Missing Like You

TWO

SCOTT DONOVAN
FRIDAY JUNE 17, 2022

We finish up in the board meeting and everyone piles through the doors and back into the hallway to which they came. I reach into my pocket and grab my phone. Jake catches up and walks beside me, mirroring my movements. We both glance at our phones. I'm sure his is nothing spectacular – a text from his girlfriend checking in to see how his day is going. My screen turns on and the first thing my eyes register is the time: 12:57 p.m. But then I notice the array of missed calls and texts. Before I can even open my mouth to tell Jake, I hear my name being called urgently. Scott. I look up and see Lucy, our secretary, standing there staring at me. I stop walking. Jake stops as well.

"Yes?"
"The police are here to see you," she says.
"The police?" I echo, as though what I heard isn't correct.
"Yes."
"Is everything okay?"
"I don't know," she says. "They won't speak to me. They've been trying to reach you all morning. I told them you were in a meeting."
I turn my head and look at Jake. His facial expression must mirror mine. I say okay and follow Lucy to the front.

There they stand; a woman dressed in blue, a man dressed in plainclothes. They make their introductions: Officer Rylie Hunter and Detective Gabe Gibbons. They each shake my hand with a firm grip. I can't read their body language. They give almost nothing away. I presume that's intentional. The officer seems young. Her complexion is too porcelain to be anywhere over thirty. Her features are pretty – light brown hair, blue eyes – but she wears a stark look of dissatisfaction on her face, and I can't tell if it's because of me or the reason she's been called here.

The man, on the other hand, probably has a few years on me. He's thirty-five at most and wears a similar look on his face. I wonder if this is from spending too much time with each other.

"Mr. Donovan," the detective starts. "When was the last time you saw or heard from your wife, Isabelle?"
He says her name after the word wife as if I don't know who my wife is. "Isabelle?" I don't know why I repeat her name. Clarification, I guess. I'm still in shock at their presence.
"Yes."
"This is about Isabelle? Is she okay?"
"No, actually," he responds. "She's been reported as missing."
"Missing?"
"She didn't show up for work this morning, which is apparently very unusual. No one can get a hold of her and the last time someone can account for speaking with her was days ago. So I ask again, when was the last time you saw or heard from your wife?"
I stare at him, unable to process this information. "You do know that we're separated, right?"
"We are very much aware of that. For six months. May I ask why you haven't filed for a divorce yet?"
"Haven't gotten around to it." I say. That's a lie. We're both just not ready.
"So...?" he prompts again, awaiting my anticipated response.
I'm quiet for a moment as I think about it. The last time I saw Isabelle...

"I have a flat tire," she said once I'd answered my phone. Her voice was smooth and without panic. She seemed more annoyed than anything.
"Where are you?"
"I was about to get on the freeway. But then the car starting lagging. I pulled over onto King Street."
"How bad is it?"
"Pretty bad. Like, really flat."
"How many times have I told you to check your tires before driving?"
"I don't need a fucking lecture, Scott. I just need you to come get me."
"I'll be there in ten minutes."

Once I got there and changed the tire, we dropped her car off at the mechanic. Fortunately for her it was just a nail. Patch it up, easy fix. Still, the guy told her he could only get to it in a few hours. While she waited for the tire to be done, she asked me to drive her home, so I did.