Dear Wife(17)

I scroll down to his signature, click through to his bio on the hospital website. Trevor McAdams is a decent-looking guy, probably somewhere in his early forties. Clear skin, bright eyes, full head of hair swept off a broad forehead. The type of face that plenty of women wouldn’t mind having between their legs.

Is my wife one of them?

I return to the emails and open one of the attachments. Eight months ago, Trevor plunked down just over three hundred thousand dollars for 4572 square feet of newly renovated house on a quiet street overlooking Pine Bluff Country Club. That’s a lot of square footage, and an address in the swankiest area of town. No mortgage, which means he earns a hell of a lot more than Sabine and I do added together. I jot his address on a sticky note, 1600 Country Club Lane.

I open Sabine’s calendar, in search of the address for last night’s showing, but it’s empty. She hasn’t synced it in ages, maybe never. I click the icon for the internet instead and surf to Google, where Sabine is already signed in. I pause, the cursor hovering over the symbol for Gmail.

Sabine has a Gmail account?

I stop. Stare at the screen. Breathe hard and fast through my nose. My finger lingers over the track pad because I know, I know, I goddamnitalltohell know what I’ll find once I click it.

Hundreds of IM chats, all with Trevor McFuckingAdams.

I need to see you. Even if it’s only for a minute.
I’m sitting next to him, thinking about you.
Meet me at our place in half an hour.
You said we wouldn’t fall in love. You lied. (I’m glad)
I’m ready to tell them, Sabine. I’m ready to take that step whenever you are.
OMG, are we really going to do this? Can we?
Yes, dammit. All you have to do is say the word.
I love you. Let’s tell them this weekend.
The coffee turns to oil in my stomach, and I shove the cup away. It skids across the counter and into the sink, and it’s a good thing Sabine is not here, because if she were, I would fucking kill her. No, first I would hurt her, and then I would hurt Trevor, and then I would kill them both. No wonder he swallowed the fucking canary. For the past however many months, he’s been having secret sexcapades with my wife while I played the role of clueless, foolish, idiot, ignorant husband. Somewhere across town, a bitch named Bella is laughing. At me.

Is that where Sabine is right now? In a bed somewhere, with him?

My gaze lands on the sticky note. 1600 Country Club Lane.

Ten minutes later, I’m death-gripping the wheel of my car, the pedal punched to the floor.



MARCUS

This case, I handle by the book.

I start at the show house, walking the grounds and studying the dirt for imprints—both shoes and tires. I press my face to the windows and peer into all the rooms. This place is a “show house” all right, every room packed with complicated, flashy furniture, every horizontal surface crammed with bowls and candles and crap. I try the doors, the latches on the windows, but the place is locked up tight. No sign anyone but a decorator has been here.

From there, I go to the office for a face-to-face with Sabine’s boss, Lisa, a perfumed blonde in a ruby-red suit with lips to match. According to her, not only was Sabine a no-show for last night’s showing, she also missed a company-wide training yesterday afternoon, where she was supposed to present on building a social media platform.

“You don’t understand,” Lisa tells me, a frown pulling on her Botoxed brow. “Sabine is my hardest worker, and she’s always on time for everything, especially showings. Honestly, Detective, this is very worrisome. This isn’t like her at all.”

The other brokers I talk to say much the same. Sabine is responsible, considerate, punctual. Like Lisa, they’re worried something happened. An accident, maybe, or worse.

“Could she have booked a last-minute vacation?” I ask every one of them. “Maybe she needed to get away for a day or two.”

Head shakes all around.

I’m on my way to the station to write up a report when my phone rings. Bryn. My reaction is both instant and physical. I wince. My lungs deflate like an unleashed balloon. Three years since her husband passed—my former partner—and her calls still hit me like a punch to the gut.

Stifling a groan, I pick up on the handsfree system. “Hey, Bryn.”

“Hi, Marcus. Do you have a minute?”

She sniffs, and I know it’s not going to be a minute—pretty much the last thing I have time for right now. I need to get my ass to the department. I need to plug Sabine’s name through all the available databases, make sure Chief Eubanks sees my hardworking face. I need to make it known around the department that I met the missing woman once, when she showed my wife and me a house, so there’s no uncomfortable questions down the road. I need to get every cop on the street watching for her car.

But once upon a time, I made a promise to Brian and to God—to watch over his sons, to be there for their birthdays and school graduations, to make sure they go to church and stay out of trouble. They’re two little hellions, but I love them like they’re my own. The only problem is I’m not so crazy about his widow, Bryn.

Scratch that. It’s not that I don’t like Bryn, it’s that I don’t always agree with her parenting methods. She babies those boys, lets them get away with far too much, and without a man in the house to counteract her coddling, her boys have the run of the place. She’s constantly calling me to bellyache—how they’re walking all over her, how they could use a good talking-to. My wife, Emma, says it’s a cry for adult male interaction—in this case, mine. For someone to shoulder the burden like Brian used to. Emma’s not the best armchair psychologist, but in this case, I think she might be right.