Already Gone

– 10 –



Detective Nolan holds up one hand and says, “Mr. Reese, you have to calm down.”

We’re standing in my bedroom and I’m pointing at the blood on the carpet, and all I can think is that he just doesn’t get it, and that if I yell louder then maybe it’ll click and he’ll understand. Maybe he’ll see.

But I don’t yell.

I tell him again, calmly, “My wife has been kidnapped.”

He pauses before he speaks. I know the technique. Cops use it to slow the conversation and release tension. The fact that I know what he’s doing makes it even harder to stay calm. I turn away and start pacing the room.

“Did you check the doors and windows in the house?”

“For what?”

“If a lock is broken or if a screen door has been cut, then we’ll have an indication that someone might’ve broken into your home. If that’s the case, then we can explore the possibility that your wife was kidnapped.”

“The possibility?”

Nolan’s shoulders sag. “What do you want me to say?”

I feel the anger coming on strong, and I bite it back. “I don’t want you to say anything to me. I want you to find her.”

“We don’t know she was kidnapped,” he says. “All we have are a few spots of blood that could’ve come from anywhere or anyone.”

“I told you, the two guys who attacked me, I saw them this afternoon. They were sitting outside my office, just down the street.”

“You also told me your wife was upset.” He looks at me. “This wouldn’t be the first time she left because she was upset.”

I open my mouth to argue, but I can’t.

He’s right.

“Give her some time,” Nolan says. “I’m guessing she’ll come home as soon as she calms down.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“Then call us,” he says. “But we can’t open a missing-persons report for twenty-four hours. And without solid evidence, there’s nothing we can do right now.”

“What about the blood? Or her clothes?” I open the closet doors. “They’re all here, same with her suitcase. If she’d left on her own, she would’ve packed a bag. She didn’t take anything.”

“Just her car.”

I look away and don’t speak.

“You’d be surprised how often people walk out of their lives with just the clothes on their backs,” Nolan says. “A lot of times, people don’t even know they’re leaving until they’re already gone. They grab their keys on the way to the store or maybe to work, and the next thing they know they’re three hundred miles away. Something inside them just snaps.”

“Not Diane.”

“Maybe not,” Nolan says. “But people do strange things when they’re under stress.”

He waits for me to say something else. When I don’t, he motions in the air with his finger and says, “I’ll take a look outside and see what I can see, but my advice to you is to stay by the phone and wait for her to call.”

I walk Nolan to the front door, and he circles the house, checking the doors and windows. When he’s finished, he cuts through my yard to his car.

I watch him pull away and wonder why I bothered.





After my third drink, I set the empty glass on the counter and stare out the window at the fading light and the evening shadows sliding long across the yard.

Diane hasn’t called.

I reach for the Johnnie Walker bottle and refill my glass. I tell myself it’ll be my last, then I walk out of the kitchen and into the living room. None of the lights are on, and for a while, all I can do is stand in the dark and listen to the silence of the house.

When it gets to be too much, I head down the hall to the bedroom and start searching through Diane’s things. I have no idea what I’m looking for, but I have to do something.

I start with her dresser, searching through clothes and jewelry. Then I move to the closet and pull down a stack of boxes. I can tell there’s nothing inside from the weight, but I still go through each one just in case.

When I finish, I put everything back, then take Diane’s suitcase and open it on the bed.

It’s empty.

I start checking the side pockets. All I find is a business card with a silver crescent moon and several blue stars embossed on the front. Printed underneath, in a clean gold script, is the name LISA BISHOP, and the word PSYCHIC.

I turn the card over.

There’s an address and phone number printed on the back along with a handwritten note that says, “D, we need to talk. Call me.”

I put the suitcase back in the closet and walk out to the living room. On the way, I grab the phone and dial the number on the card.

I let it ring into voice mail.

Flutes and harps followed by a woman’s voice, thanking me for calling, then asking me to leave a message.

I don’t.

I hang up, then sit back on the couch and let myself sink into the cushions. I close my eyes and try to make sense of what I found.

On our first date, I took Diane to a French restaurant downtown. While we were in the bar waiting for our table, I told her it felt like we’d been there before.

I called it déjà vu.

She called it a chemical imbalance.

“Your brain is hiccupping and registering the present as a memory,” she’d said. “No big deal.”

That was Diane.

And that Diane would never go see a psychic.

I finish my drink then get up and pour another. I don’t care if I get drunk. I want to get drunk.

There are too many questions, and I can’t get my head around them. I can’t focus. I keep seeing the two men sitting outside my office, and my thoughts keep returning to the same place, over and over.

Did they take her?

How could I have been so stupid?

They knew where I worked, so of course they knew where I lived. I could’ve told Diane to get out of the house, to run, but I didn’t and now she’s gone.

I take a drink and try to stop my imagination before it spins out of control. I focus on the cold ache in the center of my chest, letting it seep into the warm alcohol buzz, until the ache is all that’s left.

Then anger.

I walk down the hall to my office and open my desk drawer. I take out my address book and flip through the pages until I find Gabby’s number. I carry it back to the couch and pick up the phone.

I dial the first few numbers and stop.

I hear Diane’s voice in my head telling me not to do anything stupid, and for a moment I’m able to convince myself that calling Gabby isn’t stupid at all.

Then the moment passes.

If I’m going to bring Gabby in on this, I have to be sure. Once I make the call, whatever happens, I won’t be able to take it back.

I stare at the phone in my hand for a long time, then reach for my drink and finish it.

Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.

In the end, I don’t make the call.

A promise is a promise.