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CHAPTER FOUR

CELINE

Back at my house, I’ve finally gotten the boys down in bed. In the kitchen, the grandparents wait at the table, talking through an endless loop of ideas. Daphne is on the phone with someone. I don’t have the time to fall apart, so instead I formulate a plan.

As I reach the table, Daphne ends her call with a sigh. “That was Mary Ellen.”

I don’t recognize the name, but I don’t say as much. I can hardly muster the awareness to think, let alone speak. I sit down at the head of the table, sinking my head into my hands. I feel completely empty. Numb. More and more, I find myself bargaining with the universe to just wake me up. That I’ll do anything if I could just wake up from this nightmare.

“From my Bunco group,” she reminds Lane. “She hasn’t heard anything, but she’s the first to know anything that happens in this town, so she’s promised to ask around and keep an eye out.”

“Okay, we need to do something,” I say from behind my hands. “I’m going to call the detective on Tate’s case again. He gave me his phone number at the station and said I could call for updates.” I cross back into the living room and grab my purse from the couch, digging through it. I sort through snacks for the boys, a bottle of hand sanitizer, several pens, and my worn-out wallet before I find the card Detective Monroe gave me.

Holding the card, I type in his number and put the phone on speaker so everyone can hear the conversation.

“Monroe.” He answers with a single word.

“Um, hi.” My voice is shaking, and I hate it. “This…this is Celine Thompson.” Suddenly standing by my side, Daphne puts a hand on my shoulder, giving me a reassuring smile. “I’m calling to ask for an update about my husband’s case. Tate, um, Tatum Thompson.”

There’s a beat of silence before we get an answer. “Mrs. Thompson, thanks for checking in. As of right now, we’re still sorting through the evidence from your husband’s phone and work computer. I went down to his office right after we met to speak with his coworkers and get a clearer picture of his movements. I apologize for not getting a chance to call you sooner.”

“What did they say?” I ask.

“More of what we already knew. Tate put in for this vacation just last week, which leads me to believe whatever is going on, something caused this to happen quickly. Was there anything abnormal about his behavior last week?”

I pinch my bottom lip between my fingers, thinking. The text. If I tell them about the text, will it make me look suspicious? I swallow. “No. Not that I can think of.”

The detective hums. “Well, we’re still working through some theories and trying to get a timeline together of the past few days for him. I’ll be in touch as soon as we have any updates.”

Yeah, just like you were this time.

“Should we be doing anything?” Daphne asks. “Is there anything we can do to help?”

“Who is that?” the detective asks.

“Tate’s mom,” I say. “Daphne Thompson.”

“Good evening, Mrs. Thompson,” he says. “As of right now, as hard as it is, my best advice is the same I’ve already given Celine. Stay put, keep your focus on anything you might have overlooked the past week or so, and let us know if you hear from Tate. I know you want to do more, but the best we can do for Tate right now is putting our heads together and looking for a break in his usual pattern or behavior. Something caused him to take that vacation and something has caused him to go missing. Soon, we’ll break the story to the media, but we don’t want to risk the progress we’ve made by spooking anyone just yet.”

“Spooking anyone?” Daphne asks, her voice quivering. “You mean if someone has him held captive?”

“We don’t have any reason to believe your son is in danger, ma’am. We’re hoping to know more soon, and we’ll be in touch as soon as we do.”

Daphne doesn’t look pleased, but she says nothing else as I thank the detective and end the call. With a sigh, I join them at the table again.

When I do, Lane huffs. “They’re treating him as if he’s the one in the wrong here, not this criminal who stole his car.”

Mom reaches out, taking my hand and rubbing it with hers. “What can we do?”

Without looking up, I shake my head. “I don’t know. You heard the police. They don’t want us to do anything apparently. They told me earlier they’re going to use his phone to get data about his recent activities and they’re supposed to be looking up surveillance footage, but…” A puff of air escapes my chest. “That doesn’t feel like enough. We need to contact people. We need to search?—”

“We’ve been calling everyone who might know anything,” Daphne says, her eyes filled with worry. “I just don’t have his coworkers’ numbers, but you spoke with his boss, didn’t you?”

I nod. “Well, I talked to Dustin, the receptionist, not his boss, but why would he have taken the week off without telling me? That’s the thing I can’t make sense of. Why would he lie?” I look at both of his parents then, feeling guilty for asking but hoping they’ll have an answer.

They exchange a glance, though neither seems able to come up with a response that would make sense without making their son look like a liar.

I’m so angry with him, but I have no idea what I’m angry about. I’m worried and upset and furious that I’m in this situation—that I don’t even fully understand what this situation is. Where is Tate? Who was the man in the car? What in the world is going on?

