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CHAPTER TWO

CELINE

The officer just stares at me as if I’ve grown a second head. As if there could be a chance I might not recognize the man I married, might just be mistaken when I say the face they’re showing me isn’t his.

“This man isn’t your husband?” She points toward the photograph again, sliding it closer to me.

I shake my head, sniffling as more tears come. Tears of relief this time. Of confusion. “No. I…I’ve never seen this man.”

“With injuries of this extent, it would be understandable if you had a hard time recognizing him.”

“It’s not that. I know my husband’s face. His nose is different. His eyes are smaller. This isn’t my husband, I’m positive.”

“He was driving your husband’s car,” she says, turning the photograph around and lifting it so she can stare at the man’s face. “He was carrying his phone and ID.” She’s talking to herself now as she stands. “You said…you said the tattoo is a match, though?”

Suddenly, I realize we’re thinking the same thing: did the face photographs get mixed up?

How many car crash victims did they have today? How many bodies are there to identify?

I picture a lineup of devastated wives, filing into this room one after the next.

Looking down, I realize there are still two other photographs she gave me to look at. A ring placed next to a hand—a hand that’s supposed to be his—and a birthmark. With trembling fingers, I examine both photographs before shaking my head. My lungs release air as if it’s sadness and I can’t get it out of me quickly enough.

“It’s not him,” I tell her, pushing the photographs away. “He doesn’t have a birthmark on his hip, and his ring is custom—inlaid with wood from a bourbon barrel with a guitar string on top. I got it for him on our anniversary a few years ago. Plus his hands have burn scars on them from an accident years ago. They’re light but noticeable up close. Especially along his thumb. The hands in the photograph don’t have scars.”

Her face is serious as she turns away, preparing to leave the room, then turns back one last time. “You’re absolutely sure.”

I close the folder and slide it back to her, keeping my voice as steady as I can. “It’s not Tate.”

She gathers the photos, hurriedly shoving them back into the folder. “I’ll be right back, Mrs. Thompson. Please wait here.”

I swallow and look down, gathering my hands in my lap as I try to understand what might be happening. The tattoo was his, the car, the phone, and wallet were his, but the ring, hands, face, and birthmark were not.

Does this mean there’s a chance he’s alive?

My throat clenches, and I want to call him, to hear his voice, but the police have his phone, so I’d simply be calling them. Still, I have to try.

I pull out my phone and find his name in my call log, clicking on it. I press the phone to my ear, my heart in my throat as I listen to it ringing.

Pick up.

Pick up.

Pick up.

Please pick up and tell me this has all been a misunderstanding. Laugh and ask what in the world I’m talking about. Tell me I should’ve called you before I rushed to the police station. Tell me you’re coming for me right now. Come and get me and ? —

“You’ve reached Tate Thompson with Morris Realty. I’m sorry I couldn’t get to the phone right now, but if you’ll leave your name and number, I’ll call you back soon. Thanks.”

With tears in my eyes, I end the call. It was a long shot. I knew that, but it was a bit of hope I was still clinging to.

Where are you, Tate?

My chest feels hollow as I sit and wait, wanting nothing more than to get out of here and go look for my husband. When Officer Simone returns with two more officers in tow, I have a feeling it’s going to be a long time before I can do that.

The officers take their seats across from me, one pulling a chair from my side around to hers.

“Mrs. Thompson,” Officer Simone says, “these are my colleagues, Officer Chatham and Detective Monroe. We want to ask you a few other questions surrounding this investigation.”

It sounds so formal now. It went from a car crash—a terrible accident—to an investigation.

I nod, leaning forward. “Okay. Sure.”

“Officer Simone says you can’t confirm that the man who was driving your husband’s car was your husband,” Officer Chatham says. She’s older than Officer Simone, I’d guess, with thin wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. She has a kind but firm smile that tells me she means business.

Next to her, Detective Monroe, a Black man with a buzz cut, stares at me without saying a word.

“I can confirm that it’s not him,” I tell them. “It’s not.”

The detective places the folder back on the table and opens it once again, spreading out the photographs so I can see each of them in a row. “This man,” he says, pressing his finger into the photograph next to the man’s temple, “is not your husband? He isn’t Tatum Thompson?”

“No,” I tell them. “I’ve never seen this man in my life. It’s not my husband.” Why do I get the feeling they don’t believe me?

“How do you think a stranger would have come to be driving your husband’s car, ma’am?” Officer Simone asks.

“I have no idea,” I tell her. “But…you said you have his driver’s license. Surely you can tell the photo isn’t of this man.” Even as I say it, I know it’s a long shot because this man does bear a passing resemblance to my husband. They have similar square head shapes, dark hair and brows. They are around the same height and weight. Still, it isn’t him. I know it isn’t. “Maybe he robbed him. Maybe he took his wallet and phone and car.”

