Ignoring about a dozen calls from Drew, I start with Mina’s email. Luckily, the screen is the only thing that’s locked, and everything else is pretty much logged in already. Her Gmail account contains some emails from her agent, Bridget Cameron, about a new three-book deal she’s about to sign with Diva, the romance imprint of Granite Square. Apparently, they’re pleased with the sales of her last several books and want to lock her in for more. It sits like cement in my stomach, reading my wife’s words, especially when Bridget gushes about how gorgeous the wedding was, and Mina replies that she couldn’t have written a better ending even if she tried.
I know what she means—a lot of romances end when the love story is just beginning. That has to be what she meant.
The final email exchange, which is from July 24, is about the publishing timeline being negotiated for the deal. It includes Mina telling Bridget that there has to be an understanding that she’s not going to start another book until March—eight months from now. Mina writes about three books a year, and she didn’t mention slowing down, so I expect surprise or pushback. But Bridget replies that she thinks they’ll understand, given the circumstances. She suggests that Mina talk the timing over with Lauren, her editor at Diva.
What circumstances? After doing the mental math, I have a moment of simultaneous hope and fear, wondering if it has anything to do with us, with having kids. Could Mina already be pregnant? It took me and Caitlin a painful four years to conceive, and by the time Devon was born, our marriage was headed for the cliff. It lasted for another three years, but we were in no place to try for another baby, which only deepened my unhappiness. I’d always imagined two or three kids, filling our home with a joyful kind of chaos, so different from the smothering isolation and boredom I grew up with as an only child.
I didn’t hide any of that from Mina. When we first started talking about a future together, I was honest about wanting more kids. And I thought she wanted the same thing, but now, as I think about it, I wonder if she kept changing the subject without me even realizing it.
I wonder what else I missed, all the conversational on-ramps we blew past without me even noticing.
So even though Mina’s requested writing timeline instantly stands out, after I think about it for more than a second, I realize it probably has nothing to do with her being pregnant. Why would she be starting a new book right around the time she gave birth? After our fight, the first one in which I wouldn’t let her change the subject, the one where I tried to pin her down, I wonder if having a baby with me was the last thing Mina wanted.
I love her anyway. I love her more than that fantasy.
Why didn’t I say that to her when I had the chance?
As I continue to shuffle through her email, as the sky outside turns purple then black, I silently promise her that I’ll tell her once I have her back.
Her email inbox contains little else useful that I can see, though I give up after an hour and turn to her social media accounts. Her Twitter DMs are all interactions between her and her fans, mostly questions about release dates and sequels, along with lots of love for Garrett and Blain and Sly and Finn, all heroes of her most recent books. Nothing threatening or weird. Same with Instagram. All book stuff, nothing personal. And then there’s Facebook.
Within seconds of pulling up the page, Willa Penson opens a chat.
Hey, lady! Where have you been? Did you finish it?
She thinks I’m Mina, of course. Why wouldn’t she?
I shouldn’t do this. I shouldn’t. Almost, I reply. I instantly rethink it, though, because this isn’t cool. I’m about to fess up when her next response comes through:
I need to tell you something. Your hubby chatted me up the other day. He wanted to know when I’d last spoken to you.
She’s a fast typist, though I guess that’s unsurprising, given her profession. Seemed a shade controlling, she continues. I know you love that buttoned-up smolder he’s got going, but I need to be honest—it gave me the chills. I’ve been thinking about it for the last couple days.
Controlling? Fuck you, I almost type. He just worries about me, I type instead.
Have you told him yet?
“Tell me what?” The sound of my own voice startles me. My hands are shaking as I tap out a careful answer. I can’t quite figure out how to say it.
Oh, come on. You’re good at that.
I groan. Not this time, I try. Any suggestions?
Just be honest. And brave.
Jesus. My heart is beating so fucking hard. I know I’m digging the hole deeper, but I can’t help it. I don’t want to hurt him.
You’re being true to yourself, she writes. He’s a grown-ass man, and he’ll deal with it. Are you worried about how he’ll take it after what I just told you?
I want to say No. But I need an answer, and that doesn’t seem like the way to get it. How do you think I should frame it?
LOL “frame it”?
I frown. What’s so funny?
She goes silent, and I’m sweating again. Finally, she types, Are you sure you’re okay?
Shit. That was probably some inside joke. Yeah. Just tired.
Me, too. I’m shutting down for the night. Chat soon?
I whisper a curse under my breath. Sure. Good night.
