The Missing Woman: Utterly gripping psychological suspense with heart-thumping twists

by Georgina Cross

  As I mix, Tish impatiently drums her fingers on the table, waiting for her phone to power back on and return to life. Soon, the screen flashes and she’s gripping with both hands to see what other messages have arrived.

  She clicks on something, then something else, her eyebrows furrowing until a sharp crease lines her forehead.

  She scrolls but then stops. Her thumbs hover.

  “Anything?” I ask.

  She doesn’t respond. But her hand covers her mouth—she’s reading something, her eyes skating back and forth. I can’t take it anymore and hurry to sit at the table.

  “Did they find her?”

  She shakes her head.

  My heart rises, then falls. They haven’t found Sabine—that’s great news. They haven’t found her body. But that also means she’s still out there. She’s still missing. She wasn’t in Jacob’s trunk like people have been speculating. They can’t find her anywhere.

  “Have you heard from him?”

  Another shake of the head.

  I peer at the screen. She’s looking at a news report, an update from WAFF 48 News, and angles the screen toward me so I can read it too.

  The search was called off at 3 a.m. but police have announced they will resume again at noon.

  A torn piece of clothing was found in the woods behind Honors Row. White cotton the police believe belongs to Sabine Miller. She was last seen leaving the pool wearing a white cotton coverup. The cloth was drenched in blood.

  The blood, just like the trail found leading out the back door, has been confirmed as belonging to Mrs. Miller.

  I put my hand to my mouth and Tish muffles a cry.

  One of the search teams found a bracelet on the golf course. A silver bangle that had been snapped in two and flung to the ground.

  My eyes shoot up—another bracelet? But this was one broken and ripped from her arm.

  Not far from the bracelet the police found more blood on the ground near a road that leads away from the golf course. Police are investigating if, after running through the woods, Sabine Miller suffered multiple lacerations, fell at this location, and was then taken by the assailant who drove their car around to this very spot before taking off with her inside. Her condition is unknown but it is believed Mrs. Miller requires immediate medical attention.

  Mark Miller is cleared as a suspect. He was not home at the time with dozens of witnesses placing him at the neighborhood pool. He’s organizing today’s press conference.

  We reach the end of the article and Tish clicks on a different link, an update from AlabamaNews.com.

  Security cameras are not installed on the golf course. The Millers have a Ring doorbell camera at their front and side doors but none of the footage reveals what happened inside the house or when Mrs. Miller is thought to have run through the backyard.

  I raise my eyebrows at this: the Millers’ cameras didn’t catch anyone coming to the house. Not before Sabine or Mark returned home. No one lying in wait. No one driving up to the home and causing a confrontation.

  Certainly not a red Tesla, or what Tish said Jacob had been driving last night: a black Buick LaCrosse.

  But it doesn’t make sense. Mark Miller claims to have seen Jacob driving in the neighborhood. So where was he? He didn’t park in front of their house—that would have been too risky. Did Jacob park his car somewhere else and travel to the Millers’ on foot? But how would someone not see his car on the side of the road or capture him on a security camera walking up to the house?

  Unless whoever did this left their car near the golf course. They didn’t drive around when Sabine fell—they purposely chased her in that direction so she would end up at that spot. They wanted her there. They chased her before shoving her inside the awaiting car.

  Just like I questioned Tish earlier, Jacob could have left a second vehicle. He could have kept it by the golf course and driven off with Sabine.

  I shudder. To think Tish was spending time with this man the day before.

  Tish clicks on another article and we read.

  At this time, there is no indication Sabine Miller has traveled outside of the city. Bus stations have been checked and police are reviewing security video at each train station too. Alerts have also been sent to all major airports including the privately-owned Moontown Airport but no one reports seeing a woman being smuggled onboard a private plane. There is no sign yet to indicate she boarded a flight at Huntsville Airport or the airports in Birmingham, Nashville, or Atlanta. She has not used her passport to leave the country.

