She doesn’t understand why her best friend abandoned her.
A single scratch behind her ears is all I can manage. She’s Grace’s dog through and through. From the moment we met her at the rescue, Belle knew she’d found her person. She was Grace’s shadow, her protector, and her security blanket for six months. Hell, the last photo I took of my wife was with Belle out on the back deck at sunset.
It’s my phone’s lock screen. In a frame on my desk at work. And that moment—that one perfect moment when Belle put her paws on Grace’s shoulder and licked her ear—haunts me. Because I keep trying to picture Grace laughing like she did that day, but I can’t. Whenever I close my eyes, all I see is my wife alone, broken, and in pain.
I kick off my boots and trudge into the bedroom. It’s the only room that still smells like Grace. Every Saturday, I walk ten miles of the Butler Trail around where she disappeared, and when I get home, I shower with her soap and add a single spray of her perfume to her pillow.
For six months, my sanity has been tethered to that fucking pillow.
Stripping off my jeans, tie, and dress shirt, I sink down onto the bed and drop my head into my hands, fingers digging into my scalp as if I can pull the pain out of me.
Austin PD suspended their investigation into her disappearance today.
My wife is officially a “cold case.”
If it weren’t for Jasper, I’d probably be in jail right now. Having to stand next to those APD assholes as they announced there’d been no new leads since early summer did me in. I was about to lose my shit when my brother clamped a hand down on my shoulder.
“AJ…don’t.”
I wanted to punch every cop at that fucking news conference. Every cop who worked the case and failed to find even a single goddamned lead.
But most of all, I wanted to wrap my hands around Lieutenant Davy’s neck and squeeze the life out of him for saying that whoever took Grace was clearly “a professional”—the universal code for “human trafficker.”
My beautiful, smart, talented wife is probably some demented asshole’s personal sex slave—if she’s even still alive.
Belle’s cold nose swipes along my neck. Hoarse, gut-wrenching sobs catch in my throat. I slide to the floor, wrapping my arms around the dog and letting six fucking months of pain cut me so deep, sixty pounds of fur and sadness is all that’s holding me together.
Jasper calls me three times before I pick myself up off the floor and dump food into Belle’s bowl. I should make myself dinner—something besides a frozen burrito and tater tots—but I only enjoyed cooking when Grace was here to eat with me.
Still, if I aim to keep walking the trail week after week, I’m gonna need to start eating more. I had to punch a fresh notch in my belt this morning—the second since she disappeared.
While the burrito and tots heat up, I head for my home office. APD froze me out of the case after only three days, so I took matters into my own hands.
The bulletin board takes up half the wall. Grace’s photo is tacked dead center, and every lead I uncover goes on an index card, scrap of paper, or torn napkin—whatever I have nearby. And there are dozens of them. All cataloged by time, location, potential suspect.
Three separate security cameras caught images of Grace in the hour before her GPS signal stopped moving. Five other runners remember seeing her that day, but I haven’t found a single fucking person who was on the trail between two and three p.m.
That lake is one of the most popular recreation areas in Austin. How was she out there all alone on a sunny day in April?
Grace’s last email is tacked in the upper left corner of the board. One of her students asked if he could turn in his final art project early.
Joshua,
Looks like I’ll be in town after all this weekend. If you can meet me at my classroom at noon on Saturday, I’ll be happy to grade your painting for you.
-Professor Stone
APD couldn’t interview the kid for almost two weeks. He’d been on his honeymoon. But half a dozen of his friends and one of the local bar owners alibied him. Apparently he’d gone right from the community college to his bachelor party.
The wind starts to howl, and fat raindrops pelt the windows. With a low hum, the heater kicks on, and I wonder if Grace is somewhere warm.
She could be cold. Wet. In pain.
Or dead.
“I’ll find you, Grace. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll bring you home.”
Belle starts to bark, and a few seconds later, the doorbell rings.
