DONNIE TURNER

Donnie paced. Evelyn had been gone for over two hours and he was getting worried. This wasn’t like her. The whole past month wasn’t like her. Obsessing about that memorial park program tomorrow morning for one thing. And now she was describing the rape to anyone who would listen, after refusing to talk about it at all for decades.

He had tried to be supportive. Tried to get her help, all those years ago. But Evelyn was adamant. He suggested a therapist, but she wanted no part of that. He told her stories about the old hospital, the way it was when he was growing up. But when he described the satisfaction his mother felt working there, Evelyn reminded him that a patient had stabbed his mother in the arm with a pair of sewing scissors. He talked about the two old men, chronic patients, who shared Thanksgiving at their home every year. Uncle Micky and Uncle Charles, he was supposed to call them. His mother wept when Charles died, but she continued inviting Micky every year until she passed. Evelyn told him she had been terrified of Uncle Micky the first time he came to Thanksgiving, the way the old guy gobbled his food and wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve.

All this wallowing in the past was driving him crazy. He couldn’t stand it any longer. He found the leaflet Evelyn had made. The detective had written her cell phone number at the bottom for all the Azalea Court residents. He punched in the number.

“McPhee,” the detective answered.

“Evelyn is missing,” Donnie blurted. “She left the house hours ago. Said she was going for a walk, but she’s never gone this long.” He paused. “Oh. This is Donnie Turner, Evelyn’s husband?”

“Try to relax, sir,” McPhee said. “We’re patrolling the neighborhood.”

“This isn’t like her and with Iris disappearing, I’m worried Evie is in trouble too.”

“I’ll let the patrol cars know to look out for her,” McPhee promised, “and I’ll head over there and take a look. Please, you need to stay at home, in case she returns and needs help.”

Reluctantly, he agreed.