NINE

NOW

I’m paralyzed, staring. I can’t believe what I’m looking at. Inside Liam’s desk, almost falling out the back end of the drawer, is his passport. Attached to it, a yellow stick-it note that reads “Renew before Santiago.” I lose my breath a moment, then open it and see the thumbnail photo of his face and the date. We were set to go to Santiago in May; it was now October. This passport expired months ago. My first thought is that he renewed it and had a new one, in whatever country he’d disappeared to with his new lover. But no. He didn’t renew this. He couldn’t have. Why would the note still be on it? Why wouldn’t this old one be back in the file cabinet at the house if he’d renewed it? He’s completely anal when it comes to organization and important documents being in alphabetical order in a locked cabinet.

It would make sense that he’d bring it to the condo because there were no passport offices in Sugar Grove. He was in Chicago all the time. He must have left it here so he could get it renewed next time he was in town, but he never had. Oh my God. If he didn’t have this, it changed everything.

Besides the lame investigation they did in Sugar Grove—for a few perfunctory days until they presented me with evidence that it wasn’t a missing persons case—they also did some basic searching in Chicago. They talked to friends, coworkers, looked through the condo, but they certainly didn’t get to any deep searching because of the speed at which Liam had taken off.

I’d looked in every file, every drawer, every possible hiding place for clues, for love letters, a burner phone like those used by people up to no good, maybe for a list of passwords in order to log in and see his computer contents, but I hadn’t seen this—his expired passport, caught by its weathered corner in the roller of the desk drawer.

A familiar tingling grazes my shoulders and taps down my arms and spine. Panic. Then, a flash, a warmth like alcohol hitting the bloodstream. My heart pounds in my ears. What does this mean? My first instinct is to call Detective Sterling—to tell him he was wrong and Liam is here, somewhere, and something terrible has happened to him. But, so far, despite his attempts at compassion or professionalism (which one, I’m not quite sure), he’d treated me like a hysterical drunk who had driven her husband away. Reading people this way is a blessing and a curse. Underneath his thin smile and shifty eye contact, it was clear exactly what he thought of me.

I need to be prepared when I present this so I won’t be politely dismissed, Sterling unaffectedly reiterating the other evidence and offering a simple explanation for the expired passport. But what could explain it?

I pull out a fat pack of Liam’s beloved stick-it notes and look around the condo for a place to work this out. The condo is small but neat. The brick around the fireplace wraps around half the living room, creating a cozy vibe. The windows that face the busy alley and overlook miles of rooftops and busy shops below reach from floor to ceiling; they lead out to the fire escape that we’ve always treated as a tiny balcony—enough room for a few flowering plants and a couple small chairs if you place them on rubber mats so the legs don’t slip through the grated slats. You had to shimmy over the low windowsill to get out and pretend the fire escape was a balcony, but everyone did so, and it was a deliciously urban way to live.

The interior, with its hundred-year-old crown molding and ornate wooden detail along the banister and built-in cabinets, is also worlds away from our grand house in Sugar Grove. I take down a painting that hangs on the brick wall above the table in the tiny dining room, and fill the wall with stick-it notes.

Each note lists a reason Sterling has for deciding there was no foul play involved.

“Liam withdrew money after the accident, near airport.” Underneath, I list possible reasons for this besides their theory that he was heading out of town. Like, what if he was forced at gunpoint to do so? What if they forced him to give them his PIN?

“His phone was pinging all the next day after he disappeared. (Until, what? He left the country?)” What if he were in someone’s trunk? What if they were using his phone? When I write these things down rather than just think them, it starts to sound a little more implausible, maybe even like a bad Law & Order episode. All together on paper, it seems...well, crazy. I continue anyway.

“He took out a large sum of money shortly before the accident.” I don’t have an explanation for this one. No money was found in the house or condo. The first few weeks after the accident, I wanted to believe he’d planned to surprise me with something—that Zales would call and ask for Liam Finley to tell him the diamond pendant he’d ordered was in. Ridiculous, I know, but my mind reaches, desperate for an explanation. If he’d purchased something, I’d know by now. Even if it were the motorcycle he’d always wanted, and I’d found out he’d bought it and was keeping it in the neighbor’s shed, or something, until he had the courage to tell me, I’d jump for joy, but there was no trail to follow. If he’d taken this “large sum,” this six thousand dollars somewhere, then what does that mean?

I wrote “drug dealer?” on another stick-it note and placed it under the one that said “large withdrawal.” I immediately peel it back off the wall and crumple it up, whipping it to the floor.

That light whisper of panic pricking down my arms returns. It always snuck in without warning: when I had to hit the brakes too hard in traffic; when I was struck with the knowledge I was going to be late for something, or the horror of realizing I’d hit Reply All. Once, when Potato dug beneath the fence and disappeared for an afternoon before showing back up at the screen door at dinnertime, the same unexpected intrusion took over my body. A tremor, a sweep of numb.

