Missing Like You

ONE

DETECTIVE GABE GIBBONS
FRIDAY JUNE 17, 2022

A woman is missing.

I get the call at exactly 11:42 a.m. It's Friday today, which means it's nearly the weekend; so close to freedom I can almost taste it. Well, not really. Crime doesn't take a break. It's just something I like to say to myself on Friday's to give the illusion that I'm like most people. Normal people that work 9-5 jobs and come home early at four on a Friday evening, throw their legs up on the couch, and can literally say, "ah, freedom." For two whole days. And then they start the whole process over again on Monday morning.

Me, on the other hand? I don't get a weekend. I don't get breaks or whiffs of freedom. My job requires me to be on the clock, alert and ready to go, all hours of the day, every day. Twenty-four seven, three-sixty-five. I shouldn't complain really – this is the field I chose. Albeit, I will admit there are days where I wish I chose a different career path. Perhaps something less demanding, less bloody and gruesome. But today is Friday, and on Friday's I pretend to be like normal people.

There hasn't been much happening this week. It's mid-June, the season is blossoming – first day of summer is on Monday – and things have been quite tame this week here in Philly. But then the call comes in, and I know I can kiss my evening dinner plans goodbye.

A misper is no vanilla pudding. Unless this is a giant misunderstanding, which I highly doubt it is, then I'm going to have my hands full for the good majority of my waking hours from this point forward.

I'm with my partner Rylie Hunter. She's not actually my partner, considering she's an officer and I'm a detective, but I like to call her my partner because it keeps things simple. When we're not working our separate cases, Rylie and I do almost everything together. She's my platonic soulmate, if I ever did have one. Both of us are plagued with perpetual singleness, no one wanting to stay romantically involved with either of us due to our demanding occupations. We like to joke that we're married, Rylie and I. Married to our jobs, married to each other. I spend more time with her than I do with any other breathing human on this planet. I've grown so accustomed to her that I voice her thoughts before she even formulates them in her brain. We breathe each other's air, steal each other's food. Where I lack compassion, she lacks judgment. She makes up for my lack of emotion with her wide-eyed empathy and altruistic heart. But I see her attributes as a weakness, and therefore, we meet each other in the middle, making up the one half where the other lacks. It's been this way for three years. I don't see anything changing any time soon.

Rylie and I head over to the address that was kindly provided to us by our boss and the man in charge, Lieutenant Dave McAvoy. He didn't say much on the phone call. Just told me there's a missing female, age twenty-seven, and recited off the address.

We arrive in a suburban area on the west side of the city in front of a row of quaint townhouses. I see cruisers lining the streets, police tape canvasing off the area. I park on the street, get out of the car, and walk up the pathway to the house, Rylie in identical strides next to me.

I see the lieutenant standing on the front porch, presumably waiting for us. He's talking to one of the forensic guys, but once his head snaps up and looks in our direction, we lock eyes and he dismisses himself.

"Gibbons, Hunter," he nods as we approach.
"What do we got?" I stand in front of him so that we're at eye level. I'm a tad bit taller than Dave, and like to think of this as a slight advantage over him during our disagreements. He loathes this and tells me to lower my ego.
"Here, put these on," he hands us each a pair of gloves as well as protectors to go over our shoes. Contamination.
Once we've both got them on and we're safe to enter, Dave begins walking ahead, talking to us as we enter the townhouse.
"Isabelle Donovan," he begins. "Twenty-seven. Lives alone. Her boss called it in this morning when she didn't show up for work. Apparently this is very out of character as she has near-perfect attendance and would almost certainly call if she was sick or couldn't come in. They've been trying her cell all morning – no luck. And her car is in the driveway."
We walk down the front corridor and into the kitchen. Forensics are in here, as well as the living room and dining room. I look around and observe the place. The kitchen is a decent size and is well-lit, windows covering eighty percent of the east wall. Everything is white, including the marble countertop. Nothing is out of order. Everything looks spotless and seems to be in place.
"We got a hold of the parents," Dave continues. "They haven't heard from her in a few days. And we've been trying to get a hold of the husband. Well, ex-husband, but not technically. Scott Donovan. They separated six months ago but haven't legally filed for divorce yet. Perhaps he knows where she is, and if not, then he's definitely someone we need to talk to."
"Where is he?" Riley asks.
"At work, presumably. You two want to stop by, pay him a visit?"
I return my gaze to Dave. "I most definitely do."

Before we head out, we do a walk around of the entire place. It's not huge so it doesn't take us long. I want to see everything and get a gage of the type of person she is.

I further investigate the kitchen, peeking in the sink, opening drawers and cupboards. There's clean dishes in the drying rack, and nothing in the sink. No food or plates on the counters. Wherever Isabelle went, she cleaned up before she left.

None of the chairs or furniture are moved or altered in any way, which indicates that there was no altercation. If she was taken, it definitely wasn't from here. Hence the locked door. She tidied up her kitchen, got ready, then went out for the night, probably with every intention of returning home.

I walk around the corner and head upstairs to the second floor. There's two bedrooms and a bathroom. One of the bedrooms looks unoccupied, probably a spare room. The next would be hers. There's a blue and white comforter on the bed, a white dresser on the far left wall, and a vanity next to it. A bookshelf and a TV on the other side of the room. I walk over, my hand hovering across the shelf, landing on a book. The Sun Also Rises. I slide it back and swipe my finger across the top of the television. Barely any dust.

I open the drawers of the dresser and look through her clothes. Nothing hidden in there underneath stacks of folded clothes.

Into the bathroom. I open the cupboard beneath the sink and check out what she has. It's mostly hair products and body lotions of different sorts. Some razors, tampons, a first-aid kit. The garbage is half-full. I put on a glove and dig through. Mostly tissues and clumps of hair.

"Find anything?" Rylie asks as she enters the room behind me.
I turn around and look at her. "Nothing out of the ordinary. Far as I can tell, she lived a pretty mundane life. And she's a cleaning fanatic."
"Right," Rylie looks around. "If only my place was this clean, maybe I could actually get a guy to spend the night."
"You're right. It must be the state of your room. Definitely not your personality or anything."
She punches my shoulder.
"Wanna get outta here?" I say as I stand. "We have a husband to find."