Dear Wife(8)

Dill might disagree, seeing as I’m able to sweet-talk more than 10 percent off a 1996 Buick Regal. It’s a rusty old pile of junk, but the motor runs and the price is right, especially once I discover that Dill likes it when I call him “Sugar.” He forks over the paperwork and the address for the nearest Oklahoma DMV, which I promise to visit first thing in the morning. If I hurry, I’ll be in the next state by the time the office doors open.

He hands me the keys and I fall inside and crank the engine, right as the skies open up.



JEFFREY

The first number I call is Sabine’s, even though I know before I dial the first digit it’s a waste of time. If Sabine is pissed, if she’s punishing me for something, she’s not going to pick up.

And if something’s happened... My stomach twitches, and I push the thought aside.

Her phone rings, four eternal beeps, then flips me to voice mail.

“Sabine, it’s me. Did I forget you were going somewhere tonight? Because I got the message where you said you’d be home by nine, but now it’s almost midnight and you’re still not here. Call me back, will you? I’m at home, and I’m starting to get a little worried. Okay, bye.”

I hang up, think about calling 9-1-1, but she’s what, less than three hours late? Not long enough to be an emergency. And don’t the police require a minimum of twenty-four hours before you can report a person missing? What am I going to tell them, that my wife missed her curfew?

I slip my cell in my pocket and pace the length of the upstairs hallway. Okay, so I know she had a showing. A late showing. Even if it ran over, even if it were all the way on the other side of town and she decided to grab a bite to eat before coming home, she would have been here by now.

And it’s not like Sabine to ignore her phone. It’s one of her least desirable job requirements, that she’s always, always available. From the moment she wakes up until the time she goes to sleep, there’s a device either in her palm or pressed to one of her ears. If her car broke down on the way home, if she’s sitting on the edge of a highway with a flat tire and no clue how to switch it for the spare, she would have called roadside assistance, and then she would have called me.

Assuming she’s conscious.

My skin snaps tight at the thought of her bleeding on the side of the road or worse, floating facedown in the Arkansas River. I picture her bobbing in the currents or caught in the reeds that line our backyard. I see some sicko dragging her into the show house, her heels digging into the brand-new hardwood floor. Screaming into the empty house.

I’ve never loved the thought of her showing houses to complete strangers. It was one of the sticking points between us when she took this job, the idea that anyone could come by pretending to be a prospective client. What if a prisoner escaped from Randall Williams? What if he had a knife or a gun? She might as well put a sign out front and a target on her back. Pretty broker, here for the taking.

I pull out my phone and call her again.

“Sabine, seriously. This isn’t funny. Where are you? I get that you’re still mad at me, but at least shoot me a text so I know you’re breathing. I’m really worried here. I’m giving you one more hour, and then I’m calling the police.”

I hang up and haul in a deep, calming breath, but it doesn’t help. Something’s wrong. I don’t know what it is yet. I just know that something is very, very wrong.

I pull up the number for her sister.

Ingrid picks up on the first ring, like she’d been lying there with her finger hovering above the screen, waiting for it to light up with a call. Her voice is gruff and insistent: “Hullo!” Not a question, said with an upward lilt at the end, like how a normal person answers the phone, but a demand. More grunt than word. How these two women share the same DNA is one of God’s great mysteries.

“Ingrid, it’s Jeffrey. Sorry to call at this hour, but—”

“I have caller ID, Jeffrey. Put Sabine on the phone.”

I close my eyes and inhale, long and steady. “That’s the reason I’m calling you in the middle of the night. I don’t know where she is.”

“What do you mean you don’t know where she is? She’s not with you?”

“She didn’t come home after her showing, and she’s not answering her phone.”

“Jesus, Jeffrey. And you’re just calling me now? What the hell have you been doing all this time?” I hear a rustling of fabric, the high-pitched squeal of bedsprings. Ingrid lives alone, in a condo a couple of miles from here, I’m sure because nobody else can stand to share a roof with her. “Who else have you called?”

“Nobody. You’re the first.” And already, I’m regretting it. Talking to Ingrid is like chewing on glass—you just know it’s going to be painful.

“Do you know the number for her boss?” I say. “She had that late showing tonight, so maybe Russ will know what’s going on.”

“Russ?” Ingrid’s voice is clipped with exasperation. “Russ moved to Little Rock in December. You should try Lisa.”

“Who?”

“Lisa O’Brien. Sabine’s boss?” She pauses for my reply, but I don’t know what to say. Sabine has a new boss? Since when? “Oh my God, do the two of you even talk? This all happened months ago.”