Page 8

Thirty-six hours after

“Nora,” Este pants behind me on our morning run. “If I had known we were training for the Boston Marathon, I wouldn’t have had so much to drink last night.”

“That’s a lie.” I pick up the pace a little bit, enjoying the fact that this is one of the few areas where I am legitimately better than Este. Plus, running is the only thing keeping me from spiraling about Will’s absence at this point.

Most wives would’ve tossed all their spouses’ monogrammed dress shirts on the front lawn and lit them on fire by now, but being a trial attorney’s wife, I’ve come to understand the ghosting isn’t personal.

It’s more likely he’s covered up with work, yet again.

He spends weeks or even months poring over deposition transcripts and evidence, looking for the perfect arguments to help his clients.

The level of focus required is a kind of meditative state, and when he falls completely off the grid, it’s because he’s had a breakthrough, like the defense destroyed evidence and he has them dead to rights, or his client said something stupid in a deposition and he can see the defense’s path to victory in the error.

Either way, it sends him down a rabbit hole and the rest of the world ceases to exist. The possibility of finding the perfect case, the ideal set of facts to win big for his client, is the white whale he’ll never stop chasing.

As much as he loves the glory of his clients winning, Will has never been one for scenes.

And I know he would be pissed if I drew attention to his disappearing act, so I’ve quietly called the Ritz a handful of times.

I texted, GPS-tracked, even searched by the dock for signs of Mia’s hoodie or his walk down there, and there’s nothing.

Every hour, I cycle through worried, lonely, pissed, and then processing the fact that this is the price I pay for marrying a trial attorney who is very committed to what he does.

And I guess I’m taking all the emotion out on the pavement.

It’s good to keep moving. I have to keep moving.

“For fuck’s sake, Nora, I’m going to die.”

“Sorry.” I slow my pace so she can catch up.

Este and I agreed that we’d run to the Racquet Club for breakfast and back after—a mile each way. But I’m a realist, and odds are we’ll walk back after a couple of mimosas.

Once the morning reaches office hours, I’ll call Lenore to check Will’s calendar for the day. I haven’t thought much about what happens after that, but showing up wherever he’s supposed to be and reading him the riot act feels like a near certainty.

I glance over at Este, and her face is white, which stops me in my tracks.

We haven’t even made it out of our street yet.

When I left her and Beau the night before, they were opening a third bottle of wine, and he was laughing, charmed by her as she slow-danced with herself in the moonlight, looking like some ethereal fairy queen.

“Can we just walk a minute?” She huffs, one hand grabbing at her right side.

“Yeah. Want me to call an Uber?”

“No.” She’s still a little breathless, but after a beat, she flashes a mischievous grin. “I want to see if Carol Parker’s fence is still down.”

“How is it that the mere mention of Carol Parker’s wrecked fence immediately brings the color back to your face? I swear to God, your schadenfreude is pathological.”

“What does it say about me that I fetishize the idea of perfect Carol’s perfect yard being perfectly destroyed?”

“Ask your therapist,” I say with a laugh. “Diagnoses are above my pay grade.”

“Hey, is that Fritz?” She frowns as a black Porsche SUV pulls over the narrow bridge at the entrance to our street, just past the posted placard that reads Isle of Sicily: Private.

Isle of Sicily Road is a narrow cul-de-sac. Each of the few homes on the street is waterfront property, all so private Google Maps doesn’t even offer street views. Fritz would have no reason to be here unless he’s visiting someone.

We both watch as he drives by without noticing either one of us, and I instinctively start following his car.

Este says something about breakfast behind me that I can’t quite make out.

I’m too busy searching the shadows in the back window of the SUV for signs that Will might be with him.

My heart rate kicks up as Fritz pulls into our driveway, and I jog to get to him just a little bit faster.

Fritz steps out of the car with a questioning look on his face. “Hey, I’m looking for Will. We had a mediation this morning, but he didn’t show. He’s not answering calls.” Fritz heads for the front door. “What’d y’all get up to after the party? Is he still sleeping it off? I need to talk to him.”

Fritz’s words catch me off guard. I feel like I’m falling backward.

