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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CELINE

As soon as the hour is reasonable, I dial my mother-in-law’s number, and when she answers, I say the name that has been replaying in my mind over and over all night.

“Matteo Acri,” I blurt out.

“Celine?” she asks, sounding half asleep. “What did you say? Was that a sneeze? Or a…spell? Are the boys watching Harry Potter again?”

“No, I said Matteo Acri. I think that was the name of the other boy in the picture I gave you.”

She pauses. “The photo from last night?”

“Yes. Does that name sound familiar?”

“I don’t think so.” Her voice goes muffled. “Honey, do we know a…” She pauses, her voice coming back to me. “What did you say it was again, Celine?”

“Matteo Acri,” I repeat.

“Matteo Acri,” she tells Lane. “Celine thinks he’s the other boy in the picture.”

“Acri…” I can hear him mumbling in the distance through the line. “I don’t think so.”

“We don’t think so, honey, but maybe. What did you find out about him?”

“Nothing, really. Just an article. But there was something. He, um, he went missing when they were in school.”

Daphne gasps. “Oh my gosh, yes! I do remember that. The boy who went missing. Yes. Oh, yes.” She’s quiet for a second. “I don’t remember if they ever found him. That was so awful.”

“I couldn’t find anything about it if they did.”

“That’s just terrible.” Suddenly, she’s crying.

“Do you think he and Tate were close?”

“Oh.” She sniffles. “I don’t think so, no. I don’t remember Tate mentioning him other than when he went missing. And honestly, we might’ve just heard about that on the news or something. I can’t even say for sure he’s the one who told us.”

“Oh, okay. He must’ve just been around the night they took that picture, then.”

“I think so, too. If you find out anything else, though, let us know. I’ll try to keep thinking about it in case there’s anything else I might remember.”

“Okay, thanks. And I will. I’ll keep you posted.” We end the call, and I slip out of bed, determination running through my veins. In the hall, my parents are there again and have just begun to wake the boys up.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Mom says. “You could’ve slept in.”

“I have some errands to take care of this morning,” I tell her. I’m planning to run to the bank to close our accounts and open new ones, but I don’t want to tell Mom and Dad about that. Not yet, anyway. Foolish as it may be, some part of me is still holding out hope for this to all be a simple misunderstanding.

As if Tate might just walk back in the door with bags of groceries and say he forgot how to get home or got locked in a coat closet at work or something. The realistic side of me knows that isn’t what’s going to happen, but the part of me who is still very much in love with her husband, the part that so desperately wants her children’s father here with us, isn’t ready to give up the hope just yet.

Once the boys are up and dressed, I give them hugs and kisses, promising to give them an update on Daddy as soon as we have it and then thank my parents for taking them to school again.

Yesterday I hated that they were going, but today I’m very thankful for the consistency in our routine as I get ready and make my way out the door.

As I cross the driveway and approach the car, I spot an email appear on my phone and open it quickly when I see the name.

Conroy Langdon , the man I emailed last night.

My heart leaps as I skim over his email.

Celine,

I’d be more than happy to answer any questions you have about Aubrey Vance. She was a dear friend, and I’m still sad we don’t have answers or justice for her. I’d love to meet for coffee to discuss if you’re around the Dublin area. What do you say?

Thanks,

Conroy

I respond quickly, giving him a few different coffee places in between us and head to the bank.

Once there, I’m nearly certain they think I’m the one trying to steal from my husband, but they do what I’m asking of them anyway, closing the old accounts and opening new ones with only my name on them. It shouldn’t be this easy, but it really is. If Tate had wanted to, he could’ve taken everything. And if he does come back, if this is all just a misunderstanding or if he has a good explanation for it, I’m going to have to explain myself for this and hope he understands.

“And you’re sure there were no deposits coming into the old accounts?” I confirm for the third time, hoping they’ll see the investment money pending.

“No ma’am,” the banker, Lauren, says, “nothing yet. But as I told you, if anything does try to come in over the next thirty days, it will reopen the account. After that, it will be kicked back, and you’ll have to contact the payer directly to have it rerouted, so you definitely want to get everything switched over to the new account before those thirty days are up.”

“Okay, great.” I nod, gathering the paperwork back up. “I will.”

“And if you decide to add anyone else to the account, you can just bring them in.”

“Right, thanks.”

“We recommend adding a POD beneficiary at a minimum, so that if something happens to you, there’s a path for where the money should go. Otherwise, it’s a fight in the courts, even with a will in place.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I’ll keep that in mind.” If she even knew what my life was like right now, she might realize that sounded a bit like a threat. If something happens to you…

When I leave the bank, I finally call my insurance agent back to get an update on Tate’s car, which seems like it’s on its way to being totaled—probably the best possible outcome in this situation—and the check should be in the mail within the next week.

