Dear Wife

by Kimberly Belle

  My voice is a lot more friendly when I turn back to the salesman. “Where did your girlfriend stay in the meantime? After that guy took off with her wallet, I mean.”

  “Oh. Well, she couch surfed and stayed with me for a while until she found this sweet boardinghouse over on the Westside. Most places want some kind of credit card number as a guarantee, but this boardinghouse was cool with her paying cash, especially after she told them her sob story.”

  I realize this is only the first hurdle of many. I have no home, no ID, no more than a couple grand to my name. But I have a sob story, one that’s so much sadder than this guy’s girlfriend’s, and I have something even better. Determination.

  The smile that sneaks up my cheeks is genuine. “Do you remember the boardinghouse name?”

  JEFFREY

  The man on the other side of my door is not in uniform, but everything about him screams cop—dark pants, pressed button-down shirt, his soldier’s stance and the gun strapped to a hip. Behind him on the driveway, an unmarked sedan ticks off the heat.

  He flashes a badge. “Detective Marcus Durand, Pine Bluff PD. I understand you have some concerns about your wife?” His voice is low, his words businesslike. I search him for even a hint of concern, but I can’t find anything beyond a weary intensity.

  I swing the door wide and step back. “Thanks for coming.”

  My tone is thick with sarcasm, because I’ve been waiting for hours. Six of them, at least, trying to get some rest on the couch despite Ingrid standing above me, huffing like an angry dragon. The longer he kept us waiting, the harder she stomped on the floor, poking me on the shoulder every half hour to ask how it was possible for me to sleep. “I just lie down and close my eyes,” I told her. “Maybe you should try it.”

  If the detective hears the snark in my voice, he doesn’t acknowledge it. He’s younger than me, midthirties maybe, and half a foot taller. He fills my foyer with his presence and size, making me feel small in my jeans and bare feet. I wish I’d changed into something nicer. I wish I had on some shoes. His jaw is set with the gravity of the situation. A missing woman, an after-hours house call means he’s taking this seriously.

  But not seriously enough to show up on time.

  He looks around, his gaze pausing on the curved staircase, the custom newels with vertical slats, the antique Turkish rug under his feet—none of which he can afford on a detective’s salary. None of which I could have afforded, either, were it not for Sabine. I consider telling him my wife made the million-dollar club four years running, that when it comes to decor she knows how to get the best bang for your buck, but then his gaze lands on Ingrid, standing at the doorway to the kitchen.

  “Something’s wrong,” she says, her voice high and tight. In the light of day, I notice her sneakers are mismatched, one black, the other blue, both of them untied. “Something is terribly wrong, I just know it.”

  “And you are?”

  “Ingrid Stanfield. Sabine’s sister.” She juts a thumb into the next room. “I’ve made some notes. They’re in the kitchen.”

  Detective Durand shifts his weight, but his shoes stay planted to the hardwood. He turns to me, pulling a notepad from the front pocket of his pants. “I understand your wife didn’t return home last night?”

  I give him a perfunctory nod. “Sabine had a late showing, something that happens fairly often these days. She’s a real estate broker, a really good one. She texted me earlier in the day that she would be home by nine, but she never showed up. I’ve called her multiple times. Her phone rings, but it keeps sending me to voice mail.”

  “I’ve called her, too,” Ingrid says, nodding. “I’ve been calling her all night. Can you maybe trace her cell phone? I’m worried she’s had an accident, that she’s hurt somewhere and needs help.”

  Detective Marcus checks the time, by now closing in on nine in the morning, and he looks as exhausted as I feel. Drooping shoulders and pale, lined face. I’m guessing this is the end of his shift, and not the beginning.

  “Could she have gone anywhere else?” he says, in a tone that’s a tad too calm. He sounds like he’s holding back a sigh, or maybe a yawn. Maybe both. “To a friend’s or family member’s house, or maybe grabbed a drink with someone and forgotten to tell you?”

