Someone We Know - Shari Lapena Page 0,1

looks at Robert warily, or as if he feels sorry for him. Robert doesn’t like it.

‘What did she take with her?’ the officer asks. ‘A suitcase? Her passport?’

‘She was packed for the weekend, yes. She had an overnight case. And her purse. I – I don’t know if she took her passport.’ He adds, ‘She said she was going to park at the station and take the train into Manhattan for a shopping weekend with Caroline. But I went through the parking lot first thing this morning, and I didn’t see her car there.’

‘I don’t mean to be insensitive,’ the officer says, ‘but … are you sure she’s not seeing someone else? And lying to you about it?’ He adds gently, ‘I mean, if she lied to you about going off with her friend … maybe she’s not really missing.’

Robert says, ‘I don’t think she would do that. She would tell me. She wouldn’t just leave me hanging.’ He knows he sounds stubborn. ‘I want to report her missing,’ he insists.

‘Were there problems at home? Was your marriage okay?’ the officer asks.

‘It was fine.’

‘Any kids?’

‘No.’

‘All right. Let me take down your particulars, and a description, and we’ll see what we can do,’ the officer says reluctantly. ‘But honestly, it sounds like she left of her own accord. She’ll probably turn up. People take off all the time. You’d be surprised.’

Robert looks at the officer coldly. ‘Are you not even going to look for her?’

‘Can I have your address, please?’

Chapter One

Saturday, October 14

OLIVIA SHARPE SITS in her kitchen drinking a cup of coffee, gazing blankly out the glass sliding doors to the backyard. It’s mid-October, and the maple tree near the back fence is looking splendid in its reds and oranges and yellows. The grass is still green, but the rest of the garden has been prepared for winter; it won’t be long before the first frost, she thinks. But for now, she enjoys the yellow sunlight filtering through her backyard and slanting across her spotless kitchen. Or she tries to. It’s hard to enjoy anything when she is coming to a slow boil inside.

Her son, Raleigh, still isn’t up. Yes, it’s Saturday, and he’s been in school all week, but it’s two o’clock in the afternoon, and it drives her crazy that he’s still asleep.

She puts down her coffee and trudges once again up the carpeted stairs to the second floor. She hesitates outside her son’s bedroom door, reminds herself not to yell, and then knocks lightly and opens it. As she expected, he’s sound asleep. His blanket is still over his head – he pulled it over his head the last time she came in, a half-hour ago. She knows he hates it when she tells him to get up, but he doesn’t do it on his own, and what is she supposed to do, let him sleep all day? On the weekends she likes to let him relax a little, but for Christ’s sake, it’s mid-afternoon.

‘Raleigh, get up. It’s after two o’clock.’ She hates the edge she hears in her voice, but she expends so much energy trying to get this boy out of bed every day, it’s hard not to resent it.

He doesn’t so much as twitch. She stands there looking down at him, feeling a complicated mix of love and frustration. He’s a good boy. A smart but unmotivated student. Completely lovable. He’s just lazy – not only will he not get out of bed on his own, but he doesn’t do his homework, and he doesn’t help with chores around the house without endless nagging. He tells her he hates her nagging. Well, she hates it, too. She tells him that if he did what she asked the first time, she wouldn’t have to repeat herself, but he doesn’t seem to get it. She puts it down to his being sixteen. Sixteen-year-old boys are murder. She hopes that by the time he’s eighteen or nineteen, his prefrontal cortex will be more developed, and he will have better executive function and start being more responsible.

‘Raleigh! Come on, get up.’ He still doesn’t move, doesn’t acknowledge her existence, not even with a grunt. She sees his cell phone lying face up on his bedside table. If he won’t get up, fine, she’ll confiscate his cell phone. She imagines his hand flailing around, reaching for it before he even takes the covers off his head. She snatches the phone and leaves the room, slamming the door behind her.