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

by Georgina Cross

  Tamyra Meeks Who’s the admin for this group? Block him and delete this, please.

  Scott Wooley This is just for fun, guys.

  Eric Nichols There’s nothing funny about this.

  Christine Blanchard Scott Wooley, is this you? Are you posing as Trevor Blankenship?

  Scott Wooley I promise this isn’t me.

  Heather Stephenson We don’t have anyone named Blankenship in our neighborhood. Someone has created a fake account and made this poll.

  Amanda Kimbrough We can see where you voted, Scott.

  Scott Wooley You did too, Amanda.

  Amanda Kimbrough I voted her Alive.

  Kerry LeBlanc The profile picture is a photo of a guy wearing a scuba mask. This is creepy as hell, you guys.

  Hector Suarez How are 38 of you voting she was killed last night?? You’re sick.

  Scott Wooley Some of you are acting pretty high-and-mighty right now but we can see what you picked.

  Anthony Castillo Let me know when they find her body in the back of Jacob’s car and I can get back to the rest of my Sunday.

  Jennifer Krel I heard he has an alibi.

  Paul Tomlinson He was with someone. You guys can scratch him off the list.

  Scott Wooley How are you so sure Jacob didn’t have help? And he’s got her dead in some basement?

  Heather Stephenson She is ALIVE, people. You need to stop thinking otherwise.

  Carolyn Castillo I heard he’s got some BS story about visiting a girlfriend. They’re releasing her name today or tomorrow. Maybe she has something to do with Sabine’s disappearance too.

  Alice Chin Like she helped him??

  Scott Wooley Carolyn, let us know as soon as you hear something.

  Thirteen

  I try not to drop the phone. Beside me, Tish looks ready to throw up.

  In the time we’ve been sitting here, Alive and expecting a ransom request has moved up four more responses. Dead, she was killed Saturday night has ticked up to a total of forty-two.

  What in the hell happened to Praying for Sabine?

  Last night, so many people wanted her found alive and well. They couldn’t think of anything but rescuing her and bringing her home, convinced every minute counted and they would find her huddled beside a tree or fallen in a ravine, ankle broken with cut-up hands and wrists, but making a full recovery. Most of the people who voted were out until three in the morning trekking through woods and mosquito-infested creeks, for goodness’ sake. How could they turn around and vote in a poll like this? Something so heartless?

  But one whisper of a culprit and a statement about a certain man’s car from Mark Miller, and they’re losing hope. They’re pinning it on Jacob. Blood in the woods doesn’t help either. The realization there has been no word from Sabine or her perpetrator. No demands for Mark to turn over everything he owns in return for his beloved wife, even as some people cling to hope for a ransom.

  But wait—I spoke too soon. Alive and expecting a ransom request knocks down one less vote. To my horror, someone has changed their mind and they’re assuming she’s dead.

  And the others? The ones who are already claiming her life has been taken, and so soon? My stomach churns as I watch a few more numbers roll in. She was killed this morning now exceeds thirty responses.

  These people are either callous or numb or both. Maybe it’s the desire to look plainly at the facts, at what we know, and they’re reassessing the chances of finding her.

  But showing their opinion in a grotesque Facebook poll for everyone to document and see is beyond me. It makes me sick. Many of our neighbors assuming the woman is dead and hidden away, already gone. Snuffed out. The continued search, a lost hope.

  Except for the likes of Heather Stephenson, Paul Tomlinson, and Lamar Jackson. Good for them, I think. Those brave, positive souls. They will be the ones encouraging everyone to keep going. They’ll continue rallying for the search team to meet, especially when Eric Nichols, former Eagle Scout leader and head of a biotech company, leads the call. Eric will want to keep organizing.

  Outside, truck doors slam—that will be my neighbors, I’m sure, the Atkins family heading out for the day and returning to the corner of Chandler and Smoke Rise. Another car door slams with a shout from across the street, what sounds like Todd Hampton hollering from his truck window to my neighbors, the heavy diesel engine of his F-150 roaring to life next.

  I glance at the time. Amanda will have arrived at Eric’s house by now. They’ll be discussing the poll and wondering who in the world Trevor Blankenship is. They might even be able to put in a call to some friends and ask about tracking the account.

  Did Eric vote? I can’t remember but probably not since he’s busy organizing the neighborhood team and would never dream of taking part in something like this. But Amanda voted, and what did she pick—Alive? Looking through the responses, I see she has clicked on Alive, but only for a few more days.

  Dear God, Amanda… Could you at least try to be a little more optimistic? Even when you’re preparing to go back out in a hundred-degree heat, could you try to be the tiniest bit encouraging?

  But out of the three of us, Amanda has always been the pragmatic one. She’ll do her part as to what’s neighborly and right. She’ll head out with the search team every day until they find her, or until they tell everyone to stop. But like Amanda said, with every minute that passes, hope fades. For every hour she’s gone, Sabine’s chances of survival are becoming more critical.