The green dot next to her name disappears. I don’t know whether I dodged a bullet or got hit square between the eyes. Mina was going to tell me something. Whatever it was, it scared her, enough so that her friend thought it would take some courage to get it out. But I can’t just chat Willa back and explain what’s happened, because if she thought I was controlling before, now she’s probably going to think I’m an utter psycho for impersonating my wife on Facebook. Hell, she’ll probably think I caused Mina to disappear.
I go through the rest of Mina’s recent messages. Most are incoming, in that someone wrote to her and she replied, usually a fan, like on Twitter. She initiates messages with a few people, Willa and other writers, all discussing their deadlines, agents, editors, and creative blocks. In one case, Mina advises an author who’s thinking of leaving her agent and offers to put in a good word with Bridget. My vision blurs as I skim down the list of names. She gets so many messages. And then one sets in my brain like a hook.
It’s a message that Mina sent two weeks or so ago. July 16. When I read my wife’s words, my skin runs hot. It reads: Is that really you?
The response, sent almost immediately: Seems like I’m the one who should be asking that.
And then hers, instant: I need to see you. I have to talk to you. Please. Then she offers her cell number.
There’s no correspondence between them before or after that.
The user who she’s writing to: Stefan Silva.
Stef. I click on the name. He and Mina aren’t Facebook friends, so I can only see what’s public. There’s not much in the profile; the pic is of a cocktail, amber and ice in a highball glass. The only public posts are about a place called the Mariner, which turns out to be a bar in Harwich on the lower Cape. There’s no number in his basic information and no birthday.
He’s not online right now.
I Google his name. This guy my wife just had to see. And wouldn’t you know it, there are six Stefan Silvas in Massachusetts, but only one of them lives in Harwich, and he’s thirty-four years old. I’m operating on pure impulse again as rage and suspicion tangle in my chest. She had to see him. Please, she said. Please.
“Fuck,” I whisper. I should be calling Correia right now and telling her I’ve accessed Mina’s account, but knowing she’ll immediately see I’ve been impersonating my wife online, it would only be a distraction. I’ll find another way to tell her about this asshole. But first I type in my credit card number and buy the full report on him.
Stefan G. Silva lives on Driftwood Lane in East Harwich, Massachusetts. He’s married, too, to a woman named Melanie Silva, formerly Melanie Fogerly.
He’s also an ex-con. He was arrested twelve years ago on suspicion of assault, ten years ago for DUI, and has a conviction for felony possession with intent to distribute. He sounds like a first-class loser, and yet Mina wanted to see him. Needed to see him.
Buzzing with the same jittery, dangerous energy that’s kept me going ever since this morning, I dial his number.
“Silva,” he answers, his voice low. There’s a lot of noise in the background. Music. People talking.
“Hi,” I say. “This is Alex Zarabian.”
“Who? Hang on.” After a moment, there’s a snap, like the sound of a door closing sharply. The background noise fades. “Who did you say you are?”
“Alex Zarabian. Mina Richards’s husband.”
Five solid seconds of silence. “Um,” he finally says. “Why are you calling me?”
“Mina’s missing. The police are searching for her. If you know anything—”
“I don’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about.”
“You know Mina, right? I know she contacted you.”
“She told you?”
“Does she have a reason to keep secrets?”
He laughs. “I really can’t help you. Sorry.”
Determined to get the words out before he cuts off the call, I say, “If you have any idea where she is or where she might have gone, the police—”
“I don’t,” he says. “I don’t know her. Never really did. And I don’t know you, and I don’t have anything to do with your wife. Okay?”
“But you did,” I guess. “At some point, you did.”
“I can’t help you. Sorry.”
He ends the call. It’s all I can do not to hurl my phone against the wall.
Instead, I’m up with keys in hand and a vague plan to go to the Mariner and see if I can hunt the asshole down. I pull onto Commercial and head for Route 6. Provincetown is home to upward of a hundred thousand in the summer, but it’s a tiny place. Minutes later, I brake suddenly at Beech Forest, and I turn into the parking lot. I need to catch my breath. I need to think. I look around, expecting to find the whole place lit up, floodlights and search parties, but there’s only one patrol car in the lot, parked next to a silver Prius. Mina’s car.
As I get out of my Lexus and approach through the close, humid night air, the cop gets out of his cruiser. “Can I help you?” he asks.
“I heard you guys were conducting a search,” I say. “Where is everyone?”
“The guys just left—rain’s coming in. They’ll pick it up first light tomorrow.”