Surely the police will figure it out soon. I want to believe it, but it would be a lie to say I don’t have doubts. Surely they’ll get answers, but…what if they don’t? What if I just never learn anything? What if Tate has just…vanished? What if I never see him again?

I need to do something. Anything.

A pang of sadness rebounds in my heart, and even surrounded by the people I love, I feel wholly alone.

“There will be some sort of explanation,” Daphne says, reaching across the table to stroke my arm.

“Of course there will,” Lane agrees. “He’s alright. He’s fine.” His words sound more like he’s trying to reassure himself than me. “He’s going to be back home in no time at all, you’ll see.”

“We need to search. Go to restaurants he likes or…places he goes. Something.” Even as I say it, I know it’s useless. My husband is a homebody. He spends his time with us. Aside from work, he goes almost nowhere else. “I can’t just sit here and do nothing. I don’t care what the police say.”

Mom scrapes her hand across her forehead like she always does when she’s thinking hard. “I agree. Daphne and I were just saying we should organize some sort of search party. We could canvas the neighborhood or…what are you thinking? ”

The truth is, I don’t know. The police haven’t given me any sort of instructions or guidance on how to handle this situation other than to sit here twiddling my thumbs as if I’m helpless. I’m alone and in uncharted waters, and I have no idea what any of this means or what I should be doing.

“I don’t know,” I say softly, dusting a tear from my cheek. I sniffle, brushing away another one as it falls. “They didn’t tell me anything except to wait to hear more from them once they go through his phone, just like you heard. They said to contact anyone who might know where he is, but we’ve done that. Tate didn’t have a huge circle. It’s just us.” I look around the room, knowing this is our whole circle. If I were to go missing, these are the people who would look for me too. “I just need to get out and drive. Look for him. I need to go.”

“Go where?” Mom asks.

“You shouldn’t be out on your own.” Dad’s voice leaves no room for negotiation. “I know you want to do something, but we need a plan. You can’t just go driving around without any idea where you’re going or why. It’s the middle of the night at this point. We’ll stay. To help with the boys or be here if you need to leave, but let’s be smart about this. You’re upset, and I know you have every right to be, but you’re not in a state to drive. You look ready to pass out.”

“Can you blame her?” Daphne balks. “What are we supposed to do? The police aren’t telling us anything! You heard that detective. They all but blamed Tate for disappearing, as if he kidnapped himself.”

Dad flattens his hands on the table, his voice level. “We need to stay calm. We’ll make a list of everyone you haven’t talked to already who might have heard from Tate. There has to be someone else. His clients, maybe? Tonight, we can start calling them, and in the morning, we’ll visit his office and?—”

“No. We can’t call his clients.” My tone is harsher than I mean for it to be.

“Why not?” Mom asks.

“First of all, because all of their information is in his phone, which I don’t have. There might be some at the office, but I couldn’t legally access it. And, second of all, because it would look wholly unprofessional?—”

“Who cares?” Mom’s eyes wrinkle in the corners as she studies me, and finally, her chest puffs with a deep breath.

“Tate would care,” I say firmly. “He does care. He’s worked so hard for his career. We can’t embarrass him.” I know there’s so much unspoken in the room right now. None of us know if Tate will come back for the career he’s worked so hard for, but I have to believe I’m right about this. If I embarrass him in front of his clients or bring them into our family drama, he might never forgive me. “The police will contact them if they think it’s necessary, but for now, we have to come up with something else.”

“There’s no one else to contact,” Lane says with a broken, exhausted tone. “Nowhere else to go. We have to talk to his boss. Find out more about this vacation he took. When did he ask for it off? What did he tell him?”

I lick my lips and pull out my phone, grateful for any sort of plan. I don’t have Tate’s boss’s phone number saved in my contacts, but a quick internet search gives it to me, and I click on it, placing the call. It rings once and goes to voicemail.

I sigh. It’s late. I hadn’t expected any different, but still. I leave a quick message and ask him to call me back. I have no idea if any of this is allowed. Am I interfering with a police investigation somehow? Will I get into trouble?

Interrupting my racing thoughts, Mom speaks up. “Why don’t you go to bed? You’re exhausted. There’s nothing else that can be done tonight, and you’ll feel better in the morning.”

“I can’t go to bed,” I tell her, shaking my head. “My husband is missing. Tate is…he’s missing.” My voice cracks, and I feel the last bit of my resolve crumbling. Tate isn’t coming home tonight. He may not be coming home ever. He’s just gone. He’s really, truly gone.

Mom stands up from the table, gathering me in her arms without a word, and I rest my head against her, silent tears streaming down my cheeks. I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel or what I’m supposed to say. I just want answers. I just want to understand.

“Lane and I will start calling around to hospitals,” Daphne says, her voice soft and mousy through tears of her own. “Just in case, you know? Someone has to know something.” With that, they stand and back out of the room, leaving me alone with my parents.

