Dear Wife(49)

“According to Dr. McAdams, it wasn’t just an affair. He says the two are very much in love. That they’ve been making plans to reorganize their lives so that they can be together.”

“By planning to ditch their spouses, you mean. Yes, I know about that, too. Ingrid and Dr. McAdams both told me.”

“According to the doctor, Sabine was also pregnant.”

“Yeah, he told me the joyful news.” He says it through curled lips, and with a tone like he’d just stepped in dog shit.

“How’d that go over?”

“I punched him, if that’s what you’re asking. But I’d also caution him, before he gets too excited, to take a look at Sabine’s medical records.”

“You think she’s lying?”

“I think he should take a look at her medical records. Out of respect for Sabine’s privacy, I don’t want to say more.”

“You weren’t respecting her all that much when you punched her in the face.”

His face goes white, then beet red, fury firing through his veins. He knows that little tidbit came from Ingrid. It’s the same expression he used with her in my office.

He stabs a finger on his desk. “Okay, first of all, I did not punch her. Not even close. It was a light slap with the back of my hand, one I regretted as soon as it happened. That’s all it was.”

“That must have been one hell of a slap.”

“We were arguing. Things got heated. She shoved me. I slapped her. Afterward, we apologized, and that was that. We moved on.”

“What were you arguing about?”

He lifts both hands in the air. “I don’t know, Detective. What does any married couple argue about? Taking out the trash, dirty clothes on the floor, using the last of the shampoo. Take your pick.”

“Would you say you’re a jealous man?”

He narrows his eyes. “My wife is cheating on me, Detective. I think I’m allowed to be jealous. But again, I didn’t find this out until after she went missing.”

I shrug. “Still. Your wife certainly had her secrets. Secret bank accounts, secret lover. I wonder what else she was keeping from you.”

I leave the question dangling, and he doesn’t pick it up. It’s something he’s probably wondered a million times since finding out about the doctor, but what is it they say? Never ask a question you don’t want the answer to.

“According to Ingrid, Sabine had consulted an attorney,” I say, consulting my notepad. “She was going to ask you—”

“For a divorce, I know. This past weekend, apparently.” He leans back in his chair. “Ingrid and Trevor told me that, too.”

I scratch at a cheek, watching him. Waiting. For the span of a good three breaths, maybe four.

Jeffrey is the first to lose patience. “What?”

“I’m just wondering what would happen. If she’d gotten the chance to ask you for a divorce, I mean. Who would get the house? How would you split up your assets?”

“Come on, Detective. We both know I’d get the shitty end of the stick. But okay, I’ll play this game. If Sabine and I got a divorce, I’d probably move away. This is a dead-end job in a dead-end town. I’d have better opportunities elsewhere.”

I nod, satisfied for now. “Let’s go back to the fight. After Sabine shoved you and you punched her—”

“Slapped,” he says, his voice clipped. “I slapped her. Not punched. There’s a big difference.”

“After you slapped her, then what did you do?”

“I apologized, of course. So did she. We put it behind us and moved on.”

“But not before you had another heated exchange via text.”

He pales, his body twitching before he can stop it.

“What happened, did she lock herself in a bathroom and refuse to let you in? My wife does that sometimes, drives me up a tree. I can see how that might make you do things you might not otherwise do. Say things you might not otherwise say. A smart guy wouldn’t have put it in writing, though.” I pause, two seconds of silence that add weight to my next words. Give them extra meaning. “Unless, of course, you meant what you said.”

A smart guy wouldn’t have put it in writing, but hey, maybe he’s that much of an idiot. I take in his expression, all slack chin and wide, wild eyes, and I’m pretty sure he thinks he’s that much of an idiot, too.

I flip through my notepad until I find the single sheet of paper I tucked there, and then I slide it out and slap it to the desk. A printout of a text exchange, his and Sabine’s. I flip it around so he can see, but he doesn’t glance down. He doesn’t need to. He already knows what it says. He’s the chump who wrote the damn thing.

Come out of there or I will fucking kill you.
“Mr. Hardison, do you own a weapon?”

Jeffrey owns a .357 Magnum, licensed and registered in his name. If he lies now, I’ll have a warrant by the end of the day.

He looks sick, like he might actually throw up, and my chest goes tingly and hot.

Victory.

“I think it’s time I get an attorney.”



BETH

Like the rest of the church, the administrative offices were designed to impress—solid and thick walls, generous molding, banks of ornate windows hung with gleaming, double glass—but they were furnished with the donors in mind. The decor is straight out of an IKEA catalog: functional, minimalist, Scandinavian sleek. As out of place in this neo-Gothic house of worship as a prostitute, which I’m pretty sure Ayana is. Or at the very least, was. Despite the bucket of cleaning supplies dangling from her finger and the vacuum strapped to her back, her hips wag in invitation, her head swinging back and forth like she’s scrounging up clients on Fulton Industrial Boulevard.