Another squeeze of her hand, harder than the first. “She’s not unhappy,” Hunter said. “Just a little overwhelmed. As are we all.”
“On that note,” Greg Fisher said, “I think we’ll call it a day.” He waved off further questions. “I would remind you again that the Shipley family has been more than cooperative and ask that you give them the privacy they need and deserve. Any further queries you have can be directed to the police or the FBI. Thank you.”
“I have something I’d like to add,” Caroline said into the microphone, staring out at the assembled crowd.
“Of course,” said Fisher, stepping back. “Please. Go ahead.”
Caroline looked directly at Aidan Wainwright, giving him her widest, most genuine smile. “Go fuck yourself, asshole.”
And then the place went wild.
—
They arrived back at Caroline’s to find at least a dozen reporters camped on the doorstep. “Way to go, Caroline,” a female photographer called out as the police tried to shoo them away, first by appealing to their sense of decency, and when that didn’t work, by posting an officer outside the front door and threatening to arrest anyone who set foot on the property.
“Michelle,” Caroline called out as they stepped inside. “Michelle?”
“She’s not here,” Mary said as she and Steve followed Peggy and Fletcher into the foyer.
“Fuck,” Caroline muttered.
“I think we’ve heard enough of that word for one day, don’t you?” Hunter said, ushering everyone into the living room.
“I can’t wait to see the headlines,” Mary said.
“For what it’s worth,” Peggy said, “I thought Caroline was fabulous.”
They tried Michelle’s cell again. It went directly to voice mail. Hunter checked his landline at home, but there was no answer there either.
“Maybe we should call Greg Fisher,” Caroline suggested.
“She probably just needs some time alone,” Hunter said. “I think we should give her a few more hours before we bring back the FBI.”
“I’ll make coffee,” Peggy volunteered. “And then I’m afraid I have to get back to work.”
Caroline followed her into the kitchen. “Do you think I’m overreacting?”
“I think if anyone has a right to overreact, it’s you.”
“It’s ironic, isn’t it?”
“What is?”
“I’ve spent the last fifteen years obsessing about Samantha, wondering where she was, if she was still alive, if I’d ever see her again. And now I get her back, and Michelle disappears.”
Do I have to disappear for you to love me?
“Caroline?” A small voice spoke from the doorway.
Caroline turned toward the sound. “Is this my fault?” Samantha asked. “Did Michelle go away because of me?”
“No, sweetheart. Of course not.” Was Hunter right? Did Michelle simply need more time alone, time to digest all that had happened? Or were there other, more sinister forces at work?
Caroline sank into a kitchen chair, suppressing a shudder and trying not to imagine the worst.
—
At five o’clock, Michelle had yet to appear. “If we haven’t heard from her by six, I’m calling Greg Fisher,” Caroline told Hunter as he was heading out the front door behind his wife and kids.
“Hopefully that won’t be necessary,” he said.
She watched Diana making her way down the front walk, a baby in her arms, a small boy holding tight to her hand. “She’s lovely,” Caroline said, breathing in the remnants of Hunter’s clean, soapy scent.
He nodded. “I’ve always had exceptional taste in wives.”
“Yes. You’re a very smart man.” She watched a self-satisfied smile settle on his lips. “So try not to be so stupid this time.”
Hunter’s smile froze, then quickly thawed. “Guess I should be happy you didn’t call me an asshole.” He leaned in to give her a kiss on the cheek. “Call me when you hear from Michelle.”
“Ditto,” Caroline said, grateful he’d used the word “when” and not “if.”
She returned to the living room, where Samantha sat wedged between Steve and Mary on the sofa. “Am I the only one who’s hungry?” Mary asked.
“Chinese?” Caroline suggested, realizing they hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. She was reaching for the portable phone on the coffee table when it rang. Caller ID identified the caller as the Marigold Hospice. “Hello?”
“She’s here,” Peggy said.
“I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner,” Peggy was saying as Caroline burst through the front doors of the hospice twenty minutes later. “I keep forgetting she switched shifts. Mondays and Thursdays from four to eight. Of course she wouldn’t miss it.”
“Have you talked to her?”
“No. It’s been a little frantic since I got here. One of the residents—Kathy—took a major turn for the worse. Apparently she’s been very agitated all day and only calmed down when she saw Michelle, who’s been with her ever since. I called you as soon as I found out.”
“Where is she?”
“Upstairs. Room 205.”
“Can I go up there?”