Dear Wife(13)

I realize this is only the first hurdle of many. I have no home, no ID, no more than a couple grand to my name. But I have a sob story, one that’s so much sadder than this guy’s girlfriend’s, and I have something even better. Determination.

The smile that sneaks up my cheeks is genuine. “Do you remember the boardinghouse name?”



JEFFREY

The man on the other side of my door is not in uniform, but everything about him screams cop—dark pants, pressed button-down shirt, his soldier’s stance and the gun strapped to a hip. Behind him on the driveway, an unmarked sedan ticks off the heat.

He flashes a badge. “Detective Marcus Durand, Pine Bluff PD. I understand you have some concerns about your wife?” His voice is low, his words businesslike. I search him for even a hint of concern, but I can’t find anything beyond a weary intensity.

I swing the door wide and step back. “Thanks for coming.”

My tone is thick with sarcasm, because I’ve been waiting for hours. Six of them, at least, trying to get some rest on the couch despite Ingrid standing above me, huffing like an angry dragon. The longer he kept us waiting, the harder she stomped on the floor, poking me on the shoulder every half hour to ask how it was possible for me to sleep. “I just lie down and close my eyes,” I told her. “Maybe you should try it.”

If the detective hears the snark in my voice, he doesn’t acknowledge it. He’s younger than me, midthirties maybe, and half a foot taller. He fills my foyer with his presence and size, making me feel small in my jeans and bare feet. I wish I’d changed into something nicer. I wish I had on some shoes. His jaw is set with the gravity of the situation. A missing woman, an after-hours house call means he’s taking this seriously.

But not seriously enough to show up on time.

He looks around, his gaze pausing on the curved staircase, the custom newels with vertical slats, the antique Turkish rug under his feet—none of which he can afford on a detective’s salary. None of which I could have afforded, either, were it not for Sabine. I consider telling him my wife made the million-dollar club four years running, that when it comes to decor she knows how to get the best bang for your buck, but then his gaze lands on Ingrid, standing at the doorway to the kitchen.

“Something’s wrong,” she says, her voice high and tight. In the light of day, I notice her sneakers are mismatched, one black, the other blue, both of them untied. “Something is terribly wrong, I just know it.”

“And you are?”

“Ingrid Stanfield. Sabine’s sister.” She juts a thumb into the next room. “I’ve made some notes. They’re in the kitchen.”

Detective Durand shifts his weight, but his shoes stay planted to the hardwood. He turns to me, pulling a notepad from the front pocket of his pants. “I understand your wife didn’t return home last night?”

I give him a perfunctory nod. “Sabine had a late showing, something that happens fairly often these days. She’s a real estate broker, a really good one. She texted me earlier in the day that she would be home by nine, but she never showed up. I’ve called her multiple times. Her phone rings, but it keeps sending me to voice mail.”

“I’ve called her, too,” Ingrid says, nodding. “I’ve been calling her all night. Can you maybe trace her cell phone? I’m worried she’s had an accident, that she’s hurt somewhere and needs help.”

Detective Marcus checks the time, by now closing in on nine in the morning, and he looks as exhausted as I feel. Drooping shoulders and pale, lined face. I’m guessing this is the end of his shift, and not the beginning.

“Could she have gone anywhere else?” he says, in a tone that’s a tad too calm. He sounds like he’s holding back a sigh, or maybe a yawn. Maybe both. “To a friend’s or family member’s house, or maybe grabbed a drink with someone and forgotten to tell you?”

I open my mouth to tell him no, but yet again, Ingrid beats me to it. “Sabine is too responsible to stay out all night without calling, and she always calls me back. Always. It’s how I know something has happened to her. Something bad.”

I turn to the detective with a pained smile. “Ingrid is right to be worried, I’m afraid. It’s unlike Sabine to not let one of us know where she is. Their father is dead, and their mother is in assisted living over at Oakmont. The only other place she would have gone is to her sister’s.”

“Have one of you called over to Oakmont just to be sure?”

“I have,” Ingrid says. “One of the nurses spoke to her on the phone yesterday, but the others haven’t seen or heard from her in days.”

The detective flips to a fresh sheet in his pad, writes OAKMONT across the top in all caps. He points to the kitchen, where the lights are still burning despite the early morning sunshine. “Maybe we could sit down?”

“Of course, of course.” I sweep an arm toward the doorway like Vanna fucking White.

In the kitchen, Ingrid makes a beeline to the table, parking herself on the same chair as before, her back to the wall, her hands folded on her notepad. Detective Durand chooses my chair, the one at the head. A man used to being in charge.

“Detective, can I offer you something to drink? I think I have some Coke in the fridge, or I can make a pot of coffee if you’d like.” I’ll admit the offer is not entirely unselfish. Last night’s pizza has resulted in a ferocious thirst, and it’s probably not a bad idea to demonstrate I am both helpful and forthcoming. So far he hasn’t said anything to indicate he might suspect me, but he’s also not said very much.