The buzzer for the gate sounds, and the intercom crackles. It’s the police.
I press a button to admit them.
I sit in the den, hands on knees, steeling myself. Any minute now the doorbell will ring. I’ll rise and open the door, introduce myself. First impressions are everything. I must nail it.
My hand shakes as I reach for my wineglass. Just a sip to relax me.
The bell clangs, deep and doleful. I rise and smooth down my ice-blue cashmere sweater.
Zoe and the twins are upstairs in their rooms. I waited until Gloria had left before calling to report Stan missing.
At the door, I pause to take a deep breath. I check my watch: a simple Cartier Tank in white gold, a gift from Stan. It’s 8:44 p.m. That makes it fourteen minutes from my call to the police’s arrival. Not bad.
Jo warned me my call might be recorded. I think I struck the right chord. The officer I spoke with—a man—seemed to take me seriously, especially when I mentioned our address. If we were poor or Black, I might still be waiting.
I hide the watch under my sleeve and tug the door open.
A man and a woman stand waiting. He’s tall and thin with short dark hair, mid to late thirties. The woman’s older, closer to fifty. She’s short but looks strong. Her hair’s gray and chin-length. They both clock my injuries, unsmiling.
I freeze, aware of how bad I look. Thanks to the booze and the Tylenol, I’d momentarily forgotten.
I touch my bruised face. “Ah, come in,” I say. Their probing gaze is unsettling. I’ve never dealt with the police, never had to. I’m not sure how to treat them—like guests or tradesmen? My eyes are watering. “I’m Stan’s wife, Dana McFarlane.”
They eye the entrance hall—designed by Jean-Louis Deniot—as if it were hiding a meth lab.
The woman extends a hand first. I shake it. Beneath heavy lids, her eyes are shrewd. “Detective Judith Shergold,” she says.
The man’s grip is softer. “I’m Detective Brian Bellows.”
I offer them drinks, which they decline, and lead them into the den. It’s a big room but smaller than the living room, which can feel overwhelming. Plus, I can’t bear to look at the ocean.
“Please sit.” I motion them toward a sofa.
They perch side by side. Shergold is where I sat last night when I told Jo about the violence. I take a seat on the other sofa.
The man, Bellows, delivers the prompt: “You called to report your husband missing?”
“Yes.” I nod. “Last night. We had a fight. He left . . . He hasn’t called. It’s not like him.”
Detective Shergold’s face is blank. Her voice is neutral too. “A physical fight?”
I swallow. “Yes. He . . . he struck me.”
“With what?”
“His hand.”
Bellows frowns and sits straighter. “Is there a history of domestic violence?”
I shake my head, hard. “No! Nothing like that. I . . .” I twist at my ring, feel the diamonds’ sharp corners. “He’d been drinking . . . And went a bit crazy. It’s . . . He’s not like that. He felt terrible, obviously. I mean, remorseful.” My throat’s gluey. I didn’t want to admit that this was a pattern. My fear of looking pathetic is truly pathetic.
The woman, Shergold, sounds brisk: “When did you last see him?”
“It was late. Maybe midnight?” I force my fingers away from my ring. “I figured he’d gone someplace to cool off. Out for a walk maybe. And then this morning, I thought . . . We have an apartment in Seattle. Maybe he took a taxi. But I called the concierge and checked. He’s not there. And he’s not answering his phone.” I bite my lip and wince. Shit. I’ve cracked the scab open. When I lick it, it tastes bloody.
“He left on foot?” asks Detective Bellows.
“Yes. His car, cars, are all here.” That does seem suspicious. I clear my throat, offer an excuse: “Like I said, he’d been drinking.”
Detective Bellows asks most of the questions—about Stan’s job and habits. “Was he under stress lately?”
What’s the right answer? “I don’t know. Maybe. We don’t discuss work much.”
“Why did you argue?” This is from Detective Shergold. Her face is plain, with no makeup. What you see is what you get, although I doubt that. She’s the one to watch out for.
I look at my lap. Should I tell them about Stan’s affair? They’re going to notice his credit card charges. I did.
They both wait. The house is quiet.
I rouse myself. I must focus. “Stan’s been talking about divorce,” I say softly. “I think he’s having an affair. But we . . . we’ll work it out, go to counseling. We’ve been together for sixteen years.” My chest’s tight. “We have three children.”
Shergold’s face doesn’t change. “Who’s his affair with?”
“I don’t know. That’s what our fight was about. I asked, and he denied it. He got angry.” I take a deep breath. “We were both upset.”
“I see,” says Detective Shergold. One eyebrow lifts. “Did you also get violent?”
“No!” It comes out louder than I intended, although that might not be bad. I sound shocked at the concept. I shake my head. “Of course not.”
“Well . . .” Detective Shergold eyes the portrait of Stan snowboarding. “He’ll probably reappear.”
“Yes.” I nod, like I’m eager to believe this. “I just . . . It’s not like him not to answer his phone. It’s going straight to voicemail. I thought I should call you, just in case.”
“You did the right thing,” says Detective Bellows. His voice is soothing.
At some signal I miss, they both rise. “Chances are good he’ll return,” says Bellows. “But we’ll look into it. If anything changes, please call.”
I rise too. “I will.” I follow them back into the hall.
“While we’re here,” says Shergold, “could we get a recent photo of Stanley?”
This takes me aback. Perhaps they really are worried. Have they sensed my demeanor’s off? Or they might be ticking boxes. Stan’s rich enough to get kidnapped. Maybe that’s what they’re thinking.
“Just a moment,” I say, and retreat to Stan’s study.
I crack open the door. His smell is stronger in here—cigar smoke and that spicy aftershave he’s started wearing. It stinks. Did his girlfriend buy it? I click on the light and head for the bookshelf.
There’s a row of framed photos, but none are recent. No one prints photos anymore. I should just email one to the detectives.
I’m turning to go when I see a snapshot of Stan on his desk. It’s unframed, a standard four-by-six print. He’s on his yacht, leaning against the rail. From his hairline it’s obviously recent. I pick it up. Something’s weird.
Then I realize: it’s his smile, too wide and eager. His blue eyes twinkle, and his cheeks are ruddy.
Tears sting my eyes. I dig my nails into my sore palms. I mustn’t cry. This shouldn’t matter. But it does. My last photo of Stan was taken by his lover. I can’t know this, but I do. The proof’s in his smile: once upon a time, his face lit up like that for me.
Without thinking, I rip the print in half, then into quarters. I tear these pieces still smaller and toss them on his desk—a shower of bitter confetti.
I’m shaking the last shreds off my sweaty palms when a noise makes me look up. It’s Detective Shergold peering around the half-open door.
She smiles tightly. “Mrs. McFarlane?” Her eyes drop from my face to my hands to the photo scraps littering Stan’s desk. A gray eyebrow rises. “Is everything alright?”
I can’t move. I know I look guilty. And crazy. Crazy guilty.
I spin to grab a framed photo off Stan’s shelf. It was taken two years ago. He’s got a big shit-eating grin and is cradling a giant gold golfing trophy.
I come out from behind Stan’s desk and hold out this photo. “This is the most recent one I found. It’s, um . . .” I stop. Everything I say sounds like a lie.
I stand in front of his desk, trying to block her view of the shredded photo.
Detective Shergold takes the framed portrait. “Perfect. Thank you. This is extremely helpful.”
I sag against Stan’s desk and try not to cry.