Could it be possible?
The mailman leaving my package at 112 Honors Row. Sabine not bothering to notify me about what was contained inside the brown envelope because that was the green light she needed to escape.
Did Mark find out? Did Monica confront her about these plans also? Was Sabine wanting to cut and run part of the epic blow-up fight that happened at the Millers’ home Friday evening?
I wonder if Monica told Mark she thought Sabine was planning to run away. They tried stopping her. They told her not to go—that she would ruin everything. Mark’s re-election campaign would be at risk if Sabine left their marriage.
But wouldn’t attacking her and kidnapping her be even worse?
And why in the world would Sabine leave? She has the perfect life. The perfect marriage. The most gorgeous home.
… Doesn’t she?
But she fought with her best friend. Who knows what else Monica has said to her in the past if she’s capable of writing such hateful words in a letter?
And what else do we not know about Mark? He’s already lied about Jacob’s car. After everything we’re learning, what else is he capable of lying about?
Twenty-One
From the floor, Charlie drops his crayon and stares at his mom.
“Mom, I’m thirsty.” She ignores him. “Mooom,” he repeats.
She shushes him. “Not right now, Charlie.” She’s pacing again.
“But Mooom,” he insists.
“I’ll help him.” I look at Charlie. “Give Aunt Erica one minute, okay? I need to do something first.” He gives a dramatic sigh.
Navigating back to the US Department of State site, I click on Passport Status and submit a trouble ticket regarding my missing passport. Wherever it is, whoever’s got it, doesn’t change the fact I still need a new one. A claim will need to be filed since there’s no way I’m jeopardizing my vacation to the BVI next month.
A couple of clicks later, I close Tish’s laptop and say to Charlie, “Okay, let’s go.”
But he takes my hand as soon as we enter the kitchen.
“You okay, buddy?”
He points.
A fine layer of dust covers the length of Tish’s counter, a thin veil of it swept across the marble and along the top of the dishwasher with more of it brushed on the floor. It’s the fingerprint dust the police officers used earlier.
A trail of it leads messily toward the door that opens to the garage. That’s where Jacob would have parked and walked in, and I peer around the corner. On the doorknob, another smattering of dust. The doorknob is something he would have touched, the dishwasher too, but in the police officers’ hurry, or just plain carelessness, they have let the fingerprint dust fall wherever they swept it from the container, making a mess, and not bothering to clean it up after.
“They put yucky stuff everywhere,” Charlie says, rooting his feet right where he stands. He points at the fridge. “My juice is in there.”
I tiptoe across the floor and move around another clump of dust left on the kitchen tile. In the fridge, I find a juice box.
Turning back around, there’s the bottle of wine next to the sink, the one Tish and I shared a few nights ago that is now pushed out of the way. The dish cloth with the rooster design I gave her is tossed to the side also. And across the dishwasher buttons, a fine coat of fingerprint dust settles between the creases.
I picture Jacob Andrews standing at that spot. The pictures of him pulling out pieces and parts while he posed with that horrible mustache smiling for Tish. It’s enough to make me tighten my jaw.
Again, who knew he could be that handy…
Charlie rips the juice straw from its plastic wrapping. “Mom said they were painting but I don’t think that’s what they were doing.”
I stare at the fingerprint dust.
“It’s a special kind of paint,” I tell him, playing along.
“There were so many people working in our house. Painting and asking Mommy questions. And that man who fixed our dishwasher? He said he wants our dishes nice and sparkly.” Charlie takes a sip of his juice, his cheeks sucking in until his eyes grow big and he stops to take a breath.
“That man? Are you talking about Mr. Jacob?”
“Yup. Mr. Jacob fixes things for us all the time.”
“Like what things?”
“The dishwasher, silly.” Charlie laughs. “I told you that.”
But something registers inside my belly, a strange wriggling feeling.
Kneeling down before Charlie, I ask, “You said he fixes things all the time. What other things?”
He looks at me funny. “The dishwasher, I said.”
“Only the dishwasher?”
“Every time,” Charlie says. “Always the same thing. Over and over.” And he laughs again. “He must really want us to have sparkly dishes.”
Tish runs into the kitchen. She stops short at the entry, nearly slamming into us.
“There’s a van outside my house.”
“What kind of van?”
She gestures to her son, not wanting him to fully understand, and says between clenched teeth, “The kind with reporters.”
I scoop my hand behind his back. “Okay, let’s go to your room. Mom has a visitor and we need to stay quiet.”
He kicks out a foot. “I’m so tired of being quiet.”
I jostle against his back. “I mean it, Charlie.” And with a gentle push, he moves.
“What should I do?” Tish’s voice drops to a whisper.
“Tell them, no comment. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”
She pulls frantically at her hair. “I don’t know.” Yanking at her bathrobe next: “I look like hell. I can’t go to the door like this.”
“You talked to the cops that way.”
She screeches, “This is different! They were banging on my door and—”
The sound of voices outside. Tish’s eyes bulge open.
Another look at Tish and she’s right. I don’t appear much better but at least I’m not still in my pajamas. I’m not ready to leap out of my skin.
