“That’s it,” Martin reiterated.
His fists relaxed just a little.
“Haven’t seen her.”
Martin tilted his head to one side, trying to determine if Kevin was telling the truth.
“Really. I don’t care about anything”—he stressed the word—“except for finding her.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“That why you brought the nine-nine?” Kevin hooked a chin toward the door.
Martin turned.
“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath.
He had told Woodward to stay out of sight, not to come in unless it was absolutely necessary. And while it looked as if the man had heeded Martin’s advice when he had taken up post just outside the door, part of his gut, complete with the iconic navy uniform, was clearly visible through the glass.
Martin turned back to Kevin.
“I’m desperate, man, I just want to know if you’ve seen her… I don’t care what happ—”
“I haven’t seen her. For real. She missed her last two sessions. Haven’t heard from her or seen her since… last Friday?”
Martin felt his heart sink. Last Friday was just before the Fourth of July party at the Woodwards’. The night Arielle had gone missing.
For a brief moment, Martin just stared at the man before him, knowing that he had bedded his wife. On some level, Martin knew he should be angry, that he was expected to be furious, incensed even, but he wasn’t. Instead, he felt an odd sadness for the punch-drunk boxer. After all, Kevin needed to try and steal what Martin had in order to give himself happiness. If anything, Martin thought he caught an air of anger towards him from Kevin. And that was sad. Truth be told, he wasn’t really angry at Arielle for her indiscretion, either. After all, Arielle was like an empty vessel, or a plastic cup peppered with holes. No matter how hard you tried to fill it with soda, beer, wine, spirits… it didn’t matter. No matter what you poured into it, it just slowly trickled out the other end. Which was probably why she wanted a child so badly, and why she had slept with her boxing coach. And it all stemmed from her childhood, or lack thereof.
Martin had known Arielle for more than a decade, and during all those years she had told him very little of where she was born and how she was brought up. It wasn’t a case of her being secretive; it was, more simply, that she just didn’t know. In fact, she couldn’t remember anything before the age of twelve, when she was adopted by the two elderly people she referred to as Aunt and Uncle. And when they died a few years back, Arielle was alone—except for him, of course. She had him.
But apparently that wasn’t enough.
And tiny glimpses of memories weren’t enough for Martin, either; he had been compelled to find out more. A number of years back, he had approached Woodward with a favor: could a police officer find out information about where Arielle had come from? Could he find out anything at all about her past? Martin’s intention had always been to surprise Arielle with anything he found, but when Woodward had come back with a hospital record nearly a year later—well, he wasn’t cruel enough to share it with her.
“What happened?”
Martin snapped out of his head.
“What?”
He loved Arielle more than anything in the world. And now she had disappeared, and he felt as if his past had been stolen. That his memories were also muddled. Despair must have shown on his face, because when Kevin addressed him again, his tone was softer this time, as was his body; all the tension had left the man.
Martin didn’t want to fight. Martin just wanted to find his wife. His lonely, desperate, and confused wife.
“Did something happen? Where’d she go?”
Martin shook his head.
“I dunno.”
“Well, I haven’t seen her, man.”
Shit.
Martin reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. Holding it out to the man who had fucked his wife was absurd on many levels, he knew that, but what else was he to do? He had to find her. And if this man could help him, well… he would suck it up. But despite Martin’s frankness, Kevin seemed less than inclined to help. As it was, the man just stared at the card as if Martin were handing him a rotting fish.
It took a few moments, but Martin thought he finally interpreted the man’s expression.
Kevin was questioning how Martin could lose Arielle—he blamed Martin for her disappearance, which was unsettling.
Could it be that there was more to their relationship than a fling?
It was something he had considered, but thought it unlikely. The real question was, did it matter?
Martin shook his head; it didn’t matter, not really. What mattered was finding Arielle.
“Please,” Martin pleaded.
Kevin finally took his business card.
“Please call if you hear from her. I just need to know she’s okay.”
Martin didn’t wait for a response. Instead, he turned quickly and made his way to the door.
When he passed the woman with the vibrant sports bra, he could feel her eyes on him; she was staring at him with all the subtlety of an elephant inspecting a mouse. Martin focused his attention on Woodward’s muffin tops that spilled into the doorway.
Kevin can have this woman, as long as I get Arielle back.
“Let’s go, Woods,” Martin said as he pushed the door open.
Woodward turned to him, a concerned expression on his round face. Seeing Martin, his face took on an ‘is everything all right’ appearance.
“Yeah, everything’s fine,” Martin replied to the unasked question. “Except your damn hips. Goddamn muffin tops always getting in the way.”
Woodward smirked. Martin didn’t.
“Let’s go find my wife.”
Chapter 18
Martin Reigns
298 O’Brien Lane
Batesburg, SC
29006
July 17, 2016
Martin,
There’s not much that I can say to you now—I know that. There is probably nothing that I can say that will make what happened okay. But I’ll say it anyway, if nothing else but to try and ease my mind: I’m sorry.
