“And when did he leave?”
Our formal living room is packed with agents of the law—some in uniform and some in plain clothes. While a couple of officers occupy Bella, I’m speaking with a detective wearing faded blue jeans, a backward baseball cap, and a University of Miami T-shirt. He looks more like a high school sports coach than someone who belongs on CSI, but the badge hanging around his neck says his name is Jason Guidry, with the Lake County Police Department.
“Two days ago. Just before six in the morning.”
He squints as he writes down everything I say in a handheld notebook. “And when is he supposed to come back?”
“Two hours ago.” Before the detective can draw the obvious conclusion—that he’s not technically missing; he’s only late—I blurt out: “I haven’t heard from him, and his company . . . the Diamond Corporation . . . they’re pretending they don’t know who he is. They’re pretending he doesn’t exist.”
“Has this ever happened before?” Guidry nibbles on his lower lip, still writing. “He forgets to call? Goes off radar?”
“Of course not! He always calls. Always.”
“I believe you.” He glances up at me. “Have you been in touch with members of his family? Parents? Brothers and sisters? To see if they’ve heard from him?”
“He’s an only child.” I open my laptop to show the detective what I’ve done. “His parents are . . . well, they’re in Europe. They aren’t due back for another week, and I don’t know if their phones are working over there, but I left a voice mail for his mother and sent an e-mail. I also messaged her on Facebook, but she’s not in the habit of checking it.”
“What’s her name?”
“Shell. Shell Cavanaugh.”
“I’d like her phone number, if you don’t mind. And your father-in-law?”
“Micah Senior. He goes by Mick.”
“Have you attempted to reach Mick?”
“I don’t have his number.”
The detective awards me with only a momentary glance, but I see something in his eyes in that split second—suspicion, maybe?—that propels me to explain. “He and Shell are together. In Europe.”
Guidry is unfazed.
“He and Micah don’t get along. We don’t have a relationship.”
“I see.”
“He and Shell were separated when Micah and I met. They’re back together now, but Micah never forgave his father for whatever it was he put his mother through.”
“A shame.”
He’s looking at me like he wants more elaboration, but I don’t know much more than that. I know Mick had found someone else. I know he came to his senses just in time to save his marriage. Typical midlife crisis stuff: motorcycle, sports car, younger woman. Shell forgave him, or maybe she simply chose to overlook it, but Micah wrote him off. That’s the way it is with Micah. He’s your biggest fan until you do something unforgiveable.
“Mick practically lives up north now, at their lake house. Shell’s a butterfly. When she isn’t planning charity events, she travels quite a bit and sometimes drags Mick with her. This time, he went.”
“Mick doesn’t see your daughter?”
I shake my head. “Micah wouldn’t allow it . . . he doesn’t want him in our lives.”
Guidry nods. “And it’s because of whatever happened between his parents.”
“That’s what he said.”
“The rift had nothing to do with Micah’s stealing money from his father ten years ago?”
“What money?” My eyes widen. “Ten years ago was right around the time we were graduating from college. We were together then, but I . . . I don’t know anything about that.”
“There was a report filed. Your father-in-law pressed charges. Dropped them shortly after.”
I chew on a nail. I can’t picture Micah stealing, but why would he have kept the accusation from me? “I don’t know. I mean, he never mentioned anything like that. What kind of money are we talking?”
“Quite a bit.”
“There’s a record of it? Of the filed charges?”
“When your call came through, the first thing I did was enter your husband’s name into the system. This old charge popped up.”
“Anything else?”
Guidry shakes his head. “No, ma’am.”
I’ve bitten my nail off. Is it possible there’s more to Micah—and his relationship with his father—than I understand? But I don’t have time to ponder it because Guidry’s continuing.
“And you’ve contacted Micah’s employer?”
I hand over all the correspondence I’ve found from Diamond Corporation during the past hour. Bundled with a rubber band are salary transfer confirmations and his offer letter, as well as the corporate employee handbook, which I’d never seen Micah open. But it’s proof that he was, indeed, hired and employed by Diamond.
“You said the Diamond Corporation,” Guidry says.
“Yes.”
“There’s no the.”
“What?”
“The automatic deposit stubs. The stationery. There’s no the. It’s just Diamond Corporation.”
“Okay.”
“So maybe you were in touch with the wrong company.”
“The wrong company based in Chicago on LaSalle Street, with satellites in New York and Miami?”
“It seems silly, but sometimes, things are as simple as a word out of line. We’ll follow up on it.”
“Detective?”
I look over my shoulder to see an officer standing over me. Suddenly, Bella is climbing onto my lap—I wince as one of her knees presses too hard against my swollen left ovary—and one of the officers laden with the task of entertaining her is leaning down to whisper into Guidry’s ear.
His split-second glance again flickers over me but then settles on my daughter. “Elizabella?”
She’s pressing her hands against my cheeks. “It’s okay, Mommy.”
“Elizabella?” Guidry tries again. “Can you show me what you drew?”
She nudges my stomach again when she spins and plops her bottom down on my lap. “I didn’t draw it. Nini did.”
“Your mommy did?” Guidry asks.
“No! Nini.”
“It’s her imaginary friend,” I say.
“She’s real.”
“And she drew this picture?” Guidry asks, gesturing to the page an officer plants in front of him.
“We took photos of it, Lieutenant,” the officer says.
“What did she draw?” I ask. Guidry peruses the sketch, which appears to be a lighthouse of sorts—a bullet-shaped object of red, yellow, and black horizontal stripes, with water in the background.
“I told Nini it was bad,” Elizabella says. “Markers are off-limits.”
“Are you sure your mommy didn’t draw this?”
I shake my head, confused. It looks like a child’s drawing. “Why would I . . . unless you’re trying to insinuate I’m putting thoughts into my daughter’s head—”
“Not Mommy! Nini!”
“She draws pictures all the time,” I say.
“It isn’t this one picture, per se.” The detective shares a glance with his officer, then says to Elizabella, “Did you tell the officer this is where your daddy is?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Where is he?”
“He went to God Land.”
“When did he go to God Land?”
“When I was sleeping. He gave me a kiss bye-bye.”
“He stops in her room to kiss her before he goes out of town,” I explain. If I’d ever stopped crying, the tears are full force again now. I tighten my grip on Elizabella and allow my head to fall on her shoulder.
She gives my hand a pat.
“Elizabella, can you do me a favor?” Guidry asks. “Can you draw me a picture?”
“Yes.” Bella is swinging her legs playfully, but she doesn’t attempt to climb off my lap.
“Can you do it now? I’m not going to be here for very much longer, and I’d like to take it home with me tonight to show my kids.”
He’s a father. A tiny speck of heat warms my heart. He’s a father! He’ll understand how important it is for a man to come home to his family. He’ll help me. And while I can’t bear the thought of releasing my daughter, even to let her draw in a room forty feet away, I loosen my grip. “It’s okay, Bella. Go ahead.”