The Last Thing She Ever Did(88)

Before going inside. Liz texted Owen a message: I stole Charlie’s future. I promise I won’t take yours too.

She pulled the key from the ignition and started for the door.



The receptionist at the front desk looked up from his computer, then went back to typing.

Liz could feel the sweat roll down her sides and her back. She held her purse as if it were a life preserver, close to her chest. She was sure she was going to vomit. By keeping the purse close, she felt she could control whatever her body was going to do.

“I’d like to talk to Detective Nguyen,” she said.

The receptionist, a man in his late thirties, balding, with a gold hoop in each ear, barely looked at her as he tapped on his keyboard. “Detective Nguyen is busy now, but she should be out soon,” he said. “Can you tell me what it is regarding?”

Liz thought of turning around and leaving, but stayed put. “Yes,” she said, her voice catching just a little. “Charlie Franklin.”

The receptionist’s flat affect swiftly turned to keen interest. He studied Liz over the tops of his black-framed readers, tracing her features, noting her fragile demeanor.

“The missing boy?” he asked.

Just then Liz saw herself through his eyes. She knew she looked a fright, but there was nothing to be done about that. “Yes,” she said. “I want to talk to her about Charlie.”

He locked his eyes with hers. This lady was about to break down. He shifted uneasily in his chair. “Hey, are you going to be all right?”

Liz didn’t answer right away. “I guess so,” she said finally.

“All right, fine. Please have a seat.”

It wasn’t fine, of course. Nothing would ever be fine again.

Liz sat in a chair next to a silk ficus that needed to be dusted. A stack of magazines, labels removed with scissors to conceal the name of the subscriber, were fanned out on the coffee table. Her phone buzzed.

It was a text from Owen.

Are you at the police station?

She wondered how he knew that. She texted back.

Yes. I’m waiting.

Owen texted back immediately.

Don’t do this. Don’t.



Owen Jarrett didn’t say a word to anyone. He grabbed his jacket and car keys and bolted from Lumatyx as though the place were on fire. Liz was at the police station. Holy. Fuck. She’d promised him. And now she was going to knife him in the back.

She’d said she was waiting. Maybe she still hadn’t told anyone anything yet. Maybe there was time.

He’d installed a tracker on her new phone and been compulsively checking it the way some people look at their social media pages for likes and updates.

He’d known he couldn’t trust her.



Esther looked at her phone and the message from the receptionist while the safety adviser continued with her mandatory training, highlighting the importance of bending at the knee and not lifting more than twenty-five pounds. The annual training was augmented by a video and opportunities for group discussion and role-playing. No one liked the session or the presenter.

The message stared back at her.

Woman here to see you re: Charlie Franklin. Seems like she’s on the brink of a breakdown.

The training session would be over in ten minutes. If the end were twenty minutes away, she’d have gotten up and left. Ten minutes—she could wait that out.

The roomful of clock-watchers sprang to its feet at break time. Esther motioned for Jake to follow.

“Someone’s here with info on Charlie Franklin.”

“Cool,” Jake said.

The pair wound their way through the building to the reception area. It was empty.

“Carl?” she asked the receptionist.

“They left. You just missed them.”

“‘They’?” Esther repeated.

“Yeah,” Carl said. “She left with a man. Her husband, I think.”

“Did you get her name?”

“No,” he said, waiting a beat. “Something better.”

He slid Liz’s purse over to Esther and Jake. “She left this. Driver’s license is in there. Was just about to call. Her name is Elizabeth Jarrett.”

Esther took the purse and looked at Jake.

“We’ll take it to her,” she said. “Let’s go.”





CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

MISSING: TWENTY-SEVEN DAYS

Liz found herself letting the weight of her body press against the door as she looked through the peephole. It was as though she needed something to keep her from falling to the floor.

The detectives from the Bend Police Department were outside.

“Who’s there?” Owen called over from the kitchen.

“The police, Owen.”

Her husband hurried over to her and leaned into her ear.

“Don’t ruin everything,” he said. “I’ll kill myself if I lose you.”

“I won’t,” she said.

Owen reached for her hand. For a moment she thought that he was about to hold it, to give her some support. Instead, he pressed two pills into her palm.

“Take these. I’ll let them in. Stay calm.”

Liz nodded and disappeared into the kitchen for some water.

Owen opened the door.