Rage pulls me tight, but I keep my voice light as I say, “Seems to me every minute counts.”
He nods. “But we’ve covered every inch of terrain inside the trail and plenty outside, too. No trace, at least, not in the usual places.”
“Usual places.”
“We get at least a few of these a year.” Then he seems to catch himself, and his eyes narrow. “You a reporter or something?”
“Why? Afraid of a little publicity?”
He gives me a baffled look.
“I’m her husband.” And for all I know, my wife is off with some asshole in Harwich. Or she was, and he fucking killed her. Before I can say any of that, I slide my hand down my face and look away.
“I didn’t mean any disrespect,” he says quickly. “Like I said, dive team’s gearing up for sunrise.”
“What about the car?” I walk over to the Prius, but he heads me off.
“The vehicle has been sealed until it’s processed, sir, so I’m going to have to ask you to step away.” He touches the receiver at his shoulder. “I’ll let Detective Correia know you’re here.”
“Do that. I need to talk to her anyway.” I stalk back to my car, because the urge to punch someone is rising fast. I’m going to take this to the next level. I need a little sunlight, and I don’t care what it reveals, as long as I find Mina.
My phone rings before I pull out of the lot again. “We just spoke to a detective about our daughter’s disappearance,” comes the rigid, prim reply when I answer. It’s Rose.
“I’m glad she actually followed up with you.”
“So you knew she would be contacting us. It would have been nice to have some advance notice before she simply showed up at our door.”
“I’m sorry, Rose. It’s been a rough day.”
I hear the muffled sound of a sniffle. “I forgive you,” she says. “But we’re going through this as a family, and I want us to help each other through it until we find her.”
I can hear the tears in her voice, and suddenly, I realize that I’m the asshole. “I’m here at Beech Forest, where they found her car. They’re bringing a dive team in tomorrow.”
“They won’t find her there,” she says fiercely. “That’s a dead end. I’m sure of it.”
“She wasn’t suicidal. She wasn’t depressed. Right?”
“I don’t think she was. Really, I don’t know!” She stifles a sob. “Try as I might, and believe me, I have, I’ve never understood her way of looking at the world. I don’t want to mess this up and put her in danger.”
Mess this up? “Wait—do you know something about where she is?”
She clears her throat. “She could be anywhere, so no, not really.”
“Not really?”
I almost mention Stefan, but before I can, she says, “Come to the house tomorrow afternoon.” Her tone goes bright as she dives back into her comfort zone with a force that nearly gives me whiplash. “I’m making scones and cookies for the search teams, and you can help me bring them over. It will be good to show the officers that we appreciate their efforts.”
A thousand biting comments crowd my thoughts. This woman’s daughter is missing, and it’s obvious, to me at least, that Mina’s in trouble. But Rose is babbling to me about various flavors of scone and jam as if she’s preparing to go to a church picnic. I know this might just be the way she copes with extreme stress, but from where I sit, it also looks like she’s laser-focused on being the perfect hostess, the perfect worried mom, the perfect, well-behaved, grateful victim-by-proxy. Something I don’t give a shit about. I’ll blow things up if it means we find Mina faster. So I have to wonder, is the hostess act just one more way to change the subject, just like Mina does? And if so, why would she want to at a time like this? What’s Rose hiding beneath that perfect veneer?
In hopes of finding out, I agree to stop by the Richardses’ house on Tuesday. I’m almost certain that there’s something Rose isn’t telling me, and a face-to-face might help her spit it out. But when she tells me she’s praying for me, I tell her I’ve got another call.
Which is not a lie. “What the fuck, Alex? I’ve been trying to reach you for hours.”
“Mina’s missing, Drew. I had to take off.”
“Caitlin told me there was something going on. And I’m here for you, but I’ve also got the entire board up my ass.”
I give him the thirty-second rundown on my Pinewell meeting, but I don’t mention that they’re planning to oust him. I need my friend to be on my side. “So right now, they’re wanting our okay, and I honestly don’t think we’re going to get a better deal. This is why the other shops didn’t swing at our pitch, either, Drew. But they’re offering to help us get CaX429 through the next steps, and without that, we’re going to have trouble paying the rent after New Year’s.”
He curses. “I need you here. Do you have any idea where Mina’s gone?”
I tell him what I know, including this mysterious Stefan. But as I get ready to tell Drew my plan to drive down to Harwich and confront him, I realize how idiotic it is and how idiotic I’ve already been. I have to be more strategic than that. “I’m going to tell the police all of it,” I say. “But now I need a favor, because this situation is pretty much the definition of rainbow flame.”
