turn back to the salesman. “Where did your girlfriend stay in the meantime? After that guy took off with her wallet, I mean.”
“Oh. Well, she couch surfed and stayed with me for a while until she found this sweet boardinghouse over on the Westside. Most places want some kind of credit card number as a guarantee, but this boardinghouse was cool with her paying cash, especially after she told them her sob story.”
I realize this is only the first hurdle of many. I have no home, no ID, no more than a couple grand to my name. But I have a sob story, one that’s so much sadder than this guy’s girlfriend’s, and I have something even better. Determination.
The smile that sneaks up my cheeks is genuine. “Do you remember the boardinghouse name?”
JEFFREY
The man on the other side of my door is not in uniform, but everything about him screams cop—dark pants, pressed button-down shirt, his soldier’s stance and the gun strapped to a hip. Behind him on the driveway, an unmarked sedan ticks off the heat.
He flashes a badge. “Detective Marcus Durand, Pine Bluff PD. I understand you have some concerns about your wife?” His voice is low, his words businesslike. I search him for even a hint of concern, but I can’t find anything beyond a weary intensity.
I swing the door wide and step back. “Thanks for coming.”
My tone is thick with sarcasm, because I’ve been waiting for hours. Six of them, at least, trying to get some rest on the couch despite Ingrid standing above me, huffing like an angry dragon. The longer he kept us waiting, the harder she stomped on the floor, poking me on the shoulder every half hour to ask how it was possible for me to sleep. “I just lie down and close my eyes,” I told her. “Maybe you should try it.”
If the detective hears the snark in my voice, he doesn’t acknowledge it. He’s younger than me, midthirties maybe, and half a foot taller. He fills my foyer with his presence and size, making me feel small in my jeans and bare feet. I wish I’d changed into something nicer. I wish I had on some shoes. His jaw is set with the gravity of the situation. A missing woman, an after-hours house call means he’s taking this seriously.
But not seriously enough to show up on time.
He looks around, his gaze pausing on the curved staircase, the custom newels with vertical slats, the antique Turkish rug under his feet—none of which he can afford on a detective’s salary. None of which I could have afforded, either, were it not for Sabine. I consider telling him my wife made the million-dollar club four years running, that when it comes to decor she knows how to get the best bang for your buck, but then his gaze lands on Ingrid, standing at the doorway to the kitchen.
“Something’s wrong,” she says, her voice high and tight. In the light of day, I notice her sneakers are mismatched, one black, the other blue, both of them untied. “Something is terribly wrong, I just know it.”
“And you are?”
“Ingrid Stanfield. Sabine’s sister.” She juts a thumb into the next room. “I’ve made some notes. They’re in the kitchen.”
Detective Durand shifts his weight, but his shoes stay planted to the hardwood. He turns to me, pulling a notepad from the front pocket of his pants. “I understand your wife didn’t return home last night?”
I give him a perfunctory nod. “Sabine had a late showing, something that happens fairly often these days. She’s a real estate broker, a really good one. She texted me earlier in the day that she would be home by nine, but she never showed up. I’ve called her multiple times. Her phone rings, but it keeps sending me to voice mail.”
“I’ve called her, too,” Ingrid says, nodding. “I’ve been calling her all night. Can you maybe trace her cell phone? I’m worried she’s had an accident, that she’s hurt somewhere and needs help.”
Detective Marcus checks the time, by now closing in on nine in the morning, and he looks as exhausted as I feel. Drooping shoulders and pale, lined face. I’m guessing this is the end of his shift, and not the beginning.
“Could she have gone anywhere else?” he says, in a tone that’s a tad too calm. He sounds like he’s holding back a sigh, or maybe a yawn. Maybe both. “To a friend’s or family member’s house, or maybe grabbed a