When they’ve left, Mom pulls away from me slightly, clasping my cheeks between her hands. She just stares at me for a long while, her eyes glassy and unreadable, and I know she’s trying desperately to be strong for me like she always has. “There’s nothing you can do tonight, Celine,” she says finally. “The police are doing all they can, and if you want, we can get up at dawn and start searching, make more phone calls, but for now…for now you have to sleep.” When I start to argue, she holds up a hand, cutting me off. “You have to rest , even if you can’t sleep.”

“Is that what you’d do if it were me? If I were missing, would you guys just go to bed?” There is nothing hateful in my tone. Even if I felt angry with my parents—which I don’t—I don’t have the strength to summon anything but emptiness.

She doesn’t seem to have an answer to that, so she releases my cheeks and exchanges a worried glance with my father. “Sweetheart, there’s nothing else you can do. It’s late. People aren’t answering their phones. It’s too dark to see to search, too late to bother neighbors. I know you’re worried, and we are too, but you’ve done absolutely everything you can do tonight. I have to believe Tate would want you to take care of yourself and the boys. You can’t run yourself ragged when nothing else can be done tonight. The police are working. You need to rest.”

“Fine,” I say softly, rubbing my eyes. “I’ll go to bed.”

Their eyes dart back toward me.

“I’ll go to bed and try to come up with a plan for tomorrow. I’m not saying I’ll sleep because we all know I won’t, but I need to think and run through everything in my head. Process. I know him. If I think about it hard enough, surely I can come up with a few places we haven’t already thought to look for him, people we haven’t called.”

Dad nods, moving toward us and putting a hand on Mom’s shoulder. “I think that’s a smart plan. Do you want us to stay?”

“No,” I tell him as gently as I can. “Thank you for offering. I love you, and I appreciate it, but I just…I need to be alone right now.”

Dad starts to say something, probably to argue, but Mom cuts him off. “We’ll let Lane and Daphne know. And we’ll be back in the morning. You call us if you need anything, okay? We can be back over here in twenty minutes. I’ll keep my phone on.” Mom always sleeps with her phone on Do Not Disturb because the slightest sound or light wakes her, so I know she’s saying she won’t be sleeping much either. Somehow, that makes me feel a little better. I hug them both. Then, completely wiped out by exhaustion, I disappear down the hall and into our bedroom without a word to my in-laws. I don’t want to have to explain to them why I’m going to bed. I don’t have the strength to hold the weight of their judgment right now, but I also won’t blame them if they do judge me. They should. Going to bed is the last thing I should be doing, yet my body refuses to do anything else.

When I hear their car doors shut moments later and then spot their headlights shining through the curtains, I breathe a sigh of relief. Then, just as quickly, the tears begin to fall.

I curl up in my bed, trying my hardest to stifle the sounds of my sobs so I don’t wake the boys, covering my mouth so hard I feel as if I’m suffocating myself. My body hurts from holding in the pain, but I have to be strong for them, even if I’m faking every second of the display.

After an hour has passed, and I’m no longer crying, just lying on my side across the bed with cool tears cascading across my nose and onto my temple, I hear a noise. A sound draws me from the trance I’m in, though it takes several seconds for me to recognize what it is.

In my purse on the floor, my phone is vibrating.

I assume it’s my mother, calling to say good night or check in, but when I see the words on the screen, my heart stalls.

Unknown Caller

I consider not answering it for a split second, toying with the idea of letting it go to voicemail, but even if the situation with Tate didn’t have my interest, the late hour would. As many spam calls as I get, none of them come in the middle of the night.

Without another thought, I swipe my finger across the screen to answer it. Could this be the call? The ransom demand? The explanation? The apology?

What am I supposed to say? Police always prepare you for these in the movies, but no one has prepared me at all. I’m going to mess this up somehow.

“Hello?” My voice shakes as I answer, and if the person doesn’t know what’s going on, if they aren’t calling about Tate, they might assume I’ve been sleeping.

I listen as the other end of the line lingers in silence. Ordinarily, I’d have hung up already, but now I can’t afford to. I have no way to know if this is related to Tate, but if it is, I need to keep the line open. I need the person to know I’m listening.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

Still, nothing. Radio silence.

“Tate?” I whisper, my voice cracking under the weight of that syllable. A sound, an utterance, that feels as old hat to me as brushing my teeth or blinking. “Are you there?”

Then I hear it. A single exhalation. A breath caught in the air. Someone has released a breath. There is an actual living, breathing person on the line, but they don’t want me to know it.

Or maybe they can’t make a sound.

“Tate, honey? Is that you? If…if it is…breathe out again.” Maybe his captor is close by. Maybe I’m putting him at risk to ask him to make a single noise.

If so, he’s safe. Because there are no other noises, and soon enough, the line goes dead.