He’d be crucified. If anyone found out, we’d be shunned. He’d lose every election.”

  But I’m sick to my stomach with what she’s implying. “He beats you because you can’t get pregnant?”

  “He thinks it’s my body, my fault. He blames me, and he hates me for it.” The lump in my throat hardens. “I’m the politician’s wife. I’m supposed to complete this image he has of the perfect family man with the perfect wife and adorable kids. He should be coaching T-ball in
front of the cameras or attending dance recitals for our daughter—kids that don’t exist. Campaign election posters where I’m standing by his side and he’s standing next to me while our children are nestled beside us. But that’s never going to happen, Erica. Never. I can’t give him a child and he’s furious.” She wraps her arms around herself and squeezes her eyes shut.

  My chest heaves. “But Sabine! You can’t do this. You can’t let him do this to you.”

  “This is punishment. For what I did…”

  “What happened to you in high school happened, okay? There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “He would never agree.”

  “But he’s hurting you! This is sick. You have to do something. You have to—”

  “Leave,” she says.

  “Yes, leave.” This is obvious.

  But she shakes her head. “He’ll never allow it. He’s threatened to kill me if I ask for a divorce.” And I gasp, a terrible scream raging inside my ears. “His election plans don’t include being a divorcé. Therefore, I’m tied to him. Locked. He plans to run for governor one day.”

  “Screw what he wants! He can’t threaten you. We have to tell the police.”

  She snorts. “He owns the police.”

  “What about Monica and Carol?”

  “They tell me to suck it up. That this is a small price to pay for being married to the fabulous Mark Miller.” She scowls. But soon, her scowl turns to more tears. “I thought they were my friends, that they’d want to help. But they’re so stuck on what we have. The money. The houses. They tell me not to rock the boat, can you believe that? That I shouldn’t mess up how good I have it. How good we all have it. That I just need to make Mark happy.” More tears fall. “But I can’t take it much longer. I’m worried he’ll kill me.”

  I clench my hands into fists—the anger that’s rising in my throat and pulsing in the corners of my eyes—the thought of Sabine’s best friends failing her in this way.

  She folds her hands over mine, her skin cool to the touch, soft and gentle. And with this gesture, with this tenderness, the emotions rocket right through me. Despite the sadness in her eyes and how worried I am for her, a warmth in my chest spreads to the rest of my face.

  Sabine and I, sitting together again. Sharing with one another.

  It’s been such a long, long time.

  This could be her way of forgiving me—the beginning, at least. Maybe I can start forgiving her too.

  She clutches my hands tighter. It’s not lost on either of us that this is the first time we’ve sat together since we were eighteen years old. Since before that horrible argument. A lifetime ago and I’ve never stopped wishing I could go back and change everything—that awful misunderstanding.

  I clasp her fingers inside my own and swallow back tears. Something deep inside my heart begins to break. And it’s the good kind, coming loose. Breaking free.

  Years of pretending and telling myself it didn’t matter, that I could get over my heartache of losing Sabine’s friendship, and those feelings start tumbling down. All that time I told myself it was okay we were never going to speak again, that it was okay we weren’t in each other’s lives, and slowly but surely, those reasons are dissipating. Watching her from afar and convincing myself she didn’t want to have anything to do with me, that our paths would never cross again and I should learn to be okay with that, and those justifications are slowly fading too. Because here we are.

  I miss her. I know this truth more than anything in the world—I miss her incredibly. Twenty-five years later and our friendship suddenly has another chance.

  But I’m distraught by what I also know, everything she’s told me. How she’s been hurting for such a long time and hurting badly. Mark is the one to blame.

  I fight the desire to track him down, to wrap my hands around his neck and strangle him. Scream in his face. Tell him to never lay his hands on Sabine again. Call the police. Watch gleefully as he’s hauled off to jail.

  I rub at her fingers, wanting so badly to protect her and let her know everything is going to be all right. Let her know she can depend on me.

  But a question enters my mind.

  “Why me?” I ask. “After all this time, why are you telling me now?”

  “Because I don’t know where else to turn,” she says. “And because you also used to be my best friend. I should have never abandoned you.”

  “You didn’t abandon me.”

  “You were so angry with me last year…”

  “We were both drunk and emotional.” But then I soften my words. “I love that we’re together, don’t get me wrong, Sabine. But what’s happening? Why are you coming forward with this now?”

