TUESDAY, 9:01 P.M.
Angela went upstairs after Michael left, entered their bedroom, and grabbed a sweatshirt. She’d had a plan for the night. She wanted them to share a drink and head to bed early, and then they could take advantage of the time of month to try to finally conceive a child.
She shook her head, felt her cheeks flush. Nothing kills the mood like your husband’s ex-wife showing up. . . .
She turned down the air-conditioning and then came back to the kitchen, taking in the dirty dishes Michael was supposed to do and finding the half-empty wineglass by the refrigerator. Oh, I’m drinking that, she thought, downing what remained in two big gulps and enjoying the heavy taste. She leaned back against the counter, angry at herself for wishing that when she came downstairs, she’d find Michael, his mind changed, the trip with Erica aborted.
But she knew it was wishful thinking. Michael wasn’t the type to change his mind. And she had to hand it to Erica. She knew the right buttons to push, the right scab to dig into. A missing girl who might be Michael’s daughter. A girl who looked like Michael’s dead sister, Robyn.
Well played, Angela thought. Well played.
She poured another glass of cabernet, deciding not to wait for Michael’s return to have another drink, and almost emptied the bottle. No way. She’d earned this one and took it with her as she left the kitchen, carrying the wineglass down the hallway to her home office, clicking on the first-floor lights as she moved. She needed to sort through reports, catch up on what felt like a thousand e-mails. With a vacation just ahead, she needed to work double time in order to be ready to go, to finally unplug and unwind with Michael and nothing else in their way.
Was it selfish to feel like the night’s events had put the vacation and their peace in doubt? After all, a child appeared to be in some kind of jeopardy, a child who might be her husband’s.
She tried not to dwell on that, tried not to contemplate what it would feel like if Michael had a child with another woman and couldn’t have one with her. It was just too much. And too soon, since she knew nothing for certain. She also tried not to think about the night ahead, the “date” she and Michael had since she was ovulating and that was now in jeopardy. She sipped her wine and took a few deep breaths.
Calm, she reminded herself. Calm. I’ll still be ovulating tomorrow. And next month too . . .
But she ignored work for the moment. She almost never pushed her job aside, especially during the precious evening time when Michael watched baseball or read or did his own work, but she needed to check on something, to assure herself of what was really going on.
She took out her phone and opened her Twitter app. She entered “missing child” and “Trudeau KY.”
It took a moment for the information to appear. At first, Angela saw nothing, and her mind raced even faster. But then she saw it. An Amber Alert had been issued in Davenport County.
Nine-year-old girl missing from a local park. Mother distraught. Thoughts and prayers. Any information, call. No witnesses.
Police believe the child is in danger.
Angela let out a sigh, and her heart dropped like a stone. She scrolled through the feed a little more and came across a video, something posted by a news station in Trudeau. Angela pressed PLAY.
She saw a blond-haired girl, a beautiful kid, one who looked like an angel. She stood in front of a piano and sang as someone unseen picked out the notes. It took a moment for Angela to recognize the song. At first, she couldn’t place the lyrics, but then the melody and the words clicked in her brain. It was that song from The Muppet Movie, the one she saw as a kid. The song about rainbows and dreamers sung by Kermit the Frog.
Angela’s eyes burned with tears. The melancholy nature of the song and the sweet innocence of the singing child brought the emotion surging to the surface. She wiped at her tears as the video ended, the image freezing on the girl’s face, her eyes wide, almost haunted.
Or was Angela projecting her own fears onto the child?
Or was she more emotional due to ovulating? Was her desire for a child of her own infusing everything?
She thought, I need more wine.
She started back down the hall, understanding that work might get passed over that night, that she might need a different kind of distraction while she waited for Michael to come home. They could deal with their problems then, discuss and understand and make plans. They’d survive whatever it was, even if the child, the missing little girl, was Michael’s daughter.
She almost laughed. The girl they—especially he—always wanted, delivered to them in the craziest way possible. She again tried to ignore the little knot of jealousy in her gut, the one that arose at the thought that her husband had fathered a child with another woman. She pushed the bad feeling away.
We can handle it, she thought. I can handle it. I can.
What was that old curse? May you live in interesting times.
She reached the kitchen, pulled down a new glass since she’d left the old one on her desk, opened a new bottle, and started to pour. When the doorbell rang, her hand jumped, and she spilled the red liquid on the counter.
“Damn it.”
She left the wineglass and the spill on the counter, set the bottle down. The house had turned into Grand Central Station, the front bell ringing like a pinball machine.
Could Michael have forgotten his keys? Could it be Erica? But then . . . without Michael?
Or was it simply a chance to buy overpriced candy bars to support a Little League team?
She hurried back to her desk and grabbed her phone. She opened the keypad, walking to the door with her fingers poised, prepared to dial 911 if she had to. She slipped the living room curtains aside and peered out at the almost fully dark street, the tall light poles shimmering to life.
A man she didn’t know stood down at the end of the driveway, leaning close to a white Camry in an apparent attempt to see inside. Angela cut her eyes to the porch, caught a glimpse of a woman in a business suit, hands on hips. Something glinted on the woman’s belt, something shiny and gold, caught by the porch light.
And when she turned her body, looking directly at Angela, the gun on her other hip, a menacing black weapon, revealed itself.
Angela stepped back, her heart thumping all over again.
Cops.