Page 112 of The New Couple in 5B

“Is your husband home?” asks Crowe.

I shake my head, not trusting my voice.

“This afternoon we found the body of Betty Cartwright. She washed up downtown from the East River. Her skull was bashed in.”

The world tilts a little. Chad is missing. Now Betty is dead. Panic is a siren in the back of my head. The horrific possibilities swirl.

I draw in a deep breath, to steady myself, lean against the wall.

Betty, the nurse who helped us take care of Ivan. Always kind, warm, efficient. Not flaky, as Chad described her. A mother of two, grandmother of five. She was always knitting, loved mystery novels, had a tattoo of a butterfly on her wrist that was a reminder that life is fleeting but beautiful. I don’t want to think of her floating in the East River, broken, discarded.

Detective Crowe is saying something, but I’m lost in a fog of fear.

Behind the officers, and the detective, I see Willa and Miles. They stand stock-still and unseeing. I will them away, but they stay, standing sentry by the elevator with Abi between them.

“Will you be all right, Ms. Lowan?” asks Abi. Do I see a slight smile on his face?

“Yes, thank you.”

The elevator doors slide closed.

Detective Crowe hands me two pieces of paper.

“Your husband was the last person to see Ms. Cartwright. According to her sister, he’d been harassing her. A witness saw him yelling at her on the street in front of her apartment.”

The information doesn’t compute. My husband doesn’t harass women. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t hurt people. He doesn’t. More lies about my husband. “What? No.”

My voice is a rasp; I grip the paper he’s handed me.

“Meanwhile, he was supposed to report to work yesterday in a town upstate called the Hollows. Is that right?”

“Yes,” I say, the word sticking in my closing throat. I feel Sarah come up behind me.

“He did not arrive or call to say that he wouldn’t be there.”

Another piece of information that doesn’t compute. His big break, the role he’s been working toward all his adult life. He just didn’t show up?

What could ever keep him from that? Fear grips my stomach and twists.

“That’s—impossible,” I stammer.

Dread is a finger down my spine. A micro expression of compassion fleets across Crowe’s face but it disappears quickly.

“Ms. Lowan, when did you last see your husband?” His voice is cold and flat.

“When he left yesterday morning after breakfast. I was supposed to meet him this weekend.”

“When did you last speak to him?”

“He called last night to check in on me and say good-night.”

“Did he say where he was?”

“No,” I say. “I assumed at the hotel where he was booked. An inn, like a bed-and-breakfast place. I have the address because that’s where I was meeting him.”

“The Blue Hen Inn?” he asks.

“Yes, that’s right,” I answer, remembering.