My Wife Is Missing(25)
The detective finally got on the phone. He introduced himself as Detective Alan McCarthy. Michael launched right into his saga, same story he’d told the Amtrak attendant, but this time with a different ask.
“I need you to issue an Amber Alert.”
“Is she … it’s Natalie, right? Is she your wife?”
McCarthy spoke in a low, nasally voice, and Michael pictured him as a heavyset man, further weighted with fatigue, but he knew that was conjuring a stereotype.
“Yes, Natalie is my wife. She’s taken our kids, and I don’t know where she went.”
“Amber Alerts require certain criteria to be met, Mr. Hart, for us to issue one. She’s got custody, right? You aren’t divorced, or divorcing, so there’s no court order here?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, then, that’s a no. Your kids haven’t been abducted. They’re with their legal guardian.”
Michael shouldn’t have been surprised by this duplicate of his conversation with the New York City detectives. Even so, he staggered back as if McCarthy had just delivered him a body blow.
“But they may be in danger. Natalie isn’t well. She’s got a serious sleep disorder and my daughter has asthma. If my wife isn’t careful, Addie could have an attack, and it could be fatal.”
It was Michael who had shortness of breath.
“Is she suicidal? Any diagnosed psychosis?”
Michael couldn’t lie.
“No. Not to my knowledge.”
“So no self-harm, no mental health crisis, no custody violation.”
“She has insomnia,” Michael said in an imploring tone as if that would sway him.
“Who doesn’t,” replied McCarthy. “Listen, Michael, I feel for you, I really do. If I was in your situation I’d be doing the same damn thing, calling around, asking for help, but the law here is clear-cut. I can’t order an Amber Alert for your kids when they’re with their mother and legal guardian. I’m sorry. Have you filed a missing persons report?”
Michael revealed that doing so was Plan B. McCarthy then helped him fill out the correct paperwork, which took the better part of twenty minutes to complete. He provided all the pertinent information—names, dates of birth, and physical descriptions, which included a photograph of his family that he texted to a number the detective supplied.
He thanked McCarthy for his time and effort, though he wasn’t feeling particularly thankful. After ending the call, Michael grabbed the whiskey bottle, which he’d left on the kitchen island, and poured some of the liquid into a glass. He went upstairs to lie down and think. His footsteps rattled like cannon shots in the quiet of the home. Was he imagining it, or was that scent of vanilla still haunting him?
In the bedroom, nothing looked as it once did. The bed he shared with his wife was neatly made and would stay that way. He’d sleep on the couch. It was almost midnight, too late to call Nat’s parents. He’d do that in the morning. Maybe by then Natalie would come to her senses, but that felt like a dim prospect. In his gut, he knew: this wasn’t his life anymore, and all these things they’d acquired over the years were illusions, too. It wasn’t the possessions but the people residing within that made a house feel like a home.
Michael settled his gaze on the dresser. His clothes took up the bottom two drawers. Natalie had the other three. Something made him go there, a whisper of intuition perhaps. If she wanted to keep a secret from him, those drawers might be a good hiding place, somewhere he wouldn’t accidentally stumble upon it. He riffled through piles of underwear he’d seen on Natalie’s body, and thought that he might never see them grace her curves again.
Inside the other drawers, he found her socks and belts and a jewelry box filled with costume jewelry that had belonged to Natalie’s grandmother, but no clues, nothing to point him in any direction.
He went to the closet, not to search, but to get out of the clothes he’d had on in New York, purge himself of the reminders. He noticed a stack of shoeboxes, the ones Natalie left behind. A thought occurred to him that if she’d left the house knowing she was going to run, she knew what shoes she’d want to bring with her on her journey, and none of these made the cut.
The box with the red-soled shoes stood out to him. They were her most expensive pair—he should know, he had bought them for her as a gift. Well, she told him exactly which ones and what size to buy. She wore those shoes, often paired with a black spaghetti strap dress, whenever she got dressed up for a night on the town. The dress went with her to New York because Michael had insisted on it. It was so damn sexy on her, but the shoes had stayed behind, and he hadn’t made the connection. That should have been a clue that Natalie had no intention of ever putting that dress on.
Michael opened the box and removed one of the insanely expensive shoes, which looked to him like a form of medieval torture. With one shoe out, he could see a flash of white at the bottom of the shoebox, contrasting with the beige interior—because fancy shoes evidently came in colored boxes. He soon realized the white was a folded-up piece of paper. A receipt, perhaps? Maybe he’d return the shoes. Vindictive? Sure. But maybe he’d do it anyway.
After unfolding the paper, Michael knew this was no receipt. It was a handwritten note. It was unsigned, but he knew who wrote it. He read the words with his heart in his throat.