Page 61 of The Perfect Divorce

I shake my head but realize she can’t see me in the darkness. “No. I haven’t seen him. He tosses food and water from the top of the steps, always when I’m asleep. But he’s never come down.”

“How long have you been here?” she asks.

“I don’t know. No light gets through, so I have no idea how many times the sun has risen and set while I’ve been chained to this fucking pole.” I shake my chain, and it rattles against the floor as I let out a long, frustrated scream. When I’m done, all I can hear is my own labored breathing, and I worry I’ve scared her more than she already is.

“Sorry,” I say, letting out a deep sigh. “Are you hurt?”

It takes her a moment to answer. “My head hurts, and I feel dizzy and nauseous and like I’m not real. I don’t know if that makes sense.”

“It does. That’s how I felt when I woke up down here,” I say, trying to comfort her, but there’s nothing comforting about our shared experience other than me still being alive.

She sniffles. “Why is he doing this to us?”

“I don’t know.”

It’s clear she doesn’t like that answer because she starts screaming again. Her chain slams against the concrete over and over as she tugs, pulls, and shakes it.

“Shhh. Shhh. No one can hear us,” I say. “Save your energy.”

“I don’t wanna die.” She weeps through her words.

“I don’t either, but we’re not gonna let that happen, okay?” She might be nodding her head in the dark, but I hear nothing except her continuous crying. “I’m Stacy, by the way. What’s your name?”

She hesitates before she speaks. “Carissa... My name’s Carissa.”

THIRTY-FOUR

BOB MILLER

Brad isn’t at the station when I arrive the next morning, so I sit in an interrogation room alone, refusing to speak to anyone without my lawyer present. Once again, I don’t know why I’m here, but I’m not going to give them the chance to twist any of my words, so I’ll wait silently until he arrives. Hudson and Olson didn’t handcuff me to the metal table, which is good because it means this chat is voluntary and they don’t have anything to hold me for... at least not yet.

I can’t see what’s beyond the two-way mirror off to the left, but I can guess that they’re watching me, seeing how I react. Am I panicking? Do I look nervous? Am I sweating? Are my eyes bouncing back and forth at a hundred miles per hour while I try to twist the skin off my hands, wrenching them over and over in fear? No. I sit calmly, staring forward, biding my time. They think they’ve caged me, that they have the upper hand on their home turf. But they’re wrong. This isn’t my first rodeo, and I’m sure it won’t be my last.

The door creaks open and Brad enters.

“Have you said anything?” he asks, getting straight to business before he’s even taken a seat. He’s dressed in a sharp navy suit, a freshly starched bright-white shirt, and a red tie with whimsical patterns dancing all over it in a way that signals it could only be from one brand. He looks the part of a high-powered defense attorney, which is exactly what I need right now.

“No,” I say, shaking my head.

A moment later, Chief Deputy Olson enters the room, closely followed by Sheriff Hudson. He closes the door behind him, and they take their seats across from me and Brad.

“Would you care to tell me why you’ve requested my client to your station for questioning twice in one week?” Brad pulls a legal pad and pen from his designer briefcase.

Sheriff Hudson eyes Brad. “We’ll get to that,” he says and then turns his focus to me. “Bob, do you know a Carissa Brooks?”

My brows shove together, and I look to Brad for guidance. He nods, indicating I can answer if I choose to. I know all the things I would tell my own client to do, but I’m paying Brad for a reason. Because sometimes you can’t see what’s right in front of you.

I have no idea where they’re going with this or why Hudson is asking me about a hairstylist. I figured I was summoned here to be reinterviewed about the Kelly Summers case or that they would follow up with more questions related to Stacy Howard’s disappearance.

“Yes, I know Carissa. She cuts my hair.”

“When was the last time you saw her?” Olson asks.

“Sunday night.”

“About what time?”

“My appointment was at eight, but I was running a few minutes behind.”

---