To his credit, Drew doesn’t waste time asking me any more questions. He doesn’t even hesitate. “Name it.”
“I need to talk to Caroline.”
If the cops aren’t going to consider any other explanation for Mina’s disappearance apart from suicide, I’m going to light a fucking rainbow flame under their asses. Caroline agrees that it’s an important story, and though she doesn’t feel comfortable covering it herself, she gets a colleague to work with me. She doesn’t make any promises, but she says the attention might help.
Might, because there’s always the possibility that Mina really did commit suicide. It doesn’t sit right, though. Her emails with her agent more or less cinched it—she was planning for the future. New book deal and everything. And obviously, she had something big to tell me, and if she’d been about to kill herself, why bother? On top of that and even though I took an instant dislike to Mina’s therapist, I believed Emily when she said she would have taken action if Mina were suicidal. Even if it was just to cover her ass.
So after leaving a message for Detective Correia about how she needs to check out Stefan Silva, I talk to a producer from the NBC station. She says they’ll come out to Beech Forest tomorrow morning, early. And after a rough couple hours of sleep, I meet the news team in the muggy parking lot. True to their word, the police are already there, including the dive team. Apparently, they’re using sonar and have a team of three sweeping the pond. Their flippers and heads break the surface every once in a while, and other groups search the woods again.
A mobile forensics unit comes and combs through the Prius. Detective Correia catches my eye and heads in my direction. No attitude, no friendliness. She’s simply doing her job. Keeping her promises. Possibly keeping an eye on me. She tells me that she’s gotten the search warrant for Mina’s phone and expects to have some information no later than tomorrow. And then: “I got your message. Stefan Silva.”
“Yeah. He lives in Harwich. I found a list in one of Mina’s notepads, and his name is on it.”
Detective Correia arches one black eyebrow. “A list?”
“It was a grocery list, eggs and English muffins and stuff, but there were two names on it. One was her therapist. And the other was this Stefan guy.”
“Someone you know?”
I shake my head.
“But you know he lives in Harwich.”
I put my hands up. Guilty. “I looked him up.”
“So she had a list with this guy’s name on it. A guy you don’t know. And you looked him up. Anything else you want to tell me?”
“She added his name to the list at some point between Sunday and Tuesday.”
“And you know this how?”
“Facebook post. There’s a picture of the notepad on Sunday morning with no names. On Wednesday, I found the notepad in the cottage, names added. Last time the neighbors saw her was Monday or Tuesday.”
“Fancy yourself a detective, Mr. Zarabian?”
“I fancy myself a husband who’s worried sick.”
Correia nods. “I checked with the neighbors. The couple across the street—the one guy, pink hair? He said he told you it might have been Tuesday, but he remembered that he was heading out to a boot camp class at Mussel Beach, which is a class that only happens on Monday. So he thinks it’s Monday.”
He thinks it’s Monday. What she means is that’s the last time anyone saw my wife. Eight fucking days ago. I shake my head. “You’re going to check out this Stefan guy? What if he has her? He’s got a criminal record.”
I can’t tell if Correia thinks I’m a jealous, murderous husband, a sane, concerned spouse, or something in between. This woman is inscrutable. She types a note into her phone and tucks the device into her pocket. “I’ll give him a call. Let me know if you come upon anything else.” Her dark eyes lock onto mine. “Like her passwords and such.”
I don’t blink. “Of course.”
“I’m following every lead, Mr. Zarabian.” Her voice is dead level. “You understand that, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Keep it up, please.”
With a tight nod, Correia heads back to the scrum of law enforcement at the pond’s edge. I give a brief on-camera statement about how I believe Mina’s out there somewhere, how I don’t believe she’s hurt herself. I say that I appreciate the dedicated work of the searchers and the police, but I hope they’ll continue to investigate every possible lead, including any forensic evidence in her car and all her last-known contacts.
It occurs to me, as the camera lens glints and the lights shine down on me, that I sound robotic. Like I’m talking about a business deal. Next steps. Points of negotiation. Contract terms. I have the distant thought that people will expect me to cry and be emotional. But it all feels like it’s happening outside me, like I’m watching along with everyone else. It reminds me of my dad’s funeral, when I sat there numb while my mom sobbed against my chest. And the moment Caitlin announced she wanted a divorce. And the morning Mina walked out the door, and I let her.
That day, I failed her. Today, I have no time to indulge in a breakdown. She needs me.
