“That’s what she said.”
“I thought so.” Dr. Chang was quiet for a moment. “Listen, I’m concerned.”
“I am, too. I’m at Sheila’s place now and the police were just here. I’ve filed a missing person’s report.”
“That’s good.” The therapist sounded relieved. “I think that’s best. Not that I think anything’s wrong,” she added quickly. “But it would be good to know she hasn’t been in an accident of some kind.”
“That’s pretty much what the police said. Should I give them your name?”
Dr. Chang was silent for a moment. “There’s really nothing I can tell them. If I knew something that could help, I would say so, but only if I thought she were a danger to herself or others. She’s not.”
“That’s what I figured.” Morris hesitated. “Listen, the detective on the case thinks Sheila probably flipped out. He said that people walk away from their lives all the time. Do you think that’s what she did?”
Dr. Chang answered carefully. “In my experience, I’ve seen people walk away for all kinds of reasons.”
His heart sank.
Finally, the therapist sighed. “I shouldn’t say this, but she loved you very much, Morris. You mean the world to her. Once she’s worked through everything she needs to, I really believe she’ll come back.”
He closed his eyes. “Thank you. You don’t know how badly I needed to hear that.”
CHAPTER 24
I t wasn’t even twenty-four hours before Detective Torrance called.
Morris was working late at the bank, running numbers for a new deal he was working on. He’d been at it all afternoon and was irritated to be interrupted, but the minute Darcy told him who was on the line, he forgot about his spreadsheets.
“Yes, Detective.” He didn’t know what he was expecting to hear, and his stomach had that acidic feeling again, now a daily occurrence. He reached for the bottle of antacid in his top drawer.
Was Sheila dead? Or had they found her, shacked up with some guy on the other side of the country?
“Hello, Mr. Gardener,” Torrance said. “I have an update for you.”
“I’m listening.” Morris shook out three antacid tablets and popped them into his mouth. They tasted like sweetened chalk. He took a sip of the coffee that Darcy had brought in an hour before and grimaced. It was cold.
“Thought you’d like to know we conducted a thorough investigation into the disappearance of your fiancee. The good news is, we found no evidence or sign of foul play.”
“That is good news,” Morris said, relief washing over him. “What’s the bad news?”
“We have no idea where she is.”
“Okay. But you’re gonna keep looking, right? She’s still missing.”
“Yeah.” Torrance cleared his throat. “But the thing is, sir, she wants to be. So we’re closing her file.”
“You’re kidding.” Morris’s mouth hung open in shock. “I only filed the report yesterday. What about her fish? She wouldn’t have let the goddamned thing die.”
“Goldfish die all the time, sir.” Morris could practically hear the detective’s smirk right through the phone line. “Perhaps it died before she left, and she was in a hurry to get out of town and didn’t think to… flush it.”
Asshole. “What if she leaves the country? Couldn’t you flag her passport?”
“Sure we could,” Torrance replied, “but it was sitting on the kitchen counter. I saw it when I was there the other night.” The detective lowered his voice. “Look, I know this is hard for you. But as I said before, this isn’t that uncommon. She’s taking a break from her life. It happens. It’s not what you want to hear, but you’re going to have to accept it one way or another.”
“I still think this is wrong.” Morris’s stomach churned. “The woman had a life here, Detective. She had a job. Responsibilities. I can deal with the fact that she changed her mind about me, but you don’t know Sheila. I’m telling you. None of this makes sense.”
“She’s an adult, Mr. Gardener. She’s free to come and go as she chooses. I listened to her phone message several times and she was pretty adamant about her decision.”
A headache started in Morris’s left temple. “So what should I do?”
“You want my advice? Let it go. She’s probably having a midlife crisis. She freaked out, left town, needs space. Like you said yourself, she has a life here. She’ll come home eventually.”
Morris pounded his fist into the desk, rocking his mug of cold coffee. “And in the meantime, I’m supposed to just… what? Sit around and wait for her?”
“Get on with your life.”
“Yeah? And how do I do that?”
“There is another option. You could hire a private investigator.” Torrance’s voice was so low, Morris could barely hear him.
“Come again?”
“Write this number down.” It sounded as if the detective was cupping the phone to his mouth. Morris grabbed a pen and copied down the number Torrance recited. “His name is Jerry Isaac. Retired cop. Not saying it’ll go anywhere, but you want to keep digging into this, he’s the man for the job. That’s my best advice.” Torrance’s voice returned to normal. “Seattle PD can’t take it any further.”
Morris mumbled his thanks and hung up. He rubbed his temples, trying to process what he’d just been told. By all accounts, Sheila had left him. Really and truly. Whether it made sense or not, she was gone, and he was going to have to find a way to deal with it.
He looked at the spreadsheet he’d been working on before Torrance called and couldn’t remember a damn thing about it. Then he reached for his bottom desk drawer and pulled out the bottle of Johnnie Walker Red.
He was surprised to find it was almost empty.
CHAPTER 25
M orris hated Fremont.
Jerry Isaac’s office was located in the heart of the quirky Seattle neighborhood, made popular by the young professionals who wanted to stay in the city and didn’t mind living in old houses that needed work. Fremont was filled with independently owned coffee shops, secondhand clothing stores, and ethnic restaurants Morris had never heard of. Its residents were environmentally conscious, and most of them had no need for a car.
In other words, it was hip. And he could count on two fingers the number of times he’d been here.
He trudged up the sidewalk, the black leather bag on his shoulder getting heavier by the second. He was sweating profusely. The Cadillac was parked three blocks down in the only spot he could find. For a neighborhood that prided itself on its nondependence on automobiles, it was interesting how every available parking space within a two-block radius was taken.
He consulted the slip of paper in his hand where he’d written down Jerry Isaac’s address, finally stopping in front of a store called Bead World. Confused for a moment, he looked straight up and was relieved to see a sign in the second-floor window that read ISAAC AND ASSOCIATES, PRIVATE INVESTIGATORS.
He looked around but saw no entrance to the second level of the building. Dismayed, he pushed open the doors to the bead store. The bells that were attached to the door’s frame chimed his entrance. Loudly.
Four ladies were sitting around a large, square white table, all working on projects of some kind-necklaces, bracelets, God knew what else-and they all glanced up as he entered. The room reeked of musky sweetness and he tried not to gag. The only thing he hated more than beads was incense. Plinky New Age music played in the background to complete the experience.
This was Morris’s version of hell.
“Can I help you?” the oldest lady said in a singsong voice. In her hands was a long rope of red and silver beads that matched the sari she wore.
Morris was afraid to venture in farther. Beads of all colors, shapes, and sizes surrounded him, in boxes, in bins,