“Okay, I’ll handle this.” Stepping toward the window, I look over my shoulder at Tish high-tailing it down the hall with her son.
I peek out from behind the curtains. Not only do I see one TV news van but also a marked SUV with the call letters WAFF 48 wrapped on one side. The videographer is setting up a wide shot of Tish’s front yard while a reporter walks steadily down the sidewalk toward the front door.
I brace myself. Here we go.
Opening the door, I don’t give the reporter a chance to knock even though she has her hand lifted, a smile on her face that broadens the moment she thinks there’s a chance we’re not leaving her out here empty-handed.
But she’s wrong.
“No comment,” I tell her without so much as stepping foot on the porch. “We have no comment at this time.” And I shut the door with a loud, and I admit, exaggerated, slam.
The reporter calls out, “Can we speak to Tish Abbott, please? Can you ask her to come to the door? We only have a few questions.”
The adrenaline runs through my body, my protectiveness of Tish.
I stand still on the other side and will the reporter to turn around and leave, the crew from the other news station too.
She knocks, followed by the ring of the doorbell. “Can you please ask Tish Abbott to speak to me?”
I shout through the door, “This is private property. Please step back!”
The reporter mumbles something unintelligible under her breath and gives up, the soft click of her heels against concrete as she returns to the van. To the videographer, she asks, “Did you get B-roll of the house at least?”
Another peek out the window and the crew is packing up their cameras and returning to the van. The door to the SUV also slams closed and both cars take off.
I breathe a huge sigh of relief.
But I know this is just the beginning. The reporters will try again this aft
ernoon. They’ll want to call too.
When I turn around, I see the whites of someone’s eyes staring back at me from the hall. It must be Charlie not wanting to listen to his mom. But then I realize, it’s Tish. She’s standing frighteningly still, one of her hands clenched in a fist. Another look of terror.
Facebook Group Post
Praying for Sabine Miller (Private Facebook Group)
Trevor Blankenship
July 6 at 9:08 a.m.
Updated Group Poll: We have a winner.
Is Sabine Miller alive or dead?
Alive, but only for a few more days. The clock is ticking—32 responses
Alive, and they should be expecting a ransom request any time now—25 responses
Dead, she was killed Saturday night—92 responses
Dead, she was killed this morning—78 responses
Eric Nichols Whoever this is, you’re sick.
Twenty-Two
A text message from Terry reminds me about our lunch.
I don’t respond immediately, thinking, I can’t leave Tish—not anymore. I can’t leave her alone while she’s hiding in her hall waiting for the next group of reporters to come calling. She needs me here.
I’m about to respond, no, when Tish returns to the living room. She steps gingerly, peeking around the corner when she spots the look on my face. “What’s wrong?”
I try playing it off and hike a thumb over my shoulder. “The reporters.”
“No.” She gestures at my phone. “You got a message. Is it Amanda?”
I look down, then at her slowly. “It’s Terry. He wants to go to lunch.”
“He’s back in town?”
“Yes.” But I hold out a hand. “I’m not going. I’m staying right here with you.”
She turns her head to the front door, a glance at the living room curtains I’ve pulled shut. “I’ll be fine,” she says.
“You didn’t seem fine five minutes ago.”
“I don’t need to answer the door, do I? And neither do you. I thought of that while I was hiding. I don’t have to answer the door, or my phone either. That’s as good as no comment, if not better. I shouldn’t be scared.”
“But what about Charlie?”
“I’ll keep him inside. We won’t go to the playground. We won’t go anywhere.”
“I shouldn’t leave you, Tish.” I begin typing I’m sorry to Terry.
“It’s just lunch,” she says. “You should go, it’s fine. But will you check on me later? That would be good.” She stares again at the front door. “It would help to know you’re coming back.”
A conflicted feeling spreads across my chest. Guilt for leaving Tish, but also the desire to see Terry.
“Are you sure you’ll be okay?”
“Absolutely,” she says. “It’s not like you’re going to be gone that long.”
“I can tell him, no. We can go another time—this weekend, in fact. Right now is too crazy.”
“Actually, this will work out. You can bring us food. I don’t have much here and it’s not like Charlie and I are going anywhere.” She reaches for her purse. “Will you order us cheeseburgers or something? I probably won’t eat but Charlie…” She tries handing me a twenty-dollar bill.
“Not necessary. I’ve got you.”
She returns the money to her purse and I hit backspace on my message, telling Terry: See you at 11:30.
I head home knowing I’ve got less than an hour to throw on some makeup and make the thirty-minute drive to Scottsboro.
It’s my first time leaving the neighborhood since before Sabine went missing, since before this horrible weekend, and I don’t dare take the route leading me closer to the Millers’ home, wanting to avoid Honors Row and the waterfall entrance at all costs. Police and news crews will be camped on that street, I’m sure.
Instead, I take a side road where the exit out of the neighborhood will shoot me closer to the bypass, and then ultimately, Highway 72 leading to Scottsboro.