The officers exchange glances. “Are you able to place a few phone calls for us, ma’am? To anyone you believe might know your husband’s whereabouts? His family, his friends, coworkers…”

“Yes, of course.” I should’ve already thought of that. Why isn’t my brain working? I feel as if I’m drowning. I pull out my phone, staring down at the photo of the two of us and our boys. My heart plummets when I see the time. “Oh my god, my kids. I’m sorry. I need to…” I stand up, not finishing the sentence as I search for my mom’s name in my call log.

After the fourth ring, I’m about to end the call when she finally picks up. “Hello?”

“Mom…” I sob. “I need you to pick up the boys from school.”

“What? What’s going on? What’s wrong?”

“I’ll explain later,” I promise, though I have no clue how I’m going to explain any of this to anyone, myself included. “Can you get them for me?”

“Of course, babe. I’m on my way home from the store anyway, so I’ll swing by the school right now and get them. Is everything okay?”

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “I’ll come by your house as soon as I can.”

“You’re scaring me,” she says softly.

“I know. I’m sorry. I just…I have to go, okay? Give them a kiss for me.”

“I will.”

“Oh, hey, before I let you go…you haven’t heard from Tate, have you?”

She hesitates. “Heard from Tate? What do you mean? Today? Was I supposed to?”

“No, it’s fine. I just…I’ll see you soon, okay? I love you.”

“You too, sweetheart. See you soon.”

I turn back to the desk and begin scrolling through my contacts. I find my mother-in-law’s name first and click on it. Unlike my mother, she answers quickly.

“Hey, honey! What are you up to? I was just thinking about you earlier because I found this recipe for a lemon?—”

“Daph, I’m sorry, I don’t have time to chat. I was just wondering if you’ve talked to Tate today?”

“Oh. Talked to Tate? Today?” She hums. “No, it’s been a few days since we spoke, I suppose. Why?”

“Do you know if Lane has?”

“I’m not sure. Well, actually, he’s right here. Let me ask him. Is everything alright?” I can hear her speaking to my father-in-law in the background, her voice muffled.

I have no idea what I’m supposed to tell them, if anything.

“Neither of us have spoken to him today, honey. Is something wrong?”

“I’m…” My voice cracks, and I do my best to collect myself. “There was a car accident, and…we can’t find him.”

She’s quiet, then my father-in-law comes on the line. “A car accident?” he demands. “What are you talking about? He was involved?”

“It was his car, but someone else was in it. I’m just trying to track him down.”

“Where are you?” he demands.

“The police station.”

“The police station?” His voice rises an octave. “What for? Do you need us to come down there? Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

“No. No. I’m okay. I’m fine. It’s just…the person involved, the man in Tate’s car he…he’s dead, Lane. They thought it was Tate.”

Now we’re all crying, trying to talk over each other as we make sense of it.

“What do you mean?—”

“Have you called him?—”

“I just saw him a few days ago?—”

“Yes, he was okay this morning?—”

“Where are the boys?”

“We’re coming down there?—”

“No, just…just meet me at the house, will you? I’m going to call his boss and see if he’s been in the office today or where he’s supposed to be. I’ll let you know when we find him.”

My mother-in-law’s voice is soft when she speaks. “Where are the boys?”

“My mom is picking them up. I’ll be home soon, okay?”

“We’ll go to her house then,” she says. “We should be together. All of us. Until we sort this out.”

I nod, though she can’t see me. “Okay.”

“We’ll see you soon,” Lane says.

I end the call and search for Tate’s office number. His boss is rarely in, but at least I’ll be able to get a hold of someone who can help me track him down.

“Morris Realty, Dustin speaking, how can we help you find a home today?” comes the chipper voice through the line over the distinct sound of typing.

“Dustin, this is Celine Thompson, Tate’s wife. I was wondering if he was in the office today or if you might know where he’s supposed to be right now.”

“Heya, Celine,” he sings. “Long time, no see. Let me just check and see if he’s in. I don’t think I’ve seen him, but sometimes he likes to sneak in on me.” The typing continues, then stops abruptly. “Oh shoot, that’s right.”

“What’s wrong?” My blood chills in my veins.

“Well, hang on just a second for me. Hmm…yeah, let me just see something.” He pauses, then sucks in a breath. “I swear I’ve gotten my days all mixed up before. My head is usually all over the place, so maybe I have this wrong, but it says here…yeah, it says Tate’s out on vacation this week. Does that sound right?”

The officers meet my eyes across the table as I swallow, my throat dry. Nothing about this sounds right at all.