  And, yes, all of this bothers me—the poll, its very existence, Amanda’s bleak vote, what so many are saying on Facebook—but what is troubling me the most—especially for Tish, who has resumed to a state of shortness of breath beside me—are the comments about Jacob Andrews and his girlfriend. Their belief that the mystery woman could be complicit. That her name could be released within a day. That as soon as the first person finds out, they will be expected to tell everyone they know. Including this dreaded Facebook group.

  Tish heads for the shower, and I’m almost positive it’s to hide and sob under running hot water. She barely looks at me as she slides out of her chair and pads toward my room.

  With hands pushed against my face, I hold my fingers for several seconds, feeling the pressure in my eyes slowly receding to the back of my head. I welcome the relief. But then, white stars form and another sharp pang comes, this one at the base of my skull.

  Like Tish, I need a long, hot shower and the caffeine from my two cups of coffee to kick in.

  It’s a few minutes longer before I hear the water shutting off and I walk to my bathroom.

  Tish is standing in front of the sink wrapped in one of the towels she found in a cabinet. She’s running her hands along the tubes and bottles I have spread out across the counter and picks one up, applying tinted moisturizer to her face. Wordlessly, she squeezes the lotion into her hands and rubs it along her forehead and cheeks, her motions robotic. If she’s noticed I’ve walked into the bathroom she doesn’t acknowledge me. She is staring into the mirror, her silence off-putting.

  She didn’t stay in the shower and cry long enough.

  “Tish, you okay?”

  She rubs the lotion down her neck in long, steady strokes.

  “You can stay here all day if you need to. Taylor will keep Charlie out of your hair.”

  She doesn’t respond but peers closely at the mirror, staring critically at the faintest lines forming around her eyes. She tugs at the skin.

  After some time, she stares at my reflection in the mirror. “It’s all going to come out now. I might as well get prepared.”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “They’re already talking as if I did.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “In the court of public opinion…”

  “But they don’t know it’s you yet. People love you. They know who you are, your character. You would never do anything—”

  “I had an affair with a married man.”

  �
�You’re not the one who’s married, this isn’t on you.”

  “But he’s married. And now they’re saying his girlfriend could be covering up for him. They’re going to wonder,” she says. “About me. If I knew something and didn’t say a word. If he used my house as an alibi.”

  I try coming up with something—something that will ease her mind even though I have no idea if I’ll believe it myself.

  “They won’t say that. And if they do, ignore them. It will die down as soon as the police clear everything up, you’ll see. The cops’ final call is what’s most important.” I move toward her. “But you really need to tell Amanda. About you and Jacob. She can help.”

  Tish’s eyes widen. “How? How is she going to help?”

  “I don’t know… just having her on our side.”

  She presses her hands against the counter. “I thought she already is on our side.”

  “She is, but it would be good to tell her first. Before she hears about it from someone else. Or Scott or Carolyn telling the world on Facebook. You saw those posts yourself.”

  She takes on a faraway look before letting her gaze drop to an unidentifiable spot on the mirror. She thinks for a long, hard while. “I know I didn’t do anything. You know I didn’t do anything, and neither did Jacob.”

  “Of course you didn’t. He was fixing something at your house. You drove over here. We went to the pool together and you’ve been with me ever since.”

  She makes a face. “But why would they think the girlfriend would automatically be an accomplice?”

  “They’re stupid. They want to jump to conclusions that he’s the one, and while they’re at it, assume he faked his alibi. That his girlfriend would be in on it.”

  “But I wouldn’t let him send me text messages so he can cover up his tracks.” Tish’s lips set into a hard line. “And you saw those pictures. He was standing in my kitchen. He was there the whole time. The sky was getting dark outside. He never left. How would that explain—?” She doesn’t finish her sentence. “I just hate how they’re pointing fingers at him, talking trash about him, how they’re going to be talking about me too, and it will all be for nothing. Someone else has her.”

  “Who?” I ask.

  “How should I know? But definitely not Jacob.”

  I watch as she pulls her hands through her long, wet hair and runs her fingers to the end, combing out the tangles. She tugs at another strand before flicking her eyes to me. “I was so nervous in the beginning,” she says quietly. “About those text messages and the cops. But now I’m glad we have those messages as evidence.” She tucks her hair behind her ears. “I never thought I’d be so relieved to have my dishwasher go out like that, you know? What good timing.” Her smile borders on nervousness. “If he was ever going to come over, last night was as good as any.”

  She drops her hands while I provide a nervous smile in return.

  But then she shakes her head. “And now I’ve been dumped.”

  “You didn’t get dumped—”

  “Oh, yes, I did.” She repeats his words: “Erase our text messages. We can’t talk anymore.”

  “He’s backing away because there’s a lot of heat on him right now.”

  “I know.” She sighs, a deep painful breath. “But what about me? It’s like he left me on my own. I’m terrified for him but scared for myself too.”

  “You’re not on your own. I’m with you.”

  Her eyes lock on mine. “Thank you, Erica. You’re the one I trust.”