  There is no indication she or someone else has accessed her credit cards as her purse was left at the house. No money has been withdrawn from her accounts. No ransom calls have been made to Mark Miller yet. Her cell phone was left on the kitchen table.

  A news alert announces a press conference that’s about to go live. Tish quickly clicks on the link.

  We see Mark Miller standing on the front porch of his home with two members of his team and the county sheriff by his side. Since he was seen sitting at the pool, the man appears as if he’s aged overnight, understandably distraught with the once-sparkling eyes replaced with something haggard and bloodshot and spiked with fear. He chews on a cheek to keep from crying, a hand rising to his chest as he takes a moment to collect himself. And then another moment. He’s ready to burst into tears.

  The steady sound of cameras click in the background. A flash highlights his face.

  “As you know,” Mark begins, “it pains me to tell you my beloved wife Sabine Miller is missing. She has not been seen since just before seven p.m. last night when she went home to pick up something but never returned to the neighborhood pool.” A hiccup of breath, a pause as he studies the sheet of paper clutched in his hands. The words could be written in gibberish, the letters swimming on the page, his voice cracking, for he’s struggling to read them.

  In all his years serving as county commissioner, I’ve rarely seen Mark read from a script, only when the event was huge or an announcement had to be carefully worded. But right now, in his despair, the man is barely able to stand in front of the cameras, let alone talk about his worst nightmare coming true—that someone would harm his wife and chase her through the woods. The reality that she’s still missing.

  A member of his team touches his elbow lightly and encourages him to continue.

  Mark tries his best to look steadily at the cameras. “The police have several leads including information I’ve provided them. We’re looking at everything—and everyone.” For this, he pauses again, clearing his throat, the word everyone hanging in the air although he doesn’t specifically identify Jacob or implicate his opponent to the press. But everyone hears him. “We assure you no one has been ruled out yet,” he adds. Then, a shake in his voice. “Please, if anyone knows what happened to my wife or where she is now, you’re urged to contact the police. I beg you,” he says, those last few words ending in a sob. He looks down again, folding the paper in half and swallowing hard. He bites his lip before stepping to the side.

  The cameras shift to the county sheriff, who announces a lengthier press conference will take place this afternoon. The live stream ends and Tish sets down her phone.

  She sits back and rubs her temples. If she feels anything like me, her head is throbbing. Her heart aching for the Miller family.

  The coffee pot hisses, the last of the steam bubbling at the top before it stops percolating, the intense, bold scent of dark roast filling the kitchen. I move as fast as I can to the counter, the strong need to pour Tish and I full cups, black for her, sugar and milk for me, and set the mugs on the table. Tish grips her mug tightly while the kids take over mixing the batter.

  We don’t say anything for the longest time, but instead blow across the surface, the smell of the coffee doing its part to wake us up, when the truth is, the adrenaline is already spiking. Everything we just read. What we heard Mark say. What we’re picturing in our heads after reading those reports.

  Images of Sabine ru
nning from her home and bleeding. A piece of her coverup ripped from her body.

  Did the person grab her? Or did the material snag on a branch and tear as she hurtled by?

  The bracelet that was left broken on the ground. Did they lunge at her again? Is this the moment she wrenched away to be free and the bracelet snapped in two? How long did she lie bleeding on the grass before they scooped her into a car and drove away with her inside?

  I think of Jacob. Jacob Andrews at Tish’s house. Photos of him at 6:43 p.m.

  Sabine Miller arriving at her house at 6:52. Mark Miller arriving at his home at 7:40 p.m.

  Jacob sending Tish another picture of himself two minutes later.

  Mark indicating no one has been ruled out yet.

  So how did Jacob swing it? How did he leave Tish’s kitchen and show up at the Millers’ home without being seen and have enough time to confront her before chasing her out through the woods?

  Did he really switch cars? And if he did, how on earth did he manage to do all of that in the space of an hour?

  Tish takes a sip of her coffee but it burns her tongue.

  And a frightening thought occurs to me—unless he had help. He teamed up with someone else.