  I open my mouth to tell him no, but yet again, Ingrid beats me to it. “Sabine is too responsible to stay out all night without calling, and she always calls me back. Always. It’s how I know something has happened to her. Something bad.”

  I turn to the detective with a pained smile. “Ingrid is right to be worried, I’m afraid. It’s unlike Sabine to not let one of us know where she is. Their father is dead, and their mother is in assisted living over at Oakmont. The only other place she would have gone is to her sister’s.”

  “Have one of you called over to Oakmont just to be sure?”

  “I have,” Ingrid says. “One of the nurses spoke to her on the phone yesterday, but the others haven’t seen or heard from her in days.”

  The detective flips to a fresh sheet in his pad, writes OAKMONT across the top in all caps. He points to the kitchen, where the lights are still burning despite the early morning sunshine. “Maybe we could sit down?”

  “Of course, of course.” I sweep an arm toward the doorway like Vanna fucking White.

  In the kitchen, Ingrid makes a beeline to the table, parking herself on the same chair as before, her back to the wall, her hands folded on her notepad. Detective Durand chooses my chair, the one at the head. A man used to being in charge.

  “Detective, can I offer you something to drink? I think I have some Coke in the fridge, or I can make a pot of coffee if you’d like.” I’ll admit the offer is not entirely unselfish. Last night’s pizza has resulted in a ferocious thirst, and it’s probably not a bad idea to demonstrate I am both helpful and forthcoming. So far he hasn’t said anything to indicate he might suspect me, but he’s also not said very much.

  “I’ll have a water,” Ingrid says, and I glare at her over the detective’s head.

  “Did either of you call any of your wife’s friends before you called the police?” he says. “Her colleagues?”

  I pull three glasses from the cabinet by the sink. “It was the middle of the night. I didn’t want to wake anyone up. And I am certain my wife wouldn’t go to their houses anyway. She’d go to her sister’s.”

  “Jeffrey and I don’t agree on much, but he’s right. Sabine and I talk multiple times a day. I know her schedule. She would have come to me, and she would have told me if she was going anywhere else. That’s why this is so urgent.”

  The detective looks at her with new interest. Not, I sense, because of her conviction some awful disaster has overcome her sister, but because of her first words. The ones that imply she and I don’t get along.

  She rips the top few pages from the notepad and holds them across the table. “The names and numbers of everybody I could think of who might know Sabine’s schedule yesterday. I left messages with everyone I got through to. I also wrote down Sabine’s description, the make and model of her car, her email and cell phone number. If you give me your number, I can text you her picture.”

  Detective Durand takes a few seconds to scan the pages, then looks up with a nod. “This is all very helpful, ma’am. A great start.”

  His voice is as earnest as his expression, and I get the sudden and sinking feeling that Ingrid is showing me up, making me look unprepared. That I’m uncaring, when I’m anything but. I’m the one who sounded the alarm in the first place. Leave it to Ingrid to make me feel defensive in my own house—which she so kindly pointed out is actually Sabine’s. Leave it to her to make me feel like a bum, a mooch.

  It’s always the husband. Especially one like me—sexually frustrated and financially dependent. It wouldn’t take much digging to uncover our marital issues. Ingrid knows. How long until she tells the detective?

  I fill the glasses with water from the tap, a sudden surge to seem cooperative. “So w
hat now? What’s next?”

  “You mentioned she had a showing. Where was it? What time?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, “only that she said she’d be home by nine.”

  Ingrid’s eyes hold mine for a second too long. “The showing was at seven thirty.” She turns to the detective. “Sabine is the lead broker at that new development on Linden Street. You know, the one with the stone columns at the entrance and the big, colorful sign. I don’t have the address for the house she was showing, but it was in that development—her boss Lisa can tell you which one. Lisa’s name is at the top of the second page, but you’ll have to track down her number. Unfortunately, I don’t have it.”

  I pass out the glasses of water, and the detective doesn’t look at me, but I can sense his judgment. The husband and sister are not friends. The sister is better informed than the husband. Neither reflects well on our marriage.

  “When is the last time either of you talked to Sabine?” he says.