But at the edge of the neighborhood, the sight of something large and white rocking gently in the wind causes me to slow down—a Missing Persons poster taped to the bottom of a Stop sign, the edges of the poster shifting slightly with the breeze. To my right, a long row of posters is staked along the grass with several more wrapped around the lamp posts. Along the fence, an even larger poster with Sabine’s smiling face staring back at me in full color. The word MISSING in bold black letters at the top, and beneath her picture, $250,000 Reward.
They’ve picked a photograph of her sitting outside, her shoulder-length blonde hair backlit by the sun with a beaming smile that brings a shine to her eyes. The photo has been taken mid-laugh, her mouth slightly parted with eyebrows arched, her hazel eyes crinkling at the corners with long lashes that have been touched up with the slightest dash of mascara. Another happy, relaxed day in the world of Sabine Miller.
I idle my car for several more seconds as I let my eyes wander to the additional posters lining the fence. Just like Amanda said, Heather Stephenson and her PTA crew have been busy. I can only imagine the waterfall entrance is covered with these things, the length of Honors Row too. The perfect backdrop for a TV reporter’s live shot.
I stare again at Sabine’s picture, her face that is tilted to one side as she laughs. She had no idea what was coming for her, only a feeling, and I say a silent prayer before shifting my car into drive and pulling onto the bypass.
Terry isn’t at the restaurant when I arrive. I timed the drive perfectly, pulling into the parking lot just before 11:30 and taking a seat at the back of the restaurant, not wanting to be late. Technically, he isn’t late either, not yet, but as I tap my watch, in another two minutes, he will be.
I’m not sure why he insists on meeting in this place. I get that his work takes him to Scottsboro sometimes, but why this bar and grill is beyond me. It’s classic hole-in-the-wall with its gravel parking lot, a door that creaks on hinges when it opens, and a concrete floor that echoes my footsteps along with the classic rock music playing in the background, the occasional thwack of a pool stick hitting against the cue ball.
The place is dark too, lights dimmed except for the glow of neon signs hanging above the bar. Besides me, there is one bartender, a waitress with an apron tied over her jean shorts and three men solemnly perched on bar stools. An older couple are the ones playing pool.
But Terry insists they have the best barbeque sandwich and it’s served in a bun he swears is homemade by the owner. I tried the sandwich the last time we were here; I’d beaten him in darts and he ordered us dinner. After one bite, I admitted to him he was right. It was one of the best things I’d ever eaten.
“See?” he said, proudly, as if he’d made the sandwich himself.
Another thwack of the pool stick as I glance at my watch again. 11:35 a.m. He’s late, and I settle against the vinyl booth.
The door opens, sunlight pouring in and blinding me as the person enters and is caught in a dark shadow. But I can already tell it’s Terry—the tall stance with his shoulders held back, the way he turns his head to stare directly at the corner where I sit, the exact same spot we met last time. He said he liked having a booth that’s out of the way. We can have a private conversation and not be disturbed.
I give a small wave and he walks forward, the bar light catching the side of his face so I can see him more clearly now: the thin mustache above his mouth, golden with flecks of brown, and a black baseball cap that he’s pulled tightly over his head, his blonde hair covered, although I catch a few strands above his ears. He’s wearing a white polo shirt and jeans, which seems casual for a day at work, but then I remember how he works in software sales and many in that industry, especially software developers and their managers, work in hoodies and T-shirts most days.
Terry cracks a smile and his eyes brighten. “How are you?” he asks, sliding into the seat across from me. “Did you order those sandwiches yet?” He throws me a wink which matches the cute Southern twang in his voice.
“I’m good,” I tell him, smiling too. “I figured we’d look at the menu first.”
“But that’s what we got last time.” He laughs and pushes the menu away. “You can’t tell me you’re gonna try anything else. Not here.”
“I might.” Teasing him, I scan the menu but it’s sparse. Besides offering a deli club and a platter of chicken fingers, the pork sandwich is what is highlighted at the top. Next to it, the words World Famous, although another look at this place and West Elm is far from spotlighting the world map. I pretend to agonize over my choices as the waitress appears, notepad at the ready, and I relent, asking for two barbeque sandwiches and glasses of water.
When the waitress leaves, Terry says, “Thank you again for meeting me here.”
I glance out the window but it’s spotty and covered with grime. The parking lot and shopping center across the street are barely visible through the glass. “Do you have more work to do this afternoon?”
“Two more appointments,” he says, his eyes settling on my face. “But I’m so glad we could meet up.”
“I called in sick,” I tell him. “I wanted to help with the search but it’s been called off in the neighborhood for now.”
“I heard about that.” His eyes turn down. “The poor Millers. I can’t believe they’re going through something like this.”
“Me either.”
“Did you know Sabine?”
And I flinch—his use of past tense. Surely he’s not like the people in that Facebook group who are counting her out.
“I saw her at the pool…” I start to say but don’t finish. I’m not sure if I want to monopolize our lunch telling him about what has transpired the last few days. Sabine’s look that continues to haunt me, and certainly not about Tish and Jacob Andrews.
“Do you think they’ll find her?” he asks.
“I sure hope so.”
The Missing Woman: Utterly gripping psychological suspense with heart-thumping twists Page 13