How can Fritz not know where Will is?

I look down at my feet to confirm I’m still standing. The story I’d been counting on—the Will-is-tied-up-with-work song and dance—comes to a screeching halt, and I can almost hear the record scratch.

“Fritz,” Este calls from behind me. “Will’s not home. Nora hasn’t seen him since the night of the party.”

I spin around to look at her, somehow stung that she put it all out there like that—like she’s given away a personal secret.

“Jesus.” A million questions pass on Fritz’s face as he turns to me with a blend of confusion and concern in his eyes. “Nora?” His voice is accusing.

An onslaught of dread lands so heavy on my chest I can barely breathe, never mind speak.

What the fuck is happening?

“Let’s talk inside,” Este says, leading the way and waving her hands like a crossing guard.

But we don’t even make it past the threshold of the front door before Fritz is dialing someone.

“This is Frederick Hall,” he says. “I need to speak to Detective Ardell.”

Fritz walks down the hall toward Will’s home office, and I look at Este. “Is this happening? We’re calling the police now?”

Before Este can answer, Fritz comes back into the kitchen. “Detective Ardell is headed this way. Have you filed a report?”

“A report? No. I thought…” I’m struggling to catch up. “Why do we need that?”

I glance between Este and Fritz—my best friend and Will’s—wondering if I’ve ever seen them speak to each other before.

They’re an odd pairing now. Fritz’s expression is pulled tight while Este keeps rolling her eyes at him as if he’s overdramatizing a whole lot of nothing.

I’m still trying to get my mind around the fact that Will isn’t with Fritz.

“He’s been gone for thirty-six hours, and you haven’t thought to call the police?” Fritz demands.

What could I possibly say to this? Where the hell is he?

“Considering how often Will ghosts Nora for work, he’ll probably come waltzing through that door any second,” Este pipes up. “Plus, everyone knows you have to wait a couple days to report someone missing.”

“Where did you hear that?” Fritz snaps. “There’s no waiting period to report a missing person in Florida. And I’m telling you he didn’t ghost you for work. I am work, and he’s not there.” He’s roaring now. “He missed a seven-figure mediation this morning. That doesn’t happen.”

My heart begins to pound. Este’s head jerks back with a wince like she’s physically rejecting this information.

Mediation is Fritz’s love language—a chance to get paid on a case without having to work it up for trial. The irony is taking a settlement can leave money on the table. But it’s often less work. And he could bully the mediator for sport. A perfect day by his standards.

“Is his car here?” Fritz asks.

“Yes, but he Ubers to the office all the time. He says commuting eats into work.”

“Nora.” Fritz grabs my arm and squeezes it. “You should have called me.”

“I would’ve ”—I shake my arm free from his grip—“if I thought there was a reason to. I figured you were with him. Which, considering the two weeks you two disappeared for that last legal conference, wouldn’t be totally unrealistic, right?

” I glare at him. The anger is misplaced, but I dig in anyway.

I’m terrified, and I don’t like what Fritz is implying.

“You really have never been able to let that go.”

“Two weeks in Hawaii to ‘learn about trucking law’? Why can’t lawyers have their conferences in the Midwest like normal people?”

Fritz bristles at the insinuation that they were just fucking off in Hawaii. But he’s a lawyer, so he doubles down and takes a step toward me, boxing me in between him and the refrigerator.

Este folds her arms. “Hey, Fritz, how about you give her a little space?”

Fritz doesn’t move. I take a defiant step toward him until we’re almost nose to nose, his breath hot on my face.

I won’t be threatened in my own home.

He looks down at me and sneers. “So, what? Will works long hours so you don’t have to give a shit where he is?”

“I knew where he was.”

“Which is where ?” he shouts.

It doesn’t matter what I thought. Everything has changed in the last few minutes. I don’t get a word out before the doorbell chimes.

“I’ll get it.” Este looks relieved to have a reason to get out of the room, but Fritz is quick on her heels.

“Ardell’s a friend,” he chides. “I’ll talk to him.”

I storm after them both, agitated as hell.

It’s my fucking house.