  “I talked to her twice yesterday morning,” Ingrid says. “The last time was at just before eleven. She was on her way to the office. But Jeffrey spoke to her later in the day, in the afternoon.”

  The lie comes back to me in a flash of icy hot. Ingrid, interrupting my jog, asking to speak to Sabine. Me, telling Ingrid I’d spoken to Sabine only an hour earlier so I could get back to my run. If I repeat the lie now, it would take the detective all of two seconds to catch me in it. One look at my call log would prove me wrong.

  I sink onto the chair across from Ingrid and shake my head. “No, I didn’t. I said I talked to Sabine yesterday morning, right before I boarded my connection in Atlanta.” I turn to the detective, explaining, “I’ve been in Florida all week, at a sales conference.”

  Ingrid’s head whips in my direction, and she glares across the table. “When I called you, at just before five, you said you’d talked to her an hour ago. So around four.”

  “You must have misunderstood.”

  She presses both hands to the wooden table, and they’re shaking. “I heard you loud and clear, Jeffrey. I asked when did you talk to her last, and you said an hour ago.”

  “Do you want to see my call log? I didn’t say that, and I didn’t talk to her.”

  The detective raises both brows, taking a long breath through his nose like a parent might, when he’s had it with his two squabbling toddlers. “Okay, okay, let’s just back up here for a second. Am I to understand that neither of you talked to her since yesterday morning, is that correct?”

  I nod. “Yes. That’s correct.”

  “Apparently so,” Ingrid mumbles.

  “And when you talked to her, did she mention anything out of the ordinary? Maybe that her car was acting funny, or that she had an errand to run in another town, anything like that?”

  Ingrid and I shake our heads. Finally, something we agree on.

  “And this showing last night. Any idea who it was with?”

  She waits until I shake my head again, then juts a triumphant chin. “I don’t know his name, but he was from out of town. Some executive who’s just started at the Tyson plant. Sabine had found him temporary housing while he searched for a house—an apartment just off 530, but now his wife was coming to town. This showing was more for her than for him. He already loved the house.”

  I’m silent, and also a little shocked. Ingrid’s knowledge of her sister’s business, all the particulars and detail. Sabine didn’t tell me any of this—or maybe she did. Maybe I just wasn’t listening. What else have I missed?

  Detective Durand consults Ingrid’s notes, taps the page with his pen. “This Lisa O’Brien will be able to tell me his name?” He’s no longer directing his questions at me.

  “I’m sure she can,” Ingrid says. “In fact, if I had her number, I would have already called to ask. Can you, I don’t know, look her up in your system or something?”

  “I’ll contact Ms. O’Brien, absolutely. I’ll also drive by the development and see if anything looks out of the ordinary. I’m not saying it will be—I just want to be sure, to cover all the bases. If I do find any signs of foul play—” the words make me twitch like a spider “—I’ll put a trace on her phone and contact you immediately.”

  “Can’t you do that now? Trace her phone, I mean. Because if something’s happened, if she’s hurt or...” Ingrid shakes her head, swallowing. “I just don’t think we should waste any more time.”

  “I’m not going to waste any time, I assure you. A missing person is about as high priority as you can get. And I’m sorry to have to ask this, but has your wife been receiving any threats? Is there anyone out there who might have wanted to hurt her?”

  “No!” I beat Ingrid to the answer this time, but I can’t look at her. I keep my gaze, sure and steady, on the detective. “Absolutely not. Everyone loves Sabine. She goes out of her way to be friendly to everyone. Partly because that’s her job, but mostly because that’s just how she is. Friendly and helpful. She’s never met a stranger.”

  Ingrid clears her throat. “It’s true. Sabine is a lovely, lovely person.”

  The detective offers up a smile, but it’s neither friendly nor comforting. “Okay. I’m going to start by checking the standard places—hospitals, medical centers, jails. I want the two of you to take a look at anything that might give us some insight as to her movements yesterday. Emails, texts, social media pages, mutual bank statements and credit cards, things like that. Compile a list of everything you find and send it to me.”

