Trespassing(24)

“Maybe the police are right. Maybe he just needed a break. Give the house a call.” Shell rattles off a number. “Or . . . if he doesn’t answer, maybe he’s out fishing. Maybe one of the neighbors could let us know if someone’s been at the house, though we don’t regularly see most of them past Labor Day.”

“I’ll call the lake house, but—”

“He has a key,” Shell says. “Don’t you keep a spare set in the desk drawer? There should be four or five keys on the ring—one to our condo downtown, one for our mailbox.”

I know the keys. Our safe-deposit box key is on the same ring.

“The lake house key is labeled with a green cap.”

I’m at the desk drawer now. “He wouldn’t go to the lake house. Not without Bella. Not without telling me.” I finger through the keys. One, two, three, four.

“There’s no green-capped key,” I say.

“Maybe he’s up north then. Maybe he drove up for the weekend. You’re sure he didn’t say anything about taking a weekend to himself?”

“Positive. Shell, he’s never done that sort of thing.”

“Hmm.”

“You don’t think he’d . . .” Images of underwear models flash in my mind. No. He wouldn’t . . .

My call waiting blips. I give it a glance. “I know you’re overseas, but the police are calling. Just a minute.”

“The police? Honey—”

I click over, a sense of dread balling up in my stomach. What if I don’t want to know what they’re about to tell me? Still, a dry hello sputters out.

“Mrs. Cavanaugh, this is Jason Guidry. Do you have a minute?”

“They told me you’re out until Tuesday.”

“Officially, yes. But I’m in the neighborhood, and I’d like to stop by.”

“Of course. Please.”

“I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Thank you.” I click back over. “Shell? If he’s at the lake, do you think there’s any way he might not be there alone?”

“You don’t mean—”

“Cheating on me. Yes.”

“Honey, after the way he turned his father out after Mick’s affair . . . God, no. He loves you.”

My tears sprout anew. “Thank you. No one else seems to remember that. And my neighbor Claudette . . . she says she overheard him talking to some other woman late at night. Gabrielle.”

“Gabrielle.”

“I think that’s what she said. We don’t even know a Gabrielle.”

“Well . . . I do. She’s a nurse at Children’s Memorial. But Micah wouldn’t be . . .” She sighs. “Then again . . .”

My gut clenches. Then again what?

“Sometimes it’s not a question of how much he loves you.”

“Oh God. You think he and this Gabrielle—”

“Not the Gabby I know, but . . .”

I get the feeling she’s debating whether or not to tell me something. Maybe it’s possible after all. Maybe Micah is truly not who I thought he was.

“I’m coming home,” she says. “As soon as I can get a flight.”

The instant relief washing over me is short-lived. What if I’m overreacting? What if there’s a logical explanation for all of this? What if Claudette is right, and he’s running around with an underwear model, and because of my unfounded panic, Shell cuts her European vacation short? I imagine her racing home to find Micah safe in the confines of our gated community . . . fresh from the north woods of Wisconsin, with another woman’s lipstick on his boxer shorts. As much as I need Shell here . . .

“If something’s wrong,” Shell says, “and Micah—”

“What if it is just an affair? I’d hate for you to rush home, if he’s just . . .” I take a deep breath. “Let’s just . . .” He wouldn’t be doing what Claudette assumes. He wouldn’t. And Shell can’t possibly believe it, either. But I can’t explain his being gone this long without calling if he’s not. The detective is on his way. Maybe he’ll have news. “Let’s give him a couple of hours. Call me back around noon?”

“I’m sure he’ll call. He’s probably up at the lake.”

“I hope so. I’ll call the lake house and let you know. I’d hate for you to cut your trip short . . .”

“Will you call me? Let me know what’s going on? We’ll have a seven-hour drive from the airport to the lake. We’ll be there for the week of Thanksgiving,” Shell says. “Right when we get home. But if you need me sooner . . . if you need me to come back . . . you’ll let me know?”

The doorbell is ringing.

“I’m sure everything is going to be okay,” Shell says. But she doesn’t sound convincing. “If he’s up north without telling you, and heaven forbid, he’s doing something he shouldn’t be doing, he’ll hear about it from me, I promise you. Kiss my grandbaby.”

“I will.”

“Love you, hon.”

“We love you, too.”

I gather my hair, which isn’t in much better condition than my daughter’s, and try to smooth it. I could use a breath mint. The house is a mess. Bella’s artwork is scattered over the great room floor. Micah’s receipts from the past year are haphazardly piled like paper buildings in a village erected on the kitchen island.