dark sunglasses, spotted heading west. But there’s nothing, and I’m torn between relief and dread. You’ll be looking for me by now.
I shower and dress in the clothes I bought earlier at Walmart, a dowdy denim skirt and a shirt two sizes too big. The duffel on the bed is stuffed with clothes just like them, synthetic fabrics in Easter egg colors, cheap and outdated items I’d normally turn up my nose at. In my former life, I would have turned up my nose at Beth, too. With her baggy clothes and dollar-store hair, Beth is a frump.
I leave the key on the nightstand, gather up my things and step outside.
Sometime in the past few hours, clouds have rolled in, a dark and threatening blanket hanging over muggy, electrically charged air. The wind is still, but it won’t be for long. I’ve lived in these parts long enough to know what a wall cloud looks like, and that they often swirl into tornadoes. A bolt of lightning rips the sky in two, clean as a knife slash. Time to either hunker down or get the hell out of Dodge. I choose door number two.
My car is exactly where I left it, at the far edge of the lot next to the dumpster, though “my” is a relative term since the car doesn’t officially belong to me. It belongs to a Marsha Anne Norwood of Little Rock, Arkansas, a woman who seemed as eager for a discreet, all-cash transaction as I was. I bought it two weeks ago, then moved it from lot to lot in a neighboring town, but I never transferred the title to my name.
I peek inside and things are exactly as I left them. The keys, dropped in the cup holder. The title, folded on the front seat. The doors, unlocked. I cast a quick glance up the asphalt, taking in the other cars, jalopies like this one. My car is no prize, but it’s an easy target. A jackpot for any wannabe thief. No, Marsha Anne’s car won’t be here for long.
I turn, head to Dill’s Auto Repairs & Sales across the road.
“You can’t buy a car,” you told me once, when it was time for me to trade up. “Just keep your mouth shut and let me handle it.”
Dill might disagree, seeing as I’m able to sweet-talk more than 10 percent off a 1996 Buick Regal. It’s a rusty old pile of junk, but the motor runs and the price is right, especially once I discover that Dill likes it when I call him “Sugar.” He forks over the paperwork and the address for the nearest Oklahoma DMV, which I promise to visit first thing in the morning. If I hurry, I’ll be in the next state by the time the office doors open.
He hands me the keys and I fall inside and crank the engine, right as the skies open up.
JEFFREY
The first number I call is Sabine’s, even though I know before I dial the first digit it’s a waste of time. If Sabine is pissed, if she’s punishing me for something, she’s not going to pick up.
And if something’s happened... My stomach twitches, and I push the thought aside.
Her phone rings, four eternal beeps, then flips me to voice mail.
“Sabine, it’s me. Did I forget you were going somewhere tonight? Because I got the message where you said you’d be home by nine, but now it’s almost midnight and you’re still not here. Call me back, will you? I’m at home, and I’m starting to get a little worried. Okay, bye.”
I hang up, think about calling 9-1-1, but she’s what, less than three hours late? Not long enough to be an emergency. And don’t the police require a minimum of twenty-four hours before you can report a person missing? What am I going to tell them, that my wife missed her curfew?
I slip my cell in my pocket and pace the length of the upstairs hallway. Okay, so I know she had a showing. A late showing. Even if it ran over, even if it were all the way on the other side of town and she decided to grab a bite to eat before coming home, she would have been here by now.
And it’s not like Sabine to ignore her phone. It’s one of her least desirable job requirements, that she’s always, always available. From the moment she wakes up until the time she goes to sleep, there’s a device either in