“Why did you wait all day to talk to me about this?” I ask.
“I didn’t want to bring it up in front of Jack; he doesn’t need to hear all this.”
I go over to him, place a hand on his shoulder, but he just sits there, square-jawed and solid in his chair, his hands digging farther into his armpits.
I lean down and place my hands on his face. Stare directly into his hazel eyes.
“You have to believe me. Margot’s text meant nothing. She was with someone that day and the man brought a friend but I promise, nothing happened between us.”
“I hate this,” he says, the words hissing out of his mouth.
“I do, too,” I admit. “I won’t hang out with them anymore, if that helps.”
“You do what you want. You know I’m not controlling like that,” he sighs. “But don’t turn me into the type of person who feels as though they need to snoop through their spouse’s phone.”
His chair scrapes the floor as he pushes it back from the table. He stands and slams his glass of wine, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt.
“Honey,” I say, my voice quiet and demure, “I love you. I wouldn’t do anything to mess us up.” I stand on my tiptoes and plant a kiss on top of Graham’s head, grab his hand and give it a tight squeeze.
He simply nods, but the gloominess in the room is slowly beginning to evaporate. He steps out onto the back patio, and I know him well enough not to follow him out there. Whenever we fight—even after we’ve made up, as I hope we have just now—he always needs a little space.
37
WE’RE FINISHING THElast of dinner. Jack is parked on my lap, his tanned hands resting on my arms as I drag the last piece of spaghetti through a puddle of olive oil.
He’s been extra clingy tonight, as if he can sense our discord, so I’m trying to flood him with attention, erase those pinched lines of worry that are stamped along his forehead. When I set my fork down, he grabs my hands and brings them to his chubby neck so I’ll tickle him. Which I gladly do over and over.
Graham has the television on. Normally, we don’t watch TV while we eat, but the Spurs are playing against Golden State and he wants to see the outcome. But really, I think he’s just trying to burrow further into his cocoon and ignore me for the evening.
I’m actually relieved, and as soon as Jack bounds off my lap and toddles down the hall toward his room, I split the remainder of the wine between our two glasses.
It has warmed by now; I prefer it cold, but it’s so soothing I don’t bother to refrigerate it and wait for it to chill. The last of my hangover is slowly melting away, and I slide an empty chair toward me and throw my feet up in the seat.
I’m not paying all that much attention to the game, but I sit up and take notice when the local news cuts through and a picture of a teenage girl fills the screen.
It’s a photo of Abby.
And beneath it, a headline beams out at me like a scream:LOCAL GIRL MISSING SINCE LAST NIGHT.
I set my glass down, grip Graham’s arm. Grab the remote and stab at the volume button to raise the sound.
“A Mapleton teenager, Abby Wilson, aged seventeen, has been missing since late yesterday evening,” a tiny, blond reporter says. She’s parked behind the news desk while her co-anchor, a broad-shouldered man with graying hair and concerned eyes, delivers the rest of the news, which I can hardly hear with the blood roaring in my ears.
—
“ABBY WAS LASTseen by her boyfriend, Brad Simmons, late last night when he dropped her off in her driveway after a date. The couple had dined earlier in the evening with Abby’s parents, Marcie and Bruce Wilson, who report never having heard Abby come home. When they woke early this morning, at around five a.m., Marcie peeked into Abby’s room and discovered her daughter’s bed was still made.”
A picture of Brad in his football uniform is flashed across the screen next, followed by a picture of Abby’s parents.
Marcie, Abby’s mother, is short and fresh-faced. Pretty but plain-looking, no makeup on, wispy blond hair pulled into a ponytail, and dressed simply in pale pink sweats. Her husband, Bruce, looks like a science teacher, with black-rimmed glasses and a button-down, short-sleeved oxford shirt.
Marcie is a stay-at-home mom, the anchor tells us, and Bruce is, in fact, a schoolteacher. Not a science teacher but rather algebra at the local middle school.
“Oh my god, Graham,” I say, my voice wobbly. “I know this girl.”
He starts to respond but I shush him so I can hear the rest of the story.
“Police aren’t assuming foul play at this early stage,” the male anchor continues, “and are hoping that Abby returns home quickly and safely. But please, if you have any information at all, call the number on the bottom of the screen.”
