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.
Once we arrived in front of her place – the tiny unnecessary townhouse she chose to reside in upon leaving me – she hovered beside my car, awkwardly standing there as I idled at the curb. She asked if I wanted to come in for a coffee. I accepted, of course. I always accepted. It was her who always initiated this, even though it was also her who wanted to separate. But I wasn't complaining – I, too, wanted this. Even if it was under these circumstances.
The last time we had slept together prior to that was a month earlier. She was out with her friends at the bar and called me, drunk, at two a.m. when she wanted to go home. Then I ended up in her bed and she kicked me out the next morning. We hadn't spoken since. Until the tire incident. And then there we were, on the kitchen table, our clothes coming off.
At least she let me stick around for a bit after that. But I presume the only reason for this was because she needed a ride back to the mechanic.
Once her tire was patched and ready to go, I drove her back and dropped her off. She thanked me and left. That was the end of it.
I haven't seen or spoken to my wife since.
I look the detective in the eyes and notice the color – a shade of dark green with an ominous glow to them. Could just be the lighting in here. Could just be me.
"Three weeks ago," I tell him, point-blank.
"What for?"
"She had a flat tire. Needed my help."
"Is that normal for the two of you? To have mundane, regular contact such as that?"
"I wouldn't consider it mundane or regular."
"How often do you speak to one another?"
"I don't know. There's no pattern to it. Sometimes she calls me if she needs something. I do what I can."
"Ah, what a great guy," he remarks, and I loathe him already for his sarcasm.
I stare at him.
"Could she be out of town?" the female officer asks me. "Staying with friends or relatives?"
"Uh," I hesitate. "I don't think so. Isabelle doesn't really have many friends out of town. And her parents live here."
"Spontaneous getaway, perhaps?" the detective continues.
"You'd have to look for her passport. And ask the airports."
"So to your knowledge, she hasn't gone anywhere?"
"No."
"And you haven't spoken to her?"
"No."
"Not this week? Not last night?"
I stare at him again. "What are you implying – that I abducted my own wife?"
He stares back, countering me, not responding.
"I told you, I saw her three weeks ago. I haven't heard from or seen her since then."
"How did things end, the last time you saw her?"
"Amicably."
"You didn't have a fight? An exchange of words?"
"Iz and I don't really fight," I say, and that's the truth. Partially.
"No fighting – really?" he oozes more sarcasm. "Then what's the reason for the separation?"
"Irreconcilable differences."
At this he laughs. A loud, hearty laugh. He turns to the girl and she smirks at him, shaking her head, entertaining his little gig he has going on.
"That's funny," he says, wiping a finger under his eye to catch the imaginary tears. "Real funny. You're quite comical, you know that?"
"Nothing about my statement is inherently humorous. My wife is missing, I don't think this is an appropriate time to be laughing."
Just like that, he is straight-faced and placid once again. "Why did you separate?"
"I just told you. If you don't believe me, there's really nothing I can do about it."
"How long were you married?"
"It would have been five years this August."
"So five years down the drain because..." he pauses and then puts air quotations beside his head. "Irreconcilable differences."
"Correct."
He gives me a look.
"What?" I say. "People get divorced all the time. It's nothing unusual."
"You're right," he says. "But you know what is unusual? A divorce, then a missing woman."
I stare at him. "I didn't hurt my wife."
"Ever watch CSI?" he asks me. "Criminal Minds, Law & Order?"
"I've seen a few episodes."
"You know what they say when a wife goes missing?"
I don't respond. He answers for me. "It's the husband. It's always the husband."
"Not always," I say, but it comes across as weak and diminutive.
He laughs again at this. "Alright, Mr. Donovan. We'll be in touch."
"Do you happen to have a photograph of Isabelle?" the female officer asks, almost as an afterthought.
"Sure. Yeah, I do actually." I reach into my wallet and grab the small photo I keep hidden away in there. It's Isabelle on our wedding day, her red hair hanging in loose curls over her shoulders, her bright green eyes focused on the camera as she smiles. I hand it over to them.
"And she's twenty-seven, yes?"
"Yep, her birthday was last month."
"Her height?"
"5'6"
The officer writes this down in her notepad.
"Is that everything?" I ask. "Are we done here?"
They both look up at me. "For now, yes," the detective says. "Like I said, we'll be in touch."
I watch their backs as they leave through the front doors. Then I let out an excruciatingly deep breath and head into my office before anyone can find me and ask me questions.
I close the door behind me and sit at my desk, trying to process the information now that they're gone and the attention is off of me.
Isabelle is missing. My wife has gone missing. Somehow, I feel detached from the situation. I feel nothing at all, as though I am numb to it. I attribute this to shock, most likely. But still – shouldn't I feel something?
Isabelle and I met when we were in high school. We were just senseless teenagers who didn't know any better and somehow managed to fall in love. She was my first serious relationship, the girl I lost my virginity to, and by far the absolute love of my life.
We married young, right after college. We were only twenty-two, an age where most of our friends were having one night-stands and backpacking across Europe. But Isabelle and I knew what we wanted, and that was to build a life together.
I've thought about it a lot over the years, how we've been together for so long. Ten years, and we're not even in our thirties yet. I've also thought about the fact that humans are creatures of growth and change. I know for certain that neither I nor Isabelle are the same people we were in high school. We've obviously matured and grown in more ways than one. Yet somehow, our love has not altered. Regardless of the changes we've gone through, we've still had the same love and yearning for each other that we did when we were sixteen.
Until six months ago, that is. But we're not going to talk about that just yet.