I’m sorry that I acted the way I did, and I’m not just talking about at the Woodwards’ party (although I’m very sorry about that, don’t get me wrong). I’m talking about the past seven years. I know it hasn’t been easy for you, and the whole time you’ve been nothing but supportive—you’ve never made me feel bad for it. I know things—I know I—have changed a lot since we married… and it’s unfair that I have become a very different person from back then. I know this has to be frustrating, especially because you are pretty much the exact same as way back then (and that’s a good thing!). Okay, maybe a little different—more gray hairs, ha!
I don’t mean to beat a dead horse, but I have changed so much because I want to have a child—have wanted one for as long as I can remember. And I deserve a child to share my love with. We deserve a child.
So I’ll say it again: I’m sorry for two weeks ago and I’m sorry for the past seven years. You’ve been kind, sweet, and supporting, and I hope to pay you back for this one day.
And that leads me to where I am now—to where I went. And you’re not going to like my answer. The truth is, I can’t tell you exactly where I am right now. But I don’t want you to worry. I am safe here. Mother, the woman who runs the place, says I can tell you a bit about what the place is, just not about where. The truth is, I’m not totally sure where I am. I guess, at its core, it’s a place where women who are struggling to conceive can come and be safe, to talk, and (most importantly) to get pregnant (no, not that way, perv—remember my visit that night? That was the night). I know that sounds weird, but all the heavy lifting has been done already (wink, wink), and now it’s all about nurturing the baby that you put inside me. Silly, I know. But it’s my—our—last chance. Worst case scenario, I learn a lot about myself over these next nine months and come back as a be
tter wife for you. And as a mother. Please, God, I hope to come back a mother.
It’s the weirdest thing, too (okay, the whole thing is weird, I can see you chuckling now); Mother has these earrings and rings that look exactly like the stones from the church. Like exactly… same color, same shape (bigger, but still). Weird, huh? Maybe there was something to Saint Raymond Nonnatus. Who knows.
Anyways, I feel… different. I don’t know If I’m pregnant yet (Mother says that will take some time to know for sure—they don’t take blood here), but we are all hopeful. Right now it’s me, two other women (for now; Mother says people come and go), and the girls. The girls are super helpful; there are three of them, all between five and seven. Celeste is the oldest, Madison is in the middle, and Hanna is the youngest. They call each other by their names, but I’m pretty sure they’re sisters. They have the sweetest blond, almost white hair. They call Mother ‘Mother’, but everyone calls her that. She is way too old to be their actual mother. Best I can figure it is that they are Mother’s grand or great-grandchildren helping her out. They don’t talk about it much—the kids don’t talk about anything, really—but I’m guessing they are just doing her a kindness.
Sleeping quarters are nice, if a little plain. I share a room with one of the women here. Melissa. She’s kind, a bit older than me (I know!), but she is eight months pregnant. She’s a bit of a bigger woman (I’m being nice here), so she doesn’t have the typical huge belly hanging off of her—more like she has excess skin everywhere (yeah, that kind of bigger). Still, she says she can feel the baby kicking, although when I place my hand on her belly, I can never feel it. In a couple of months, maybe I’ll feel my own kicks… one can hope, right?
The food is probably the worst thing about this place. Well, I guess it’s not the food, exactly, but the milk. I don’t know which is stranger: that they basically force-feed this stuff to us, or that it tastes a little off, a little too sweet to be just milk. And it makes me feel, I dunno, a bit weird. I often get sleepy after finishing my glass (one pint, no more, no less). Mother says that that’s a good thing, that the milk is infused with iron and other nutrients to help make sure that the baby grows. I dunno about that, but if there’s a chance it’s anything other than just gross, I’ll suck it up. Literally.
We get out and walk twice a day—once in the morning and once at night. The smell is bad here, almost as if the swamp is rotting or something. Let me tell you, the walks aren’t my favorite part of my day. But Mother says that they too are important, so I’ll suck them up as well.
I know what you are thinking, and I can assure you I haven’t completely lost my mind… at least, not since coming here. And no, we are not burning bras on the lawn every night and cursing the evil penis.
This is my last chance, Martin. I know that now. If this doesn’t work, then that’s it. It’s over. I don’t get how Mother can guarantee success, but whenever I ask about it, she just says it’s about a state of mind. Which is why I have to stay here. She says that if I leave, the chances of me having a live birth are about the same as if I never came here—and we both know how well that worked out. I don’t know if I feel pregnant, per se, but I definitely feel different. And the good news is that I haven’t been sick yet, like before.
I think it’s the milk.
I know this is an impossible request, but please don’t worry about me, Martin. Again, I don’t know how to explain this without you thinking I am even crazier than you already do.
I’m sorry. I really am. I never wanted any of this. All I ever wanted was a child.
And you. I want you, too. I know you always said that I am enough woman for you, but I’m not. No one is; you are too good for me or any one woman. But maybe if there are two of us… maybe if we have a baby girl… then maybe that will be enough.
I love you, Martin, and I hope you still love me.
Please write.