  Detective Durand slaps a card to the table, pointing to the number at the bottom. “Call me the second Sabine shows up, or if you think of anything else that might be relevant to where she could be. We’ll regroup later today.”

  I nod, mainly because I don’t know what else to do. That’s it. Interview over. The detective lets himself out and the two of us sit stunned, staring at each other with wide, horrified eyes.

  Across from me, Ingrid starts to cry.

  * * *

  Now that the detective is gone, I shove Ingrid out the door and put on a pot of coffee. I make it extra strong, the kind that bubbles out opaque and is thick as molasses. Not that I think I’ll need the caffeine. Despite my sleepless night, I’m not the least bit drowsy, my veins humming with adrenaline and purpose. If Sabine doesn’t show up soon, if somebody doesn’t figure out where she went and what happened to her, Ingrid won’t be the only one who thinks I had something to do with my wife’s disappearance.

  The detective told me to comb through Sabine’s social media and bank accounts, but I was one step ahead of him, already thinking about where Sabine left her laptop. It’s an ancient Acer, a thick chunk of plastic and metal as manageable as a cinder block, and just as heavy. Its bulk is a big part of the reason why she doesn’t usually lug it to work. The other part is that she’s got a slick new desk computer at the office, and her iPhone is permanently attached to her palm.

  But in order to see what she’s been up to, I need her log-in credentials, the ones she keeps in an unprotected Excel file on her desktop. Usernames and passwords for pretty much anything you need a username and password for. Email accounts. Bank records. Credit card statements. Things that will give me a road map to wherever she is, or at the very least, which way she’s gone.

  I start upstairs and work my way down, moving from room to room looking for her computer, double-and triple-checking everywhere I can think of. The problem is, Sabine is not logical. She treats her laptop like an old sweater or pair of shoes—as an afterthought, an item to leave lying around wherever she pleases, half-hidden under the bed or the couch. I concentrate my search around the places where Sabine tends to sit. On our bed, the laptop resting on her stretched-out thighs. The left end of the couch, her legs curled under her like a cat. The desk in the study and the chaise by the window in the den. I peer on shelves and under tables, sift through stacks of papers and books, lift bed skirts and blankets. No laptop.

  Typical.

  In each room, before movin
g on to the next one, I stand in the middle of the floor and call her cell. Even though wherever she is, chances are her phone is with her and not here at home. I hit her number and then I hold my breath and listen for the familiar melody, or if it’s on silent, the muffled buzzing of it vibrating under a pile of pillows or some clothes. But the only sound is the four lazy beeps, right before it goes to voice mail. I hang up and move to the next room.

  After an hour, I end up back where I started, in the kitchen, empty-handed.

  I pour myself a cup of thick, black sludge and sink onto a bar stool.

  Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe yesterday was one of the rare workdays that Sabine needed her computer, to search the MLS system or draw up a contract from a coffee shop between showings, in which case I’ll have to go to her office to fetch it. That is, assuming she left it there, and it’s not sliding around her trunk or on the floorboards of her car. I often see it sticking out of that canvas tote she lugs around, the one I’m forever tripping over when she chucks it by the garage door to search for her keys.

  I pop off the stool, race to the garage, and there it is. The tote, on the cool cement floor. I snatch it by a handle and carry it inside.

  The laptop is completely dead. No surprise there. Sabine has needed to replace the battery for ages now, though what she really needs is a new laptop. One that doesn’t require almost-constant charging.

  I plug it in under the island counter and turn it on, topping up my coffee while I wait for the thing to power up, which takes forever. I think about Ingrid across town, doing much the same thing—hunched over a laptop in her lonely kitchen, combing her files in search of her twin. I see her red and swollen nose, her hair still frizzy from the pillow, her squinty eyes when she said those ugly words to me—I know what you did to Sabine—and I feel a momentary spurt of fury. Ingrid thinks I had something to do with this, that I am behind my own wife’s disappearance somehow, and the idea makes me want to strangle her.