Dear Wife(18)

Bryn sighs into the phone. “I was cleaning up Timmy’s room just now, and I found a whole bunch of toys I’ve never seen before. Those spinners, you know the ones all the kids are flinging around these days, and a whole bunch of other stuff that’s not his. The problem is, I didn’t buy it, and there’s no way he could have bought it all himself. First of all, he’d need me to drive him to the store, which I didn’t do. And toys are expensive. How’d he afford so many on a dollar-a-week allowance?”

“You think he stole them?”

“I hate thinking that about my own son, but I don’t know what else it could be. He didn’t get them from me, that’s for sure.” She pauses, giving me time to make the offer. To tell her I’m on my way. “He talks to you, Marcus. He tells you things he won’t say to me.”

I don’t have time for this. I’m almost to the station, and backtracking to her house will tack on a half hour, maybe more, of driving time alone. And visits to Bryn are never quick. They involve tearful conversations and awkward hugs, endless pep talks and bottomless glasses of sweet tea. I do not have time.

But I think of Brian and I can’t say no.

I beat a fist on the wheel, then jerk it hard to the left, making a U-turn in the middle of the road. “I’ll be right over.”

Twelve minutes later, I skid to a stop in front of the house, a squat ranch that’s seen better days. The grass needs mowing, the window frames could use a fresh coat of paint, and I count at least a half dozen shingles missing on the roof. I shake my head, shake it off. Not my responsibility. No time.

I’m coming up the walkway when the front door opens, and Bryn steps outside. She’s lost more weight since the last time she called me here, less than a month ago, and it looks like she’s gotten even less sleep than I did. Pale skin, eye bags, the works. She likes to joke that her kids are trying to kill her, and not for the first time, I wonder if it might be true.

“Thanks for coming,” she says. “I didn’t know what to do, who else to call.”

How about her father, who lives just up the road? Brian’s brother in the next town, or any one of the other fifteen detectives who stood behind her when she buried her husband? I’m not just her first resort, as far as I can tell I’m the only one. I meant my promise to Brian, but in moments like these, I sure wish she’d let the other men in her life help, too.

I drop a kiss on her cheek, which is cold and pasty. “How’s he doing?”

“Pouting. Upstairs in his room.”

I pat her shoulder and step inside, taking the stairs by twos. Timmy’s door, the last at the end of the hall, is closed, but I’m pretty sure he’s not pouting. Video game sounds are coming through the wood—a car race, by the sound of it. I rap the door with a knuckle. “Yo, Timmy. It’s me, Marcus.”

Timmy is the oldest boy, a wiry kid with his father’s cowlick and a half-decent jump shot. He was only four when his father died, a bullet to the chest at a routine traffic stop. I heard the pop, looked up and Brian was on the ground, the kid who shot him running away. He’s currently serving life in prison, but the point is, Timmy barely remembers his father. He only remembers me, stepping into his father’s shoes.

When he doesn’t answer, I open the door, lean my head inside. “I take it you know why I’m here.”

Timmy is sprawled on his bed in sweatpants and bare feet, and he looks up with a sheepish expression—in my mind, another strike against his mother. She only calls when one of her kids need disciplining, which is all the damn time. If she’s the pushover, I’m the bad guy, the strict—well, not parent, but certainly disciplinarian. I’d much prefer the role of cool godfather.

“Yeah. I know why.” Timmy’s gaze goes back to the TV, and his thumb works the joystick in his hands. On the television screen, his car, a bright green Mustang, is tearing up a dirt track.

I step inside, shut the door behind me. “You want to explain it to me then?”

He shakes his head. “Uh-uh.”

“Come on, Timmy. Either you turn the game off, or I will.”

Timmy sighs, but he hits Pause. He stares at his lap as the room falls into silence.

I sink onto the edge of his bed. “So, here’s the thing. There’s a woman missing, and for about—” I check my watch, do the math “—twenty hours now. The most crucial hours in an investigation, and the farther out we get from the time of disappearance, the less likely it is I’ll find this woman in time. I shouldn’t even be here right now, but I am because you’re important to me, too.”

He looks up, a lightning-quick glance. “You think the woman’s dead?”

I should have known he’d latch on to that part. That’s what happens when you lose a parent at such an early age. You have an unnatural preoccupation with death and dying.

But Timmy is smart, and he knows when someone is lying to him. “I’ll tell you what, buddy, it’s not looking good.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.” I drape a hand over his scrawny leg, give it a jiggle. “So help me out here, will you? Tell me where you got the toys.”

Timmy tosses the joystick on the bed and reaches over, pulling a notebook from his bedside table. He flips it to a page smothered in writing—big, sloppy letters and numbers lined up in crooked columns. I scan the page, taking in the list of names and toys. A logbook.