XOXO
Arielle
Chapter 19
“The phone is completely trashed. I tried giving it to my IT guys to see if they could get anything from it, any incoming or outgoing call information.” Woodward hesitated. “Nothing. They couldn’t pull up anything.”
Martin put his scotch glass back on the counter and shut his eyes.
The two of them were leaning on his kitchen island, standing across from each other. Woodward had arrived about ten minutes ago at about eight, after having gone home to change out of his work uniform first.
Woodward was a good friend, there was no denying that. He had come by nearly every night since Arielle had gone missing. For the first few nights—weeks, even—they had discussed strategies on how to find her; where they should look, who they could call, just what the fuck they were supposed to do. The problem was that their options were limited because officially Arielle wasn’t a missing person. Officially, a grown woman who goes ape-shit at a party, comes home and fucks her husband, then packs a bag full of clothes and takes her ID with her isn’t missing.
No, that scenario didn’t typically qualify as a description of a missing person. That described a woman who had met someone—who had left her husband for another life.
But that wasn’t Arielle. Despite her previous indiscretion, that wasn’t her.
No way.
Martin opened his eyes and took a sip of his scotch. Woodward did the same as he patiently waited for a response. When Martin offered none, the man continued.
“But the lab report came back on that mud that Arielle tracked through the hallway.”
Martin’s eyes snapped up.
The mud; he had forgotten that Woodward had taken that to friends in the lab to see if they could figure out where Arielle had gone between storming out of the party and arriving home late that night.
“And? What’d they say?”
“Worth checking out. The mud was from a swamp here in South Carolina. The lab said that they have narrowed it down to one or two specific regions based on microbial content.”
Martin made a face and Woodward laughed.
“I know, fucked up what they can do now, isn’t it? This broad in the lab did it as a favor for me, so…” He shrugged.
Martin took another sip of his scotch and then raised an eyebrow.
“She owed you a favor, did she?”
Woodward laughed again. Despite his immense size, the man’s laugh was on the high-pitched side. And when he laughed, the thick skin beneath his chin—Martin assumed there was a chin in there somewhere—quivered.
“Long story. Anyways, Stumphole Swamp is probably our best bet—where we should start first. What do you think about this weekend?”
Martin mulled over his friend’s proposition for a moment. He had a big deal closing at the new supermall—he was hoping to get Best Buy and Walmart to anchor either end—and it was something he couldn’t really miss.
Or could he?
His numbers had taken a nose-dive ever since Arielle had split about a month ago. And if they kept going south for much longer, the other partners were going to speak up, regardless of what he was going through.
Jesus, was it really that long ago? A full month without her?
There would come a time, he knew, where he would have to concede that Arielle had just left him. She’d wanted so badly to have a child that it had consumed her. And when she’d failed at that, it was as if she had failed at life.
The thought made Martin shudder. Until now, he had refused to exercise that possibility. Arielle wouldn’t take it that far, would she? Was she so torn up about not being able to carry a child that she would harm herself?
No.
Martin refused to belief it.
He finished the rest of his scotch in one gulp, aware that Woodward was eying him suspiciously.
There may come a time when I give up, but not now. Not yet.
“This weekend,” he confirmed, “let’s find Arielle this weekend.”
Let me get my life back.
Chapter 20
Martin
Reigns
298 O’Brien Lane
Batesburg, SC
29006
August 14, 2016
Martin,
I can’t believe it. Ha, I can barely write, my hands are shaking so much. I missed my period (TMI, I know)! I feel… different, too. I know this is it. I spoke to Mother this morning, and even she couldn’t help but smile.
I’m pregnant. For the second time in just over three months, I’m pregnant!
I’M PREGNANT.
I feel like shouting, like crying, like punching the wall. I guess this is what it means to be pregnant—all my emotions bubbling up and overflowing. I mean, I feel the same things as before, only now everything is more heightened. And where before I could shut some of these off, now that I’m pregnant there is no way to stop them.
But I don’t care because I’M PREGNANT.
I’m putting on some weight, too, much faster than last time. I guess without my boxing classes, these twice-a-day walks—I’m beginning to feel a little like a puppy now—aren’t really cutting it.
BUT I DON’T CARE.
Sorry about this letter… I mean the writing and the wet paper (those are my tears of joy, BTW).
They’re still pumping me full of this milk… yech… I don’t know if it’s just that I hate it more and more each day or if it’s getting thicker (I know, nasty), but I can barely stand it. And after every glass (twice a day, just like the stupid walks), I get so damn sleepy.
Anyways, I haven’t heard from you—you never replied to my last letter—so I hope you are not still pissed. Maybe you are. But hopefully my news helps you forgive me!!!
XOXO
Arielle
P.S. Melissa—the one I was rooming with—had her baby. A beautiful if tiny baby girl named Olivia. So cute. It’s weird, though, Melissa looks exactly the same now as she did before giving birth (remember what I said about her being a bigger woman?). I mean, exactly—soft all over. Oh well. After I give birth, I’m gonna hit the gym hardcore. But only after I heal up and look after the baby. The baby comes first.
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