My Wife Is Missing(3)

“Yes, I believe my wife changed rooms. I’m sure she sent a text message to let me know, but for some reason I didn’t receive it. Could I have the new room number, please?”

He tried to put a smile in his voice while ignoring the light-headed feeling that overcame him. There was a moment of silence, which Michael used to check his phone, thinking her text must have reached him by now.

Seeing nothing, he waited, pushing down a gnawing concern.

“I’m sorry … um, no. There’s no change to your room number, Mr. Hart.”

Michael’s vision blurred.

“Well, that can’t be,” he said. “Their luggage isn’t here. Did she maybe leave it with an attendant? It must be with a luggage attendant. Can you please check? It’s Natalie Hart … Michael Hart … room 3541. Please … go check for me.”

The room seemed to be spinning now. Michael dragged the phone all the way to the dresser, where the pizzas awaited hungry mouths. He pulled open the top drawer and found it empty. The second drawer was the same. A leather-bound Bible greeted him in the third drawer.

The blood in his head pounded like surf against his skull as he looked again for a note, scanning every surface multiple times, feeling his chest grow heavier with worry. There was hotel stationery and a pen on a desk near the window, but nothing scrawled on the pad. He rechecked his phone; his hands began to shake.

Eventually, the desk attendant spoke in his ear.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hart. There’s no luggage belonging to your family down here.”

Michael dropped the hotel phone without bothering to hang it up. He raced out into the hallway, checking the long corridor in both directions, hoping that he’d see his family coming toward him, hear the sweet voices of Bryce and Addie. But the only noise to hit his eardrums was the steady hum of the hotel air-conditioning.

Back in the room now, his mind empty, stomach tight, Michael stood at the edge of the bed, his arms hanging limply by his sides.

No note. No call. No text. No explanation.

Everyone and everything, just gone.

For a time, he paced the room like a caged animal. Nobody’s here. Nobody’s been here except to drop off luggage. That’s what that vanilla smell was telling him. He looked over at Teddy. Poor Teddy. His eyes fixed and dilated, forever that way. Seeing nothing. Or maybe not.

Michael wanted desperately to breathe life into that bear so Teddy could tell him what had happened to his family. It was a ridiculous thought of course. It was all quite ridiculous.

Nat’s three things flittered in and out of his mind again.

Today I got us all packed and ready to go.

I’m grateful for the truth.

I wish I’d done this sooner.

He was thinking … thinking … there had to be a logical explanation. And then it came to him, a story that worked. He called the main desk, got transferred to the valet.

“Michael Hart here, room 3541. Has my wife been down there with some luggage? Did she have it put in the car?”

Poor Natalie must have gotten cold feet about their stay, and she’d brought all of the suitcases back to the car, or at least the ones she could take without calling for a bellhop.

He waited, biting the nail of his thumb.

I’m grateful for the truth.

“No, Mr. Hart,” the valet attendant informed him after getting confirmation. “We haven’t pulled out your car, and nobody has gone to it since you arrived.”

“Thank you,” Michael said weakly before cradling the phone.

He called Natalie a second time and again got voicemail straightaway, no ring. Either her phone was off (dead battery?) or she’d declined his call. But why would she do that?

Another thought now; they were coming to him quickly: she’s downstairs at the restaurant with the luggage. She thinks she sent him a text, but it didn’t go through. And her phone died and she doesn’t realize it. That’s it. That makes sense. Michael could see his family in his mind’s eye, the three of them sitting at a table with plates of French fries and glasses of chocolate milk, a little payoff to make up for the shortened (extremely shortened) trip.

Michael grabbed Teddy and headed for the elevator. The vanilla smell seemed to follow him into the hallway. Down he went, the glass windows of the elevator no longer holding any small thrill for him. The ride felt interminable. Michael ignored the other passengers, keeping his gaze locked on the digital readout counting down the floors, cursing softly to himself with each stop. He clutched Teddy the way Bryce did after a nightmare.

When at last the elevator reached the eighth floor, Michael shot out of the door, pushing past a younger man attempting to exit. No time to waste. He ran. He was a jogger, quite fit, but he had significant ground to cover. The hotel was a cavernous space with modern décor and enough square footage to house the reception desk, a box office, conference rooms, shops, and the restaurant, all on a single floor.

Crossroads served American cuisine, and the place could have been moved to any airport, USA, and would have blended in just fine. Michael breezed past the hostess, who didn’t even blink as he went by. This was New York. Everyone here was in a hurry. He walked between tables, clutching Teddy at his side.

He checked every table twice, but Natalie and the kids weren’t there.

There’s an explanation … there’s always a logical explanation, he told himself as he approached the hostess with the wide-eyed look of someone in shock. His skin felt clammy and cold even though he’d begun to sweat profusely.