  “Because I want to make amends,” she says. “Tell you I’m sorry. And because I also have a plan.” She raises her eyes to meet mine. “I found your passport.”

  Thirty-Five

  Sabine calls the next day from a burner phone she’s recently purchased.

  She asks to travel in my name. She’s not sure where she will go or when she will go, but she will. The option of divorcing him, even though I try convincing her otherwise, is off the table. “Press charges,” I beg of her. “Stand up to him. Make it an ugly divorce.” But the only thing she wants at this point is to leave him behind.

  She’s been saving money, she tells me. Squirreling away cash when Mark isn’t looking, when her carefully allocated allowance from him is underspent and he doesn’t realize she’s pocketing the rest. She’ll use this as her nest egg when it’s time to cut and run. And with my passport she’s thinking she can go somewhere where he can’t track her down.

  I vow not to betray her again.

  “More than twenty years,” she says, “and you never told anyone what happened to me when we were teenagers. Not even after we moved here. You’re someone I can keep secrets with. This is a secret I know I can trust you with too.”

  “Absolutely, Sabine,” I tell her. “Anything.”

  “I don’t want to go easily,” she adds, and the worry rockets through my head. I have no idea what she means until she calls the next day with more details.

  “I want it to look like he hurt me.”

  Her plan: make it appear as if he attacked her. That he harmed her and won’t come clean about it, and now she’s gone missing. The husband is always one of the main suspects, she reminds me.

  She’s withdrawing some of her blood.

  “You’re doing what?” I ask, and she explains.

  The idea came after her interest in nursing school a few years ago, something she wanted to do after donating time at the hospital. She rallied for the nurses’ pay increases and secured funding for them too.

  “I thought maybe I could work as a nurse but Mark said no.” Her voice picks up. “But I didn’t let it go to waste. I learned as much as I could while I volunteered. I learned how to draw blood carefully and can do this to myself in minutes.”

  It’s hard to accept what I’m hearing. “It’s like straight out of a thriller book,” I whisper.

  Her only response: “Where do you think I got the idea from?”

  Sabine says she’ll spill her blood on the floor and make it look like he attacked her in the kitchen. She’ll do it the moment he’s returning to the house. Even with most of the police in Mark’s back pocket, someone will have to follow this lead. One of the detectives is bound to consider the husband, even if it is the great politician that a large portion of the community supports.

  And if he tries coming after her—if Mark somehow figures out she’s set him up and fled town—she’ll threaten him with what she knows.

  The conversations she’s overheard—the money he’s redirecting from his re-election campaign to pay back investors, the ones that have been steadily breathing down his neck. The money he needs to make up for a company acquisition that tanked. And the investors, one in particular—she hears Mark shouting back at him through the phone—is screaming for his money. Mark has overpromised and he kno
ws it, and he’s not sure how to climb out of this hole.

  There’s a video camera, she tells me. It’s hidden on a shelf in Mark’s office at home and she planted it there a few days ago to record one of his phone conversations. He demanded someone on his team cover his tracks. Put the money back. Hide what I’ve done. Do it now.

  She periodically checks the camera to make sure it’s still charged, which means it was recording during the most recent beating. The night they returned from a fundraising event and Mark, drunk and increasingly belligerent, took out his latest frustrations on her. I don’t want to hear it—I’m already sick imagining the excruciating details.

  “I was checking on the camera. There must have been something he didn’t want me to see on his desk because he lost it. Throwing me across the room until I crashed against a wall and blacked out. When I came to, I told myself this was the last time. I wasn’t going to do it anymore. Live this life. Put on a front while everyone thinks we’re this happy couple. With your passport,” Sabine says to me hopefully, “I’m finally going to break free.”

  “When?” I ask.

  “Soon,” she says. “I’ll let you know.”

  That afternoon, Sabine sneaks back into his office and while holding the camera, rewinds the video to the night he beats her, and hits play. She checks to make sure the video was rolling, and it was. Images of her standing beside his desk. The moment Mark walks in. The first strike across her face followed by her hard tumble to the floor.

  “The bruises will fade, they always do. This video will corroborate that he beats me. It will be impossible to deny that it’s him.”

  “Show this to the police now,” I plead.

  But she says she wants to leave the video as her last resort. She’ll hold it over him if he ever tracks her down. She’ll threaten to turn everything in to the police if he doesn’t leave her alone after she escapes to her new life.