“No, stay here. If you don’t see me in fifteen minutes, text me, and if I don’t respond, call the police.”
“Ten,” Gwen says, opening up her phone and starting the timer. “I’ll give you ten minutes.”
“Fine. But text first. Don’t call the police unless I don’t text back, promise?”
“I guess.”
“Promise me, Gwen.”
“Fine. I promise.”
Aimee gets out and trudges up the driveway. In the tumultuous days since Scott’s disappearance, she thought she had felt every single emotion there was to feel—anger, betrayal, grief, loss, vulnerability, despair. But this is a new one.
Fear.
A faded wood sign hangs next to the door proclaimingHome Sweet Home. The house has seen better days. Green algae grows thick on the house’s siding, spreading upward from the concrete base. On the window to the right of the door a loose screen hangs on as if by its fingernails. A strong wind would send it flying, Aimee thinks. She knocks on the door and waits. From inside comes a shuffling sound and her whole body tenses, readying.
The door opens. A woman stands on the other side of the screen door. “Hi, Aimee,” she says.
It takes a second to register that it’s Cathy. The woman before her is much younger and fitter-looking than the Cathy she knows. Gone are the filmy Eileen Fisher clothes, the tight bun, the chunky glasses. This Cathy wears tight-fitting blue jeans, a flannel shirt, and boots, and her hair is braided loosely, hanging over one shoulder.
No one would mistake her for a librarian. She looks like what her dad would calla tough broad. “You don’t seem surprised to see me,” Aimee says, barely able to get the words out. Her bravado masks her nerves. Her heart is beating so hard she can feel it in her belly.
“I’m not, really. I was wondering if you’d track me down. Come in, please.” She steps back, inviting Aimee inside. “You must have a lot of questions for me.”
Aimee stands there a moment, looks over her shoulder to her truck. A part of her wants to walk back, climb in, call the police, and sit there to wait with Gwen. But mostly she’s dying to get inside and confront Cathy. She has so many questions. She follows Cathy through a cramped living room to a small kitchen that overlooks an empty field in the back. The house feels heavy and dark. Even the big windows in the kitchen are no match for the depressing, dark-wood cabinets and mustard-yellow linoleum counters.
“So, this is where you really live?” Aimee pauses at the entrance, unsure if she wants to go any further.
“It’s where I’ve been staying, but I’ll be hitting the road soon.” Cathy puts a kettle on the stove. “It’s an Airbnb, but if you ask me, I’m being ripped off. The water pressure’s lousy and it’s drafty as hell. I’m going to make some tea. Would you like some?”
“Where’s Scott?”
Cathy ignores this question. “What about your friend? The one in the truck? Would she like to come in and have sometea?” She picks up an aluminum tea kettle and takes it to the sink.
Aimee tries to hide her surprise. Had Cathy been watching from the window? “I think she’s fine. Now, where is my husband? What did you do with him?”
Cathy smiles. “Are you here to rescue him, Aimee? That’s very brave of you. You must love him very much.”
“I do. I want to see him.” Aimee senses that beneath Cathy’s friendly words lies an undercurrent of threat. Whatever fury Aimee feels toward Scott for keeping her in the dark, there is something that stopped it from consuming her. Love. She loves Scott, and he loves her. Whatever lies he told her, she knows that wasn’t one of them. He gave her Noa and Benji and Max. He gave her fourteen wonderful years. “I do love him. That’s why I am here.”
Cathy puts the full kettle on the stove.Click, click, click—she ignites the burner and a blue flame whooshes up, which she lowers. Cathy turns around. “Have a seat, Aimee. Then text your friend to come inside. Tell her everything is fine.”
Aimee scoffs. “Why would I do that? You still haven’t told me where Scott is. I could just call the police right now.”
“And tell them what? You can call the police, but I haven’t done anything illegal. As for Scott, he’s not here. But he’s fine.” Cathy crosses her arms over her chest. “Now, if you want the answers you came here for, text your friend and tell her to come inside.”
“Fine.” Aimee picks up her phone.
“Not so fast,” Cathy says, walking over. “Let me see what it is you’re writing.” She stands over Aimee’s shoulder as she types. Once she’s sent the message, Cathy takes the phone.
“I’ll keep this for now.” Cathy drops it in a wicker basket next to a wood-paneled microwave. “You can have it back when you leave.”
A few moments later there’s a knock on the door. “Tell her to come in,” Cathy says.
“Come in,” Aimee calls. “We’re back here.”
Gwen comes through the door and stops short when she sees the look on Aimee’s face. “Is everything okay?”