Ethan
Ethan Walsh had ten students, six of them over seventy, and they demanded his full attention. They were painting a still life of a vase with purple and red flowers. Some of the paintings were realistic, some vaguely impressionist, and some didn’t approach anything he considered art. He was okay with it, though; art was for life enrichment as well as enlightenment. Halfway through the class, his phone vibrated to signal a text, but he didn’t check it.
He finally read the message after his students finished cleaning paintbrushes and filed out of the class. It was a simple message. I’m being kidnapped. Driver taking me opposite direction from airport. Help me.
Isabella’s phone.
Was this a joke?
He called Chicago. The two women who were supposed to meet Isabella at the airport confirmed that she’d never arrived.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
He decided to try calling her, even if his name might show up. If Isabella answered, he’d ask her discreet questions.
The call went to voicemail.
Could she be at home?
He drove to her townhouse and rang the bell. Once. Twice. Three times. He knocked. No answer. Then he took out the key that she’d given him so he could water her plants while she was away.
He unlocked the door and swung it open.
The kitchen was sparkling, sink scrubbed, counters empty. He looked in Isabella’s bedroom, feeling a little uncomfortable. The bed was made, and everything was in its place. No toothbrush in the bathroom. He checked Nina’s room and saw that her tiger was gone.
He spent less than ten minutes inside. Before leaving, he carefully locked the door and then drove to his own apartment half an hour away.
They’d been friends for at least fifteen years, since high school when he first realized he was gay. She’d defended him against some of the kids who, despite Austin’s reputation as a liberal haven in the middle of conservative Texas, were determined to make his life a living hell.
They’d picked out romantic partners for each other over the years. Isabella had encouraged Ethan’s longest relationship, and when that ended, she’d been there for him.
Wyatt had not been Ethan’s first choice for a partner for Isabella, not smart enough or creative enough, but he’d seemed nice. At least at first. And Isabella had liked him.
Ethan had helped with the decorations for the wedding. He’d been godfather to Nina. And when Wyatt wouldn’t stop pushing for another baby, he’d encouraged Isabella to go for counseling. Then he’d been there for her, as she’d been for him, both when she went through the divorce and afterward.
And now some driver had taken her God knows where. He’d read stories about rapists and murderers pretending to be car service drivers to kidnap women.
She could be lying dead in a ditch somewhere. Nina could have been taken to be sold. People sold babies, didn’t they? They both could have been sold into sexual slavery.
“Calm down,” he told himself out loud.
A driver involved in the white slave trade was the less plausible explanation. More likely, her idiot ex-husband had realized that Isabella was planning to have an abortion. He or one of his buddies would have been the kidnapper.
In any case, what should he do?
The logical thing would be to call the police. But that was not a choice under the circumstances, given the current state of the law in Texas.
She’d intended to leave Texas to have an abortion. While her heart condition put her at a high risk of dying if she didn’t end the pregnancy, that wasn’t good enough to qualify for an abortion in the state of Texas. Because she wasn’t dying right now.
Calling the police would be dangerous not just for her, but for himself.
He’d been careful not to tell anyone that he was helping her. After all, he could be sued for helping a woman get an abortion, regardless of the circumstances. He didn’t know whether he could be arrested for what he’d already done: helping her with money and finding the organization in Chicago to meet her when she arrived.
The Austin police were supposed to put abortion at a low level of importance for enforcement, but would they actually do it? Then there was the State Attorney General, who’d vowed to vigorously prosecute abortion violations in any city where the police fell down on the job. Would the local police pass the information on to the state?
Not calling the police didn’t mean he couldn’t do anything. Hadn’t he read something about a private detective who’d handled a kidnapping recently? Wasn’t there some sort of ethical code that kept private investigators from revealing private information? After all, how long would they stay in business if private detectives called the police and informed on their clients?
If he remembered correctly, the detective who’d found a kidnapping victim had been a young woman. A young woman should be sympathetic to the plight of a woman whose pregnancy could kill her.
He opened his laptop and started a search.