My Wife Is Missing(4)

“Excuse me,” he said breathlessly. “I’m looking for my wife.”

The raven-haired hostess, who stood a good deal shorter than Michael, peered up at him through coffee-colored eyes, a grave look of concern on her face. It was as if his anxiety had automatically transferred to her.

“I’m sorry,” she stammered. “Um … how can I help?”

“My wife,” Michael repeated in a low voice. He didn’t want to make a scene. “Natalie Hart. Room 3541. Did she eat here recently?”

The hostess took a cautious step in retreat, and Michael wondered if she thought he might be unhinged.

“Please … just help me look for her,” he said. “Talk to a manager. Room 3541. Did she eat here? Is there a room charge?”

The hostess left her station to find a manager, while Michael got out his phone. Natalie’s number was the first in his recent list, but once again his call went straight to voicemail. He texted:

Where are you????? Why aren’t you answering me????



No answer.

The hostess came back to her station.

Her face said I’m sorry before her words echoed that exact sentiment.

“Please call the other restaurant,” Michael said briskly. “The View, I think that’s the name, right? Ask them if Natalie is there. A woman, with two kids—boy six, and a girl, ten.”

“What do they look like?” asked the hostess.

Michael unlocked his phone, but sweat from his thumb made it difficult to navigate to his photos app. Eventually, he got it open. Luckily he didn’t have to scan for a picture of Natalie and the kids, as he had taken a group shot of his family in front of the hotel entrance moments after they’d arrived.

In that photo was Addie, beaming, wearing a gray Athleta sweatshirt and black leggings. Her hair was light blond like Natalie’s had been when she was that age, but their daughter was clearly a blend of them both. She had inherited Michael’s deep-set eyes, while getting (as luck would have it) Natalie’s cute snub nose and full cheeks.

Bryce, who had hair several shades lighter than his older sister, looked sleepy, and true to form, wasn’t looking at the camera when the picture was taken. No surprise, he had Teddy tucked under his arm, and there was a trace of a smile on his rosy lips.

Natalie, her hair once a cascade of chestnut, gorgeous in any lighting, appeared thinner now, perhaps from nerves and lack of sleep. Even so, she looked strong and assured, a natural beauty in every sense. She emanated a special sort of grace. To Michael’s eyes, she appeared earthy and grounded, very much a Capricorn. Not that he was a believer in astrology, but he was a Taurus, so supposedly they were quite compatible.

A fan of the Grateful Dead, a devotee of yoga and meditation, Natalie was spiritual though not religious, and anyone who saw this picture, including the hostess, would think that his wife looked radiant. But Michael saw beyond the fa?ade to the fatigue and sheer exhaustion lurking beneath the skin’s surface. He knew that makeup could do wonders.

After studying the picture for no more than five seconds, the hostess returned Michael’s phone.

“I’m sorry, I haven’t seen them. Maybe try the concierge? They’ll be able to call The View. And if they charged a meal from here to your room, it will be on your room bill.”

Michael managed a curt thank-you before departing. He was back in the lobby, walking fast, Teddy swinging from his hand like a fuzzy pendulum.

Natalie’s words again: I wish I’d done this sooner. I’m grateful for the truth.

Michael prayed with all his heart that it was a different truth from the one that haunted his dreams.





CHAPTER 3





MICHAEL


By the time Michael reached the concierge desk, he was nearly out of breath. He was also third in line. From the snippets of conversation he could overhear ahead of him, a kindly looking elderly couple was having what would surely be a long chat about theater tickets. He barged to the front of the line.

The man he had interrupted grunted his protest.

“Hey, we were here first,” he said in a raspy voice.

Michael ignored him.

“Excuse me.”

Michael pressed his hands against the smooth surface of the concierge’s podium. A nameplate, camouflaged on the lapel of the man’s blue suit, read Raul.

“My wife is missing,” Michael said, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice. “My children are, too. I’m sure they’re together.”

In that moment, he suffered the strangest sensation ever. It was as if he were rising and falling at the same time; weightless. He didn’t want to occupy his body. He wanted only to be with his family.

The elderly man he’d rudely interrupted sent Michael another scathing stare. His wife, however, put her hand to her chest, letting out a slight gasp before pulling her husband aside.

“Oh dear,” Michael heard the woman say.

Calm. Stay calm, he urged himself. There’s always an explanation. This is just a misunderstanding. Everything is fine.

“Could you call up to The View?” he asked Raul. “See if they’re there.”

Raul’s brow furrowed and his expressive brown eyes became two slits.

“I’m sorry—I don’t follow?”

In his head, Michael screamed: What don’t you follow? But work, specifically the high-pressure world of managing other people’s money, had taught him how to appear controlled in a crisis. He tapped into that power, sensing his fuel was running down to fumes.