  Ten

  Lydia joins the younger kids and helps them pour enormous amounts of syrup on their pancakes, butter slathered across each one too. The children devour their breakfast as I pour Tish and I more coffee.

  Lydia stands up ready to clear her plate when Tish sucks in her breath. “It’s him.” She clutches her phone to her face.

  Lydia whirls her eyes. I do too.

  I glance at my daughter and cautiously wave my hand, begging her to take the younger kids to their room. Quickly, Lydia ushers Taylor and Charlie down the hall.

  My attention returns to Tish, her hands shaking. “It’s him,” she repeats, her thumbs typing frantically.

  “What’s going on? What’s happening?”

  She doesn’t respond; she’s too busy sending a message. But then she stops. “What?” Her eyes startle and it takes a moment to let whatever she’s read sink in. “But I… I don’t want to…”

  She reads his message out loud. “Don’t worry. Everything will be all right. But you need to delete all my messages from before. Only keep the ones from last night.”

  Another buzz.

  “Please do this,” she continues reading. Her mouth drops open; she’s struggling to breathe. “We can’t talk anymore.” Her eyes rip toward me. “Anymore? Why would he say that? But I—I don’t understand.” She finishes typing her response, the letters popping up on her screen:

  Talk to me, Jacob. Tell me what’s happened. Are you okay?

  No response.

  Tish types: ???

  Still nothing.

  The battering of her thumbs.

  Talk to me!!!

  This time, a message pops up.

  Goodbye, Tish.

  People used to joke that Sabine and Mark Miller look like twins. It was almost uncanny how similar they appeared—golden blonde hair, hazel eyes, the soft downturn of their noses and high cheekbones to accentuate their gorgeous profiles. They met shortly after college, completing degrees at Samford University here in Alabama with Sabine majoring in French and Mark earning a degree in political science. Someone’s parents introduced them at a dinner party and the joke goes that as soon as Mark saw her, he said, That’s the one. She mirrors me. That’s who I want to appear on my campaign posters.

  It was either that or Mark Miller picked her out of a catalog, Beautiful Wives for Politicians, some people teased behind his back. It was terribly tacky and sexist—plenty of women are politicians too and not everyone running for office purposely marries for the arm candy—but then again, some of them do, and that was the running joke about Mark. The jokes turned endearing though once he proved to be an effective politician. A playful ribbing on the arm and pat on the back at event banquets and after Mark’s speeches, everyone realizing he was becoming a true asset to the community and single-handedly turning our region into an economic powerhouse. It was just bonus he had a beautiful wife.

  But there was still something corny and sweet and nearly too perfect about the Millers: Mark’s grand political aspirations and Sabine’s glamorous ways. It was hard to ignore they looked cut from the same cloth. Mark and Sabine were eerily perfect. Sickeningly perfect. The same looks. Same private university. So kind and giving. So genuinely altruistic. It was hard not to joke about them even as Mark continued to land one deal after another. A new auto manufacturing plant. A new data center. Sabine excelling at everything she laid her hands on too.

  We loved them—and we were secretly jealous of them. Me included.

  Sabine’s work for the pediatric oncology center earned high praise. She trained as a nurse so she could entrench herself at the hospital and then fundraise for the nurses’ higher pay. She led a benefit last summer that raised enough money to build a second computer lab at my kids’ school.

  Sabine stepped off stage last December when I saw first-hand how much of an effect she has on students. The principal presented her with a certificate of appreciation before introducing her to the new cyber team, the students eagerly lined up on one side of the gym. Sabine greeted each child as if they were her own, and the kids beamed with absolute honor and delight. It was as if she was royalty, her and Mark. Revered by the people. Another reminder of how much the couple helps so many families even when they’ve never had children of their own.

  I watched Sabine leaving the school gym, her best friends Monica and Carol by her side and looking proud. Like ladies in waiting. Mark greeting his wife in the hall with a kiss.

