Dear Wife(57)

I jiggle the mouse, type in the Reverend’s password, and the lock screen dissolves into a crisp image of the Church of Christ’s Apostles taken from above by a helicopter, maybe, or a drone. At its tallest peak, a golden cross gleaming in a cloudless blue sky.

I listen for the sound of people in the hall—footsteps, the clattering of keyboards, voices calling out or talking into a phone. Someone sneezes, but otherwise it’s quiet. Like everyone disappeared for lunch.

I pull up the internet and type in the words that have been playing all day in my head on repeat: Sabine Hardison missing.

I’m rewarded with thousands of hits, and I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. News travels fastest over the internet. If the story has bled across state lines, if it’s spread far enough to become a national news item on a major television network, then of course there’s plenty more online. CNN, Fox News, all the major networks have picked up on the story.

I scroll through the links, and a familiar title catches my eye. Mandy in the Morning. A taped episode promising dirt from Sabine’s sister and a lover—as usual, Mandy doesn’t mind speculating, and like the promos for her shows, the title on this one is complete clickbait. People in Pine Bluff love her, but I’ve never been a fan. I click instead on a link to the Pine Bluff Commercial, the local hometown newspaper. The article’s title, Police Search for Clues in Case of Missing Pine Bluff Woman, swims on the page.

A wave of nausea pushes up from the deepest part of me, and I breathe slow and steady and wait for the sensation to pass.

I surf around a little more, casting panicked glances at the empty doorway. As far as I can tell, the news sites are all reporting the same meager facts: last seen on Wednesday, car abandoned and unharmed, no clues, zero evidence or leads. After a few more articles, I realize I’m getting nowhere, learning nothing new. I need to go straight to the source.

With shaking fingers, I type in the address for Facebook, and the Reverend’s personal wall fills the screen. Inspirational Bible memes, pictures of food and vacation snapshots, an ad for an expensive pair of running shoes. I lean back in his chair, chewing at a thumbnail that reeks of bleach, chastising myself for prying into his private business. Maybe I should sign out of his profile, create a new, fake one for Beth, but I shove the idea aside as soon as I think of it. I don’t know the Reverend’s Facebook password, which means there’s no way I could sign him back in. No, better to leave the computer just like I found it, and with no trace I’ve ever been here.

“I am so going to hell for this,” I whisper.

On the Reverend’s Facebook profile, I pull up the page for the Pine Bluff Police Department.

Pinned to the top, a call for information pertaining to Sabine’s disappearance, another reference to the tip line. I scan the post, but it tells me nothing new. If the police have any evidence or leads, they’re not revealing them here.

I scroll farther down the page, past staff announcements and PSAs for the dangers of texting while driving, then pause on a post at the bottom of the page. Another call for information about Sabine, alongside a photograph and four little words, bursting like a bomb across my brain.

Missing woman feared dead.

Movement sounds in the hall, footsteps and a door banging against a wall, and the Reverend’s voice calls out. “Charlene, get Father Pete at Christ the King on the line for me, will you? I’ll be at my desk.”

Shit.

I fumble for the mouse and back frantically out of the site, closing down Explorer and returning to the desktop image of the church. The footsteps are moving closer, closer still, and I glance at the bookshelves, still full and unchanged, and realize I need a reasonable cover. I double click the icon for Microsoft Word, and underneath the desk, the computer churns and whirrs.

Shit.

I spring up from the chair, pluck a spray bottle and rag from the bucket, and give the desk a dousing, right as the Reverend walks in.

“You make any progress?” he says, glancing around at an office that is just as he left it. The bookshelves still stuffed with books. The printer still quiet. The answer, I’m thinking, is obvious.

I point at the screen with the bottle. “I think your computer’s stuck. It’s been trying to open Word since you left, and—oh, look, there it is. It’s working now.”

His smile bubbles up something unpleasant in my belly. “Good. But can I ask you to start on the shelves, so I can get behind my desk? I’m expecting a call any second now, and I need a file on my computer.”

Just then, right on cue, his desk phone rings.

With one last flourish of the rag, I step away from the desk. “All yours.”

He sinks into his chair and I move to the shelves, my heart banging in my chest like a war drum. I stare at the books and pretend to come up with a plan, trying not to eavesdrop on his conversation, something about a joint day of service at a downtown soup kitchen. I concentrate on the sound of his voice, the way it rises and falls when he talks, so I don’t have to think about my guilt for betraying his trust.

“I’ve still got the notes from last year somewhere,” he says as I’m emptying the first shelf, piling the books in neat but lopsided stacks across the floor. “I’ll dig them up and send them to you. Just give me a minute.”

Behind me, his fingers click across the keyboard, and that’s when it occurs to me.

I didn’t clear the browser history.