I’m feeling as accomplished as I can be when a new email from Conroy comes in. He’s agreed to meet me at a coffee shop an hour away from here, so I fire off a reply to let him know I’m on my way and hop in the car.

It feels a little bit like cheating on The Bold Bean when I arrive at Jitters Coffee House, but I find the space cozy and inviting, despite my nerves. Conroy Langdon is waiting for me at a table near the back. He looks just like his photo, unlike the people who use headshots from ten years ago. He’s wearing a suit and sporting thick, blond hair and a kind smile. When I approach the table, he holds out a hand for me.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know your coffee order, or I would’ve gotten you something.”

“That’s okay.” I wave him off, sitting down at the two-seater table. “Thank you for meeting with me.”

“Of course. To be honest, I was shocked when I got your email. I haven’t heard the name Aubrey Vance in over a decade. You said you found my article about her death online?”

I nod. “Yes, and I looked you up and found your LinkedIn. I hope that’s okay.”

“More than okay. Can I ask why you were looking into her? Are the two of you related?”

I shake my head. “No, I didn’t know her. I just…” I pause, trying to decide how to address this. “Because there is literally no better way to say this, I’ll just be honest. Something strange is going on, and I was going down a rabbit hole that led me to discover Aubrey’s obituary.”

“A rabbit hole.” He blows on his cup of coffee, lifting it to his lips and taking a sip. “Color me intrigued. Tell me more.”

“My husband is missing.” Those words never get easier to say.

His eyes flick to the wedding ring on my finger. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you. And when I was looking into some of his friends, I found out about Aubrey, and well, now here I am. I know it’s going to sound crazy, but part of me is starting to think this all could be related somehow.”

The wrinkle in his forehead deepens. “Related? How do you mean?”

“My husband went to school at Highland, and by coincidence or not, most of his friends are now either dead or missing. Aubrey was found just after the first of his friend group went missing.”

His brows crinkle together. “Missing? Wait a second, you don’t…do you mean Matteo Acri?”

“You knew him?”

“It’s a small school,” he says. “Matteo’s disappearance was a big deal. The talk of the campus for quite a while.” He pauses. “Forgive me, who is your husband?”

“Tate, um, Tatum Thompson.”

The man’s face pales, and he nearly drops his coffee cup, sloshing the light brown liquid down over the side. He hardly seems to notice the spill. “I guess I should’ve realized from your last name, but it’s a common one, so I didn’t think about it. You’re telling me you actually married Tatum Thompson?”

“I guess you knew him too, then.”

He looks away, appearing to try and collect himself. “He made sure of it.” If I didn’t know better, I’d say there’s a hint of bitterness in his voice.

“What do you mean? You and Tate didn’t get along?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it, thinking. “I’m sorry that he’s missing. Truly, I am, but Tatum Thompson as I knew him was an awful, awful bully to everyone around him.”

That doesn’t sound like Tate at all. I bite my lip. “We all make mistakes in college.” Not that I would know, I guess. I never went.

He nods, taking another sip of his coffee. Upon finally noticing the spill, he grabs a napkin and dabs it off the side of his cup and the tabletop. “What I can tell you is that Professor Vance was always very kind. Very well respected at our school. Her loss was a terrible one.”

“And what about Matteo?”

He balls the napkin up and sets it aside. “I didn’t know him as well, but he was never impolite to me. A bit shy, maybe. He kept to his circle. I was sorry to hear he disappeared but—” He cuts himself off.

“But what?”

“Well, forgive me again, but to be frank, I always suspected your husband and his friends of having something to do with it.”

My blood chills. “What do you mean?”

He takes a sip of his coffee, letting the heavy silence linger. “It was just a theory, but quite a few people in school thought it. Tatum left school right after, but that school was his kingdom. Several of us believed he never would’ve left unless he was guilty and had something to hide.”

I bristle at his comments. I knew Tate left school during his last semester, but his parents told me it was because he went to study abroad. Was that a lie? It’s no wonder Tate never spoke about who he was back then. He’s changed so much for the better, but now I wonder if it’s because of a terrible mistake he made back then. “I’m sorry he was so awful to you, truly. He’s different now. He’s a kind husband, a good father.”

The man looks at me as if he pities me. “I hope that’s true. I really do. And I’d never wish ill on him. But if you ask me, only a handful of people know what happened to Matteo Acri back then. If you ask me, he’s dead, and your husband and his friends at the very least know what happened, and, at the worst, were responsible.”

The weight of what he’s saying washes over me because he doesn’t know everything yet.

“Tate’s friends? Do you mean Bradley Jennings and Dakota Miller?”

“And Aaron something. I can’t remember his last name.”

“Bond.”

He nods. “Yep, that was it. Why?”

“Because everyone except Aaron is dead or missing now,” I say with a swallow. “Including Tate.”