I hung up without another word and put my head down on the dining room table. Between thinking he was dead and then wondering if he could be sleeping with someone else, the tears came out of me like possibilities dripping onto the table. I wanted to collect them all, organize them into a list, and check them off one by one until only one was left, and then I would know what happened to my husband. I felt Mom’s hand on my back, patting me like an infant.
“Graham,” she spoke quietly into her cell phone. I couldn’t hear Dad’s response. “Come get the girls. We’re going to have to call the police.”
Chapter 3
Two police officers came to take the missing persons report. Though it hadn’t been forty-eight hours, they didn’t so much as utter the words ‘protocol’ or ‘procedure.’ Both were kind, accommodating, and seemed slightly wary of me. I answered all of their questions: Greg had brown eyes and light brown hair flecked with gray; he was thirty-five years old, five-ten, one hundred ninety pounds; he had no birthmarks or tattoos. They asked where he was when I last saw him and where did I believe he disappeared from, as well as some bizarre questions like who were his family doctor and dentist—I realized later that dental records could be used to identify a body. I was also asked to list all vehicles he could be driving—one, an Acura RL. Compounding the surreal quality of the interview, one of the officers ushered Mom into the dining room, questioning us separately.
For the first time, reality began to dawn. Initiating the report would be irreversible. The thought gave me an uneasy sense of permanence. Then, it occurred to me that the officers were ensuring we had nothing to do with Greg’s disappearance. That train of thought made me feel wildly out of control.
The detective interviewing me had kind hazel eyes and gray hair. He smiled comfortingly with every answer, and I gained confidence as we continued. After about ten minutes, Mom joined us in the living room. She put her hand on the back of my chair in a show of comfort and support. We gave them Greg’s spare hairbrush and about fifteen photos from the past year. The officer asked a lot of questions about our marriage: were we happy, did we have a fight, what was Greg’s relationship with the girls? After a few minutes, I realized he was trying to figure out if Greg ran away. When he finally finished, he put away his notebook and pen.
“Are adult men ever kidnapped?” I asked, controlled, not hysterical, not shaky anymore.
He sighed. “Sometimes, if he witnessed a crime, or possibly for money.” He answered cautiously, obviously trying to walk the line between brutal truth and blatant lie. I must have given him the impression I could handle the truth, because he added, “Mrs. Barnes, I have to be completely honest with you. We will investigate this. We’ll track down his last movements, where he was, who he saw, what he ate, and what he did. We may find him. We might figure this out. But very few adult men are kidnapped. Unless you have a million dollar trust fund you failed to mention?” I shook my head. “There’s no motive in that. Money, that’s it. With women and children, kidnappings are frequently religious or sexually based. Or with women kidnappers, sometimes children are taken because the woman wants a child. But for men? What would the motive be? So assuming he’s alive, we have to explore the possibility that he may not want to be found. Do you understand what I’m trying to say, Mrs. Barnes?”
I nodded, too confused to talk. I did understand what he was saying, but I needed him to stop saying it.
The officers left with a promise to follow up sometime in the next day or so, after they had time to initiate the investigation. Mom sat next to me, not talking, with her hand on mine. Next to me, my cell phone trilled. I snatched it up with shaky hands and looked down at the caller ID. Drew. I didn’t feel like explaining everything yet. I hit the silence button, and the call went to voicemail.
Mom asked, “Who was that?”
“Drew.” I motioned to the phone and rubbed my forehead. “I didn’t feel like talking about it.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, but I think I need to be alone for a minute. I’m going out to look for Cody.”
Mom looked surprised. “Oh, my gosh! Where’s Cody?”
I explained about the screen door.
She shook her head. “And he hasn’t come back yet? That’s so strange.”
“I know,” I said wryly. “Seriously, everyone who lives here is disappearing.”
She gave me a small smile, waving me away. “I’ll be here. Just go.”
I walked outside and headed toward the barn. The leaves had begun to fall, and the yard was littered with various seedpods, strewn about like nature’s confetti. I took a deep breath. The crisp air smelled of impending fall, the rotting organic perfume of a changing season.