  The Millers. The beautiful, sunny, blonde couple with big hearts, even bigger wallets, and matching bleached-white smiles ready for their close-ups. The couple, photo perfect. Gracing Christmas cards and dozens of magazine covers. Their image perfect for campaign banners and billboards too.

  Vote for Mark Miller. A man for the people.

  This is who we want representing us.

  And on the billboards, Sabine standing beside Mark, elegantly dressed. The two of them appearing on TV ads and interviews where Sabine wears head-to-toe designer suits and clutches his hand lovingly. And Mark, always with his American flag pin on his chest, smiling confidently and looking like someone you can trust. Someone who will take care of us. Someone who will take care of everything.

  And someone who desperately needs to bring Sabine home. His heart will break if he doesn’t find her soon.

  Eleven

  Amanda returns to my house. No knock on the door as she never does, appearing once again in my kitchen.

  I peer at the time on the microwave: it’s 9 a.m. How much sleep has she gotten?

  She looks spun up again, hyper movements in her hands, cheeks twitching as she tosses her purse on the counter, her car keys skittering across the surface.

  Not much sleep, if I had to guess.

  Her eyes are puffy but not from crying—Amanda doesn’t cry often—but what I can assume is the result of sleep deprivation after trekking around the nature preserve until three in the morning. Her movements are still jittery from being a part of a search-and-rescue operation like this—and possibly from already having downed three cups of coffee. Despite everything, I’m amazed she’s here this early.

  Amanda has showered and is no longer wearing the T-shirt she was in last night. No sign of the boots she retrieved after leaving my house either. Today, she’s wearing track pants and a long-sleeved shirt, her curly brown hair held back with a clip.

  She sees me eyeing her clothes. “I’ll be hot but it’s better than getting scratches. I got pretty torn up last night.” She brushes a hand along her forearm and raises one of her sleeves to reveal a crisscross of red marks above her wrist, the kind you get from pushing through heavy brush. “The search is picking up again this afternoon.”

  Tish lifts her eyes. “You’re going back out?”

  “Of course.
” But then she stops and looks at us strangely. “Are you both still wearing your bathing suits?”

  I look down. Tish does too. Neither of us has showered yet. We’re in our swimsuits with sundresses on top, mine blue and wrinkled across my lap from having curled over and slept on the sofa. One of Tish’s straps remains fallen at her shoulder. She doesn’t move to fix it.

  I wipe at my face and mash the back of my hand against inflamed eyelids that I’m sure could rival Amanda’s, although, I admit, are not as swollen as Tish’s. Another glance at my best friend and the skin below her eyes is puffy too.

  “We sat up pretty late,” I tell her.

  “Crazy, huh?” she says, as if us waiting up half the night to hear about Sabine’s recovery is enough of a reason for Tish and me to be in this state the next day. If only she knew…

  Amanda spies the coffee pot and pulls a mug from the cabinet. “Did you hear the news?”

  I shift in my seat. “Which part?”

  “About Jacob Andrews?”

  Tish flinches, her shoulders rising an undeniable inch, and I hold my breath. I’m almost positive Amanda will notice Tish’s reaction but she doesn’t. She’s stirring two heaps of sugar into her coffee, the spoon clanging noisily against the ceramic.

  “Jacob Andrews has an alibi.”

  Another jerked reaction from Tish, a sharp intake of breath.

  Without Amanda seeing, I place a hand on Tish’s arm and will her to be steady.

  Amanda says, “Mark Miller swears he saw Jacob turning ahead of him. He was leaving the pool heading home when he saw the man’s Tesla—it’s hard to mistake that thing. The red one with the American flag sticker on the back. He remembers the guy having his blinker on and turning left—” Amanda makes a sound, almost a laugh. “Isn’t that such an interesting detail to remember? Remembering the blinker? On top of everything, the guy racing away with Mark’s wife but remembering to use his turn signal?” She takes a sip of her coffee and muses something in her head. At this point, I can no longer tell if she thinks Jacob Andrews is guilty or not.