I fight it. I open a fresh bottle of red and sit at the dining table, staring at the crumpled note.

“Drug dealer.” No. Not Liam. But if he did take the money with him, why only six thousand? Why not wipe out savings, or do exactly what would be in his character to do, and take half? He’d be fair, that’s who he was; even in the throes of this insanity, he’d still do that. I know he would. Besides, six thousand was specific, and it had to mean something. I write a question mark on another note and placed it beneath the words “large withdrawal.”

“Passport NOT missing” goes up on the wall next. I pour another drink and sit again, studying this phrase. It’s the first sliver of hope I’ve had in so very long—the thought of Liam stopping at the condo at lunch to collect the mail and grabbing the suit I told him he should wear to the book signing party, the one I liked, and scribbling a quick reminder for himself to “Renew before Santiago.” He’d never leave something as important as a passport sitting out in the open. He’d put it in a drawer the way he did. I’d laugh at him for that and ask him what could possibly happen to it on top of the desk versus in the desk, and he would, without a doubt, tell me that it’s the principle. You conceal your valuables.

I wouldn’t have smiled and let it go. I would have said, “Maybe if a city window washer happened to be rapelling down the side of our building and spotted it inside our locked windows on the fifth floor, and concocted a master plan to come back later to break in and steal your expired passport so he could assume your identity and flee the country, then you have a point.” He would appreciate the joke and smirk, but he’d still put it in the drawer. I smile at the memory of him for the first time since Len had given me the letter.

Then a thought stops me cold. My hopefulness dissolving into pure, distilled panic. What if he’d told the passport office that his passport was lost or stolen? When my car was broken into and mine was stolen, that’s how I reported it. We’d just come back from a trip, and I shouldn’t have left it on the seat, but I had my back turned for thirty seconds, max. This was the difference between us. I’d take that thirty-second risk, thinking the odds were stacked in my favor. He would hide his valuables, even in the security of his home. If anyone thought that one of the people in this relationship would do something impulsive, it would be me, a hundred times over. The way I did moving into radio and TV seemingly out of nowhere. It wasn’t a negative thing, necessarily, but it would never be like Liam to lead with impulse.

I don’t remember if I just had to pay a little more for the new passport because it was stolen, but I remember it wasn’t a problem. They reported it as just that: stolen, and then they’d issued me a new one as normal. He could have gotten a new one and still have had his old one, if he’d never found this one stuck in the drawer. There must be a simple way to check this. But even as his spouse, I can’t imagine they’d give me information like this. I’d have to tell Sterling. He’d have to look into it, but would he take it seriously?

I feel close to losing my mind. What earthly reason would he have to leave a note on an expired passport, just to report it lost and get a new one? He didn’t try to cover up any of the other so-called “pieces of evidence.” It just doesn’t add up, so I decide to keep the twinge of hope I’d felt upon finding it. He didn’t leave me. He’s in trouble somewhere, and he needs my help.

Another thought strikes me, and I leap to my feet, feeling instantly sober and alert.

“Holy fucking shit,” I murmur, rifling through a file folder I had on the counter that contained all of my missing persons posters, news articles, everything connected to his disappearance, including the letter Len brought me. A printed email, folded once, and slipped into a small envelope. I pull it out violently and read it again. It’s not addressed to anyone. There isn’t even a “to whom it may concern.” It reads like an email draft he might add a name to and send later. I look at each word carefully.

Jesus. He could have been writing this to his boss, Samuel Richter, for all I know. This could have easily been a resignation letter as a breakup letter. It reads like thoughts that he’d polish up later—like the subtext of a play. It might have been how he felt, but since it wasn’t sent and wasn’t even addressed to anyone, maybe it was just the ramblings of a guy fed up with his job. I know he was tired of traveling so often. I know he was growing weary from the backlash after a bad review. The night we found our car covered in eggs in the parking lot after we left a food and wine festival was the first time he’d verbalized it—that maybe he’d like to take a year off and write a cookbook—that he’d loved his run as a critic, but he still wanted to do other things, maybe a sommelier certification, something new and exciting.

I feel a flood of comfort. I almost cry with relief, like a person escaping captivity—there is a split second where the realization that he may not have abandoned me on purpose jolts my heart and forces spontaneous tears, but if I’m honest, Liam lying on a beach with someone else would be best-case scenario at this point. At least he’d be safe.

I cry until my face is pink from exhaustion and my eyes are swollen into thin slits; then, when I’m aching from the exertion, I take the half joint out of a tea tin it’s been in for over a year, easily, and I climb out onto the fire escape and sit looking into the unremarkable evening, swelling with envy for the folks below, going about their normal lives.

The building behind us creates a partial view of a brick wall, but below, you can see the busy shops and an Italian restaurant we used to frequent. I see a couple walk into it. They look small from my fifth-floor vantage point, but I notice the man place his hand on the small of her back to guide her inside. Such a small gesture, but it makes me throb with longing for Liam.

