Page 33 of The Perfect Divorce

“Bob Miller,” I read the card aloud.

“Should we bring him in for questioning again?” Olson raises a brow.

I shake my head. “No, not yet. We just interviewed him, and he already admitted to meeting her, so that’s circumstantial at this point. And I don’t have enough to hold him anyway, but have it sent to the lab.”

“Yes, sir. Anything else?” Nagel asks.

My gaze veers to the vehicle, where the forensics team is dusting for prints and collecting every shred of evidence. Stacy’s been missing for four days now. We missed the first forty-eight hours, which are the most crucial. With her cell phone left behind, her vehicle abandoned, and the dried blood on the steering wheel, this is clearly an abduction—or possibly worse. My gut tells me Bob had something to do with this, but I can’t allow my vision to be tunneled. That’s why we’re in the middle of a shit storm with the Summers case. Maybe there’s another angle here I’m missing.

“Sheriff,” Nagel says, pulling me from my thoughts.

I look to him and then Olson. “Has anyone pulled a background check on Stacy Howard?”

They both shake their heads.

“I want that too.”

“I’m on it,” Nagel says, turning on his heel. He gets on his radio, alerting Sergeant Lantz and Deputy Lane to his new requests, and then he calls his team over to dispense instructions on next steps.

“Background check?” Olson squints.

“Just a gut feeling,” I say.

“And you’re sure we shouldn’t bring Bob in for questioning again?”

I scan the scene before me, taking it all in.

“No, I’m not sure,” I say. “But we interviewed him yesterday, and until forensics comes back on this scene, we’ve got no direct evidence tying him to Stacy’s disappearance. So, we have nothing new to question him about... at least not yet.”

TWENTY-ONE

SARAH MORGAN

I clamp the metal tongs down on the sizzling bacon and pull each one from the hot pan, transferring them to a shallow bowl lined with paper towels. Two pieces of bread suddenly pop from the toaster, startling me. I’m worried about Summer, what this will do to her, what effect it will have on her. All I want to do is keep her safe.

Summer’s feet slap against the hardwood floor as she barrels down the hallway, racing to the kitchen. It’s my favorite sound in the world, and I cherish it more than anything because I know it’s temporary. One day, her steps will be sluggish, the excitement to see me having completely worn off. And then there will come a time when I won’t hear them at all. Dressed in a nightgown, Summer’s blond hair goes in all directions. She sleepily rubs at her eye with the back of her hand.

“Good morning, sweetie,” I say with a smile as I serve her up a plate of bacon, toast, and a slice of spinach-and-gouda quiche.

“Hi, Mom,” she croaks.

“Did you have a good night’s sleep?”

“I think so.” The chair skids across the floor as Summer settles at the table.

“Well, I hope so.” I carry a glass of orange juice and her plate of food to the table, setting them in front of her. “Are you hungry?”

“Starved. I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

“No, you haven’t.” I laugh. “Let me get you some silverware.” I cross the kitchen to fetch her a fork.

“Mom!” Summer screams.

My head whips around, and I see her arm extended, pointing at the glass sliding door.

“What? What is it?” I ask, racing to her side.

“There’s a man outside.”

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