It’s on the news at noon, and that’s when I start to get calls. The CBS station. ABC, too. Also, the one that used to call itself FOX but dropped the label because this is Massachusetts and it was killing their ratings. They’re skeptical about this case being anything other than a suicide—I can tell. But they’re interested because Mina’s a reasonably well-known author, and hell, if that’s what they need to latch onto, fine with me.
I’m so crushed with calls and interviews that I forget all about going over to the Richardses’. Rose shows up early Tuesday afternoon, chauffeured by Scott and dressed in her Sunday best, looking unsurprised at the presence of several news crews in addition to the police. My first thought is that she saw it all on television and decided to get out here for her close-up. But instead of basking in the spotlight, she gives a brief statement about wanting her daughter to come home safely, hands a few plates of treats to Correia, and then retreats back to her car, where Scott is waiting. By the time I extricate myself from yet another interview, they’re gone. I suspect I’ve got some apologizing to do.
But only after I blow this thing up as big as it needs to be.
Unexpectedly, my mom helps. After getting yet another text about how Mina hasn’t gotten back to her, I call her late Tuesday night to fill her in. Without giving me a heads-up, she hangs up and goes straight to her second home—Facebook—and makes an emotional post about her talented, beautiful, famous daughter-in-law. It earns her a viral moment. When I start getting calls on Wednesday morning from people at the Boston Globe, the New York Times, and the Washington Post, as well as CNN, the Daily Beast, BuzzFeed, and several other online sites, they all say they got my number from my mom.
It takes up all my time. All my energy. It keeps me from thinking about what I’m going to do if they find my wife in that pond. It keeps me from wondering if she really left me on purpose, because even if she did, even if she ran off to fuck this Stefan guy’s brains out, I don’t think she would have left everything—wallet, keys, car—behind. She’s in trouble. She needs me. That’s what I say over and over. I won’t just accept suicide as an explanation and give up.
At some point during the afternoon, Detective Correia comes over to tell me that she’s talked to Stefan Silva, and he has a solid alibi for Monday night through Tuesday morning, one that she’s already checked out. Everything in her manner tells me she thinks that lead is dead. I question the timing—how is she so sure? I mention the guy’s criminal record again—suspicion of assault. She tells me she’ll let me know if she has any other pertinent information and reminds me to keep her informed as well.
She’s holding me at arm’s length. I don’t know what that means.
By six, the reporters look bored, the cops look grim, my phone is almost dead, and I’m about to drop. Despite the news about Stefan, I feel a certain savage happiness that they’ve found absolutely no trace of Mina in the water or the park after three days of searching. But my hope that it will energize the detective to keep digging for other explanations dies when I overhear one officer tell another that it would have been easy for Mina to walk up the trail to the beach at Race Point and go into the water there. Into the ocean, where she’ll never be found, where the current will carry her body for miles and where white sharks are increasingly common. So basically, they’ve found a way to write this off even if they don’t find anything. Ocean, shark, done. I guess it saves them a lot of work.
Though I’m more queasy than hungry, I need to get something to eat and probably take a shower, so I head for my car. I connect the phone to its charger, noting that I’ve gotten eight missed calls in the last hour from an unknown number. Probably another reporter. I’m not really in the right headspace to give yet another interview, but when the phone rings again, I answer. I owe it to Mina.
“Mr. Zarabian? Is this Alexander Zarabian?”
“Yeah. Who’s calling?”
She clears her throat. “My name is Hannah, Mr. Zarabian.” She’s quiet for so long that I have time to wonder if the call dropped. Then she says, “I work for Granite Square. And I just saw a report that Mina Richards is missing.”
Granite Square is Mina’s publisher, but her editor’s name is Lauren, not Hannah. “Is this about one of her books? If she’s got a deadline or something, that’s going to have to—”
“No, that’s…not why I’m calling. Can we meet?”
“I’m a little busy at the moment. Try calling her agent.” There’s another call waiting, probably that CNN reporter who’s been trying to connect with me. “Look, I have to go.”
“No!” She sounds almost panicked and also young, right out of Wellesley or something. “No, please. I need to meet with you. In person. As soon as possible.”
“Aren’t you in New York?”
“I can come up on the train.”
“You’re gonna need to tell me why, Hannah. I’ve got a lot going on, and I seriously have no time or patience for bullshit.”
“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. Her voice is shaking. “I’m not supposed to be doing this.”
Now I’m curious. As gently as I can, I say, “I’m listening.”
“Okay.” She lets out a deep breath. “I think I might have information about what’s happened to Mina.”