Page 53 of Dear Wife

Charlene is perched behind the receptionist’s desk, a phone pressed to her ear. She smiles as we come inside.

“But the sign-out sheet is a great idea,” he says, ushering me down the hall. “Do you think you could make me one?”

I look over to see if he’s serious, why he’s asking me, a cleaner, and not his secretary. I study his profile, searching for whatever motivation fueled his question, but I can’t find anything beyond a request for help. I tell myself to chill and keep my expression steady and warm. “Sure. I’d just need a computer and a printer.”

“You can use mine. My password’s ErwinGrace2.” His kids. He smiles, obviously proud. “Just don’t tell Erwin Four or he’ll get a big head.”

In his office, we spend a few minutes in front of his shelves, floor-to-ceiling slabs of glossy wood stuffed with religious books and icons. The Reverend wasn’t joking when he said they were a mess. Bibles mixed in with devotionals and sacred texts and history books and evangelical tomes, spread across multiple volumes. There’s no order as far as I can tell, no reasoning for the way some shelves are half-empty, and others crammed to bursting.

“Look at this one,” he says, pulling a raggedy book off a middle shelf. “This is the Andrews family Bible, purchased by my great-great-grandmother and given to her son, Erwin Jackson Andrews the first, on his wedding day.” He peels the leather cover open, flipping carefully through the yellowed pages to a colorful one at the back. A family tree, the branches reaching out like leafy fingers, ending in handwritten names and dates. Births, deaths, marriages. He taps two at the bottom. “Erwin’s sister, Grace, and Erwin Four. One day, God willing, they’ll pass this down to their kids.”

“They’re lucky to have such a beautiful heirloom,” I say. “This one deserves its own shelf. A middle one. With maybe a spotlight shining on it.”

“See? I knew I had the right person for the job.” A muffled melody sounds from somewhere deep in his pocket, and he hands me the Bible. “That’s my wife. Excuse me a minute, will you?”

He ducks into the hallway, and I carry the book to his desk, setting it gingerly next to his computer. I’m not entirely sure I believe in God, but maybe I believe in a greater power, in some sort of order to the chaos. That there might be a reason why the Reverend brought me up here, to a room armed with a computer and no one to look over my shoulder. Maybe this is the universe laying out the pieces I need to survive, fate pointing me the way.

All day long, I’ve been smuggling snippets of time in the bathroom, scrolling through news on the tiny screen of my phone, fretting about how the searches are eating up expensive data I can’t afford. And now here I stand, next to a computer I know the password to. The sneakier part of my brain kicks into gear, and my whole body tingles.

Or then again, maybe this is a test. Maybe the Reverend suspects me of violating his trust, and this is a chance to prove to him I’m worthy.

The Reverend’s voice is gone now, faded down the hall. I check my watch, think of Martina and Ayana downstairs, wiping germs off a million plastic toys. They’ll be busy for another hour or more, but how long do I have before the Reverend wraps up his call? Seconds, maybe; minutes if I’m lucky.

I fall into his chair, and my insides thrum, my heart beating on overdrive. I tell myself I’m doing nothing wrong, that popping onto the internet is not a crime. The Reverend is a kind, accommodating man. If I’d asked him for a few minutes to check the news from home, I’m almost certain he would have said yes.

I jiggle the mouse, type in the Reverend’s password, and the lock screen dissolves into a crisp image of the Church of Christ’s Apostles taken from above by a helicopter, maybe, or a drone. At its tallest peak, a golden cross gleaming in a cloudless blue sky.

I listen for the sound of people in the hall—footsteps, the clattering of keyboards, voices calling out or talking into a phone. Someone sneezes, but otherwise it’s quiet. Like everyone disappeared for lunch.

I pull up the internet and type in the words that have been playing all day in my head on repeat:Sabine Hardison missing.

I’m rewarded with thousands of hits, and I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. News travels fastest over the internet. If the story has bled across state lines, if it’s spread far enough to become a national news item on a major television network, then of course there’s plenty more online. CNN, Fox News, all the major networks have picked up on the story.

I scroll through the links, and a familiar title catches my eye.Mandy in the Morning. A taped episode promising dirt from Sabine’s sister and a lover—as usual, Mandy doesn’t mind speculating, and like the promos for her shows, the title on this one is complete clickbait. People in Pine Bluff love her, but I’ve never been a fan. I click instead on a link to thePine Bluff Commercial, the local hometown newspaper. The article’s title, Police Search for Clues in Case of Missing Pine Bluff Woman, swims on the page.

A wave of nausea pushes up from the deepest part of me, and I breathe slow and steady and wait for the sensation to pass.

I surf around a little more, casting panicked glances at the empty doorway. As far as I can tell, the news sites are all reporting the same meager facts: last seen on Wednesday, car abandoned and unharmed, no clues, zero evidence or leads. After a few more articles, I realize I’m getting nowhere, learning nothing new. I need to go straight to the source.

With shaking fingers, I type in the address for Facebook, and the Reverend’s personal wall fills the screen. Inspirational Bible memes, pictures of food and vacation snapshots, an ad for an expensive pair of running shoes. I lean back in his chair, chewing at a thumbnail that reeks of bleach, chastising myself for prying into his private business. Maybe I should sign out of his profile, create a new, fake one for Beth, but I shove the idea aside as soon as I think of it. I don’t know the Reverend’s Facebook password, which means there’s no way I could sign him back in. No, better to leave the computer just like I found it, and with no trace I’ve ever been here.

“I am so going to hell for this,” I whisper.

On the Reverend’s Facebook profile, I pull up the page for the Pine Bluff Police Department.

Pinned to the top, a call for information pertaining to Sabine’s disappearance, another reference to the tip line. I scan the post, but it tells me nothing new. If the police have any evidence or leads, they’re not revealing them here.

I scroll farther down the page, past staff announcements and PSAs for the dangers of texting while driving, then pause on a post at the bottom of the page. Another call for information about Sabine, alongside a photograph and four little words, bursting like a bomb across my brain.

Missing woman feared dead.

Movement sounds in the hall, footsteps and a door banging against a wall, and the Reverend’s voice calls out. “Charlene, get Father Pete at Christ the King on the line for me, will you? I’ll be at my desk.”

Shit.

I fumble for the mouse and back frantically out of the site, closing down Explorer and returning to the desktop image of the church. The footsteps are moving closer, closer still, and I glance at the bookshelves, still full and unchanged, and realize I need a reasonable cover. I double click the icon for Microsoft Word, and underneath the desk, the computer churns and whirrs.

Shit.

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