I am distracted by a sound I can’t place, a crackling. If I weren’t so drunk, I may have thought to snuff out my joint instinctually upon hearing someone else, but instead I inhale slowly and look around for the noise. One fire escape over and down a floor, I see a man carefully placing plastic bags over the remaining hanging plants on his fire escape to shield them from the coming frost.

I admire the care he takes, tucking in each delicate leaf. I hear something playing in the background, coming from his cracked window and spilling out into the night air. Billie Holiday? After a while he sits and opens a beer. I can see his profile. It’s Marty Nash, the computer guy.

I’m surprised at the delicate way he cares for the plants because his apathetic demeanor the other day doesn’t seem to match the careful botanist listening to Billie Holiday (of all things) that I’m seeing now.

I think of his business card and almost say hello, to start a conversation, so if I do try to hire him at some point, he may not think I’m some scorned wife, stalking her ex or something. I don’t know why it matters. I just want to be discreet. And I’m pretty sure asking someone to legitimately hack someone else’s account is at least a misdemeanor. Illegal for sure, at any rate. I need him to be on my side.

Suddenly, he sniffs the air and looks around. Oh, God. He can smell the marijuana. Smart. Great! I smash it out on the arm of my chair, but he’s already looked up and sees me there, frantically stamping out the cherry that had fallen on the rubber mat beneath my chair like a lunatic.

“Sorry,” I holler, “for all the noise—my—I dropped my...clove cigarette.” Did I just say that? Do they even make clove cigarettes anymore? I’m glad he can’t see my cheeks flush with embarrassment.

“That’s okay,” he says.

“Sorry,” is all I could manage, again.

“I have an extra...clove,” he says, concealing a smirk.

“Huh?” Is he making fun of me? I’m not sure what he means.

“Looks like you really smashed the hell out of that one. Just saying, I have another if you need it.” He holds out a joint. I can see it in his hand, the right side of his body illuminated by the stream of warm light from the lamp inside his apartment. I let out a shrill laugh—a sound that I didn’t intend to make. Liam liked to smoke a joint now and then, but I tried it exactly twice. Once in Amsterdam and once on a camping trip. Maybe it was just the paranoia, but I felt like I was being trapped in some undercover cop show every time I did it.

“Oh,” was all I could answer, with a tone of surprise and uncertainty. I didn’t dare climb the few stairs over to his unit. The alcohol and pot mixed together made me slur my words slightly, and I imagine, in my dizzying fog, slipping to my death. Would I die from a fall off the fifth floor? Probably. I read that once, that five stories was the cutoff. You’d maybe survive. Any higher, guaranteed death. I think I’d rather fall from higher. The stairs that connect one escape to the other are safe enough, just not in my condition.

“I’m okay, thanks,” I finally say, but already he has, with the ease of a sober person, scaled the few stairs and handed me a joint. I take it, surprised, and he just steps back down to his escape and drinks his beer. No attempt at small talk—more like the flyer guy I remember him being in the lobby.

“Thanks,” I say down in his direction.

“You look like you could use it,” he says matter-of-factly. It doesn’t sound like an insult, just an observation followed by a generous gesture, but I’m still mortified. Had he heard me sobbing? He could certainly see my bloated, red face as he reached over the railing to hand me the joint. It would be nice to finally have anonymous neighbors who don’t know me or see me as a walking train wreck for a change.

I thank him again and climb back inside my window, embarrassed and drunk. I puff down the joint in long, sharp inhales and fall asleep on the couch—not the choppy, painful bursts of sleep that deposit me into the fresh shock of recognition of my situation every time I wake up, but a dreamless and heavy sleep I’ve craved for weeks.

It’s still dark when a series of bangs pound my front door. I shoot up, trying to control my heart beating in my throat and my limbs trembling from the startle. The clock on the cable box across the room blinks 5:22. It gets dark early this time of year. Is it evening? Have I slept through another day? It wouldn’t be the first time. The television is still on, flickering in the dark room. A tight-faced woman is wishing everyone a good morning, so I’d only been asleep a few hours. Who the hell could this be? Who would be at my door at this hour, or at all, for that matter?

I look through the peephole to see who it is, and then I fumble to open the lock as quickly as I can, trembling even more than I was at being startled awake, tears beginning to well up and already escaping my eyes before I open the door. I unlatch the security chain and stare at him.

Detective Sterling stands there, asking if he can come in. I can’t even answer. I wonder if I’d called him in a drunken haze to tell him about the passport. God, I must have. He steps inside, and I shut the door. I must have nodded for him to enter; I don’t even recall.

He doesn’t have to ask me to sit down. He doesn’t need to say anything. He simply takes off his hat and holds it to his chest before saying those words, and I already know what they are. They come out as “Mrs. Finley, I’m so sorry,” but they translate to “Liam was found dead.”