  Fourteen

  It’s my turn to shower and afterwards as I’m toweling off, Tish is returning to the bathroom and holding something for me to see.

  Silver bracelet. Blue charm. A bangle held up with her index finger.

  “Is this yours?”

  I take a good look at the bracelet, then back at Tish.

  “I think it’s Sabine’s.”

  “What are you doing with her bracelet?”

  “I found it by the gate. Last night. I was going to give it back.” I fold the towel tighter across my chest.

  “Charlie was looking in your pool bag for a toy he thought was with your stuff.” She peers at the jewelry closely. “You found it at the pool?”

  “She must have dropped it before she left.”

  “The police found another bracelet of hers on the golf course.”

  “I know.” I take the jewelry from her hand, feeling the need to wrap my fingers around it. But the band feels hard and cold against my fingers and I set it beside the sink. “I plan on giving it back to her when they find her.”

  “You think it’s connected?”

  I look up, confused. “What is?”

  “That look she gave you, and then you find her bracelet. She goes missing.” She shrugs, biting her lip, thinking this over. “For whatever reason she picked you to give some sort of warning. She knew something was going to happen, she was scared, and you’re the one she looked to for help.” She points at the bracelet. “Maybe she dropped it for you to find on purpose too.”

  I steady my gaze. “It’s just a coincidence.”

  Tish goes to say something else but closes her mouth. Her eyes leave mine until she’s only staring at the bracelet.

  An onslaught of text messages from friends are filling my screen. It’s many of the same people from last night.

  Tamyra Meeks: Someone posted a video.

  Lamar Jackson: What is it??

  Tamyra Meeks: A street view of Honors Row. They think it’s whoever took Sabine.

  Alice Chin: Is it that Jacob Andrews guy?

  I wrench my head. Tish is in the bathroom blow drying her hair while I throw mine in a loose knot. It will take her at least ten more minutes—her hair is that long—with a good chance she hasn’t seen these messages yet or she’d be slamming the hair dryer down.

  Another ding sounds from my phone. A neighbor is texting along with several others who have been posting—and, yes, voting—in the group poll too.

  Jennifer Krel: I just watched the video.

  Carolyn Castillo: I need to see this! Where?

  Tamyra Meeks: Check the Facebook group.

  Hector Suarez: I just watched it. This doesn’t make sense.

  My thumb jams against the Facebook icon in two seconds flat. My heart is racing as I search my notifications.

  And then I see it. The video hasn’t come from one person but instead the link is repeated several times in one post after another—everyone wanting to share the same info with dozens of comments stacking up. I click on the most recent link.

  The caption reads: Video recorded last night 7:38 p.m.

  The camera angle is from someone’s front porch looking onto Honors Row, one of the Millers’ neighbors with a grand sweeping yard and landscaping filled with rose bushes. Their sidewalk is swept clean. And across the street, the beginning of someone else’s driveway.

  It’s not yet dark but the sky has settled into a gray, dusty haze. Sabine would have already returned home by this point. And based on Mark Miller’s statements, he would be on his way home to check on her.

  At 7:38 p.m., this video should capture the moment Mark insists he saw Jacob Andrews driving near his house.

  With a heavy breath, I press play. The street for now is empty.

  A car appears in the frame—coming in from the left. The driver is moving slowly, slow enough that I can make out the outlines of the vehicle but not the driver himself. The windows are darkened by the shadows of overhead tree branches and the fading light. The distance of the camera doesn’t help either.

  But something stops me abruptly—that’s not a Tesla. Not a flashy red sports car with its sleek design and low curved body. Not a chance of it having matching red leather seats as I spotted in Jacob’s.

  This car is a sedan. A long body that rides low to the ground. Black in color.

  I squint but there is still no way to make out the driver.

  The car passes and comes to a halt at the stop sign. The driver
pauses before turning left—the left blinker flashing. Turning, the driver heads down Quarter Lane toward the waterfall entrance before exiting the neighborhood. The car disappears off-screen.

  The left blinker was on. What an interesting detail to remember, Amanda said.

  Mark Miller was right about that detail.

  But he’s gotten everything else wrong. How could he mistake this car for a Tesla?

  My pulse quickens in my throat as I watch the video again.

  If this person has done anything to Sabine or is holding her captive in the trunk, they are in no hurry. If they’re hiding something or have just attacked her inside her kitchen, they are in no way trying to get the hell out of there either. There is nothing about their driving to indicate panic.

  And more importantly—and what I’m sure everyone who’s watched this video is noticing—that car isn’t Jacob’s Tesla. It’s a black Buick LaCrosse.

  The cortisol spikes in my shoulders.

  What Tish said: The car he drove tonight. It’s a rental. He rents a different one every time.

  A black Buick like the one Jacob used to visit Tish.

  But what else is puzzling: why would Mark lie and say he saw him driving something else?

  Facebook Group Post

  Praying for Sabine Miller (Private Facebook Group)

  Alexis Redfield