Page 19 of Happy Wife

“I’ll make lamb ragu so it’s here when he gets back later.”

Ifhe comes back later. What if he doesn’t?

“Thanks.” I force a smile. I can’t let my foreboding thoughts send me back to tears. I grab my keys and purse and head out the door.

—

Twenty minutes and a Barnie’s Coffee stop later, I walk into the reception area of Will’s office. Even though Fritz, and his father, are dyed-in-the-wool good ole boys, the office has none of the trappings of plaid or SEC championship memorabilia you usually find around their species. Instead, it’s a masterpiece of Gianna’s design. Fine art adorns every wall, plants accomplish a perfect feng shui, and the delicate mix of solids and patterns all in neutral colors makes this feel more like a showroom and less like the place you land when you need to sue the pants off someone. It’s too frilly for my taste, but I can appreciate why someone would call it beautiful.

Lenore appears from behind a formidable mahogany door that separates the lobby from a maze of offices and associates, a fresh cup of coffee in her hand. She’s been with the firm since it belonged to Fritz’s father. Fritz, for all of his bombastic frat-boy tendencies, is smart enough not to be a ran-away-with-the-hot-secretary cliché. Or maybe—for once in his life—he’s just as scared of Lenore as everyone else.

Either way, Lenore in her sensible shoes and pussy bows has been the mainstay of the firm. Associates are known to give her a wide berth out of fear. She’s smart, funny, doesn’t suffer a singlefool, and if she’d been born to a different family, she would’ve crushed law school. She’s the constant minder of the files, the watchful guardian of the calendars. On weekends, she hosts a high-brow, invite-only book club to discuss serious philosophers and famous tomes. Will has angled for an invite only to be rebuffed more than once.

“Oh, Nora, I’m happy to see you,” Lenore says. “You must be worried sick about Will.”

“Hey, Lenore. Yeah, this is all very strange. But I’m glad to see you. Can you unlock Will’s office for me? I couldn’t find his keys at the house and I, uh, just—”

“Of course, dear. I wouldn’t want to wait on the Winter Park Police to have to sort it all out either.”

I want to ask her what she means, but you don’t really question Lenore. You wait for her to offer up whatever information she chooses to dole out.

“Yeah, I really don’t know what to do,” I say instead.

“Keep the faith, dear. I know I am.”

Lenore lets me into Will’s office. Despite the beautiful oak walls and expensive furniture, the well-appointed space mostly looks like the file cabinets exploded all over. The surface of his desk is covered with files and Post-it notes. I can’t even see his keyboard.

“He assures me he has a system, though I’ve never been able to crack it.” Lenore chuckles to herself. “Let me know if you need anything.”

I walk in half-horrified, half-curious about how Will gets anything done in this clutter. But, like Lenore said, it works for him. He doesn’t keep much at home, hence his office looking knocked over.

I freeze and listen for a moment, wary of any associate passing by while I start digging through Will’s things. When all I hear is the faint echo of desk phones ringing, I start to sift through some of the folders on his desk, but it all looks like lawyerly stuff. I don’t see any dated files or urgent notices for a court appearance—nothing stands out as the reason he might have fallen off the grid. His bottom-left desk drawer has toothpicks, deodorant, and a host of half-chewed and broken pens.

What a brilliant weirdo.

Will always chews on his pen when he’s thinking hard about something, leading to at least two ink-stained lips events and one ruined custom shirt in the past year.

The bottom drawers on both sides have notebooks and other random files. They’re so disorganized they could induce hives. The top-left drawer has a bunch of random golf tees and ball markers, a small glass plaque he was awarded at a conference, and that’s about it. I shift the tees around and see a folded-up Post-it note taped to the bottom of the drawer. I pull it up and open it.

The only thing on it is a phone number I don’t recognize: (863) 555-0142.

I flip it over, hoping there’s a name or something else, but there’s nothing. I open my phone to google the digits, but before I can, Fritz is clearing his throat in the doorway.

“Lenore told me you were here.”

I tuck the piece of paper into the palm of my hand so it’s out of sight and step closer to the desk, instinctively hiding the open drawer from Fritz’s view. I don’t know why I feel guilty. With Will gone two days, I am fully within my spouse-snooping rights.

“Yeah, I didn’t know what else to do. I just want to find Will.”

“We all do, Nora,” he placates. I can’t get a read on the emotion behind his knitted brow, whether he’s annoyed or concerned. “Travis is working on it. But you shouldn’t dig too much in here. There’s a lot of confidential evidence and information that’s protected under attorney-client privilege. The firm could get in a lot of trouble.” He’s not scolding me exactly, but his tone is reminiscent of a disappointed sitcom dad. “I’ll call Travis again and see what he’s found out, okay?”

Fritz comes toward the desk to escort me out. Something about it doesn’t sit right. I slide the Post-it into my pocket and push the drawer closed before he notices, letting him lead me out.

Five minutes later, I’m sitting in the parking lot outside Will’s office, studying the curl of the numbers in his handwriting. It feels like a weighty secret, and I consider giving the number directly to Detective Ardell. But it was tucked away in Will’s desk, almost as if he was hiding it. Wherever the number leads feels like my secret to keep, too. At least for now. So here I am in my car, playing Harriet the Spy. I punch in 863, then 555.

Nope.

I hit delete, clearing the screen nervously. I should think this through. On one hand, the owner of the number might know where Will is. But then again, they might be the reason he disappeared.

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