Trespassing(28)

But no one’s come to tell me he’s gone. Surely, the police would tell me if they found him dead. I scan through another paragraph.

No confirmation that the two cases are linked, but there is a strong possibility . . .

It’s just the press. I try to catch my breath. It’s just the press making an inference, connecting the two cases that might coincidentally overlap, even if they’re not related. The press is trying to stir up excitement, trying to get people’s attention.

A small blip of relief. What they’re reporting is just a possibility. Not certain. Not yet.

The phone is ringing.

The number is blocked.

But I should get it.

Might be Micah.

Or it could be someone calling about Micah.

I take a deep breath. Center myself. It’s okay. It’s okay until I hear otherwise.

Pictures flash in my head: ice cream at the table, scribbled drawings of water and lighthouses, organic chicken casserole.

“Hello?”

A whispered voice answers me: “Veronica Cavanaugh.”

Bills unpaid.

Fertility fees paid out of pocket.

The mysterious Diamond Corporation.

The dead embryo in the lab dish.

“Who’s calling?”

A pause. Static. A whisper: “Veronica.”

I can’t identify the voice.

“Who’s calling?” I say again.

“Listen to your daughter.”

My fingers tense around the phone; I feel my hands trembling, feel my brain rattling. “Who is this?”

Click.





Chapter 12

Listen to my daughter.

Listen to my daughter.

Listen to her rag on her imaginary friend?

I look to Bella, who is singing along with the cartoon: “A-B-C-D . . . E-F-G . . .”

The phone is still in my hand, blaring its dial tone. And suddenly, I feel as if I’m spiraling down a psychedelic corkscrew slide—everything is black-and-white checkerboard, everything’s vibrating—with the tone of a ready telephone ringing in my ears to the point I can’t hear anything else.

Elizabella is suddenly standing in front of me. Her lips are moving. H-I-J-K-ella-menno-P . . .

I’m a puddle on the kitchen floor.

What’s going on?

She tugs on my sweater. “Mommy!”

Her voice is distant, as if she’s speaking to me through a tunnel, but she’s right here, right with me.

Focus. I focus on her little lips moving.

God Land.

The water where the plane is.

I blink hard.

“Mommy, look!”

Bella is pointing to the television. Breaking news.

“Daddy’s on the TV.”

I feel my jaw go lax, and I’m staring agape at Micah’s driver’s license photo, which fills the left half of the screen.

A clip of Guidry’s voice, a statement given over the phone, crackles on-screen. A transcript of his words appears in the blank space to the right of Micah’s photo. “Naturally, the first step in a missing persons case is to thoroughly question the spouse of the missing. Very often, we don’t have to look further.”

“Detective, can you confirm Veronica Cavanaugh is a suspect in his disappearance?”

“I cannot.”

My fingertips tingle. My legs feel like rubber. I can’t get my feet under me, or maybe my muscles won’t hold me. But I stumble to the family room, where I trip on my way to the sofa, and land a hand on what I’m looking for—the remote control.

The reporter continues: “Police are investigating a small plane crash off the southeastern coast of Florida. The remains are consistent with the type of plane Micah Cavanaugh allegedly flew, but no confirmation yet that there’s a connection.”

I aim the remote control at the television, finger poised on the “Power” button.

“More news as it comes to us. Reporting live—”

Zap.

I collapse onto the sofa.

A phone is ringing again. This time, it’s my cell. Detective Guidry. I slide my finger over the screen to answer, but I don’t bother saying hello. “What the hell is happening? Have you seen the news? You said going to the press would help bring him home. Instead they’re acting like he’s already dead. People aren’t going to be looking for him if they think he’s dead.”

“Veronica—”

“Find. My. Husband. Can you do that?”

The doorbell rings, too.

“I warned you about the press,” the detective says. “I need you to keep calm.”

“Calm? Calm? You warned me the press would be invading my privacy and bombarding me with questions, not throwing me under the bus.”

“At this point, any press is good. Believe it or not, that clip—not saying I condone it—will have people rushing to their computer screens to research the missing man from Shadowlands.”

“I just got a call,” I blurt out.

“Let’s take a deep breath and calm down.”

“Mommy!” Elizabella calls from the hallway. “Crew and Fendi are here!”

“Don’t you answer that door, Bella.” And to the cop: “I can’t stay calm! I just got a call. Whoever it was told me to listen to my daughter and—”