Page 7 of Made for You

“Can I get you coffee? Water?” I say as I head to the fridge for the Tupperware of wet dog food, both sick with the delay and desperate for another minute of not knowing.

“Water’s fine,” says the deputy as I dish a wet slop of pink into Captain’s bowl.

Sheriff Mitchell tips his chair back. “Big dog. Saint Bernard?”

“Bernese,” I correct as Captain sets to.

“Is that homemade?” says the sheriff. I automatically hear the question behind the question. Do you care that much about your dog? Are you capable of caring? There are always layers. Or maybe there aren’t, and I’m just paranoid.

“From my neighbor.” I seal the container and return it to the fridge, next to the containers of pureed baby food.

“Which neighbor?”

“Bob, next door.”

“You two friendly?”

I make my tone light. “He moved in last year. Just after us. I...brought him banana bread.” I don’t mention that, even though Bob was home, he didn’t open the door when I showed up with the still-warm loaf. I had to leave it on the porch. I thought about dropping off cookies the following week; Josh told me to cut my losses. “He, um, runs a meat processing plant. He brought this by Sunday. I think it was a kind of...late housewarming gift.”

“Pretty damn late,” says the sheriff.

“I guess,” I say faintly. Why do I feel like I’m incriminating myself with everything I say? Leftover anxiety from being in the public eye, I remind myself as I pour two glasses of water. The glasses rattle like teeth as I set them before the men, then sit in the third chair, between them, trembling hands tucked between my legs. My heart and head are pounding out Be careful in a continuous loop that makes it hard to think.

“Adams?” says Sheriff Mitchell, looking to his deputy.

“Yes. Right. Ma’am, we’ve found your husband’s car. It rolled off the highway into the woods about two hours west of here. A few miles from Belmont Ridge County Park.”

Thunder crashes through my senses. “And Josh?”

“At this point, unknown.” The deputy has the grace to at least look concerned. “Has he made contact in any way, ma’am?”

Sheriff Mitchell leans farther back in his chair, putting all the weight on the back two legs. His eyes rove about as if he suspects I’m hiding Josh somewhere—or pieces of him.

“No.” I swallow.

Annaleigh starts her loud, new litany as she bangs her spoon. “Ma-ma-ma-ma.”

“We’re searching the woods where the car was found,” continues Deputy Adams, whipping out a little notepad. “Some of the folks out there are organizing a search party. We’ve also called nearby hospitals. Nothing yet. You said he was on a hiking trip. Do you know where he was spending the night?”

“I...don’t know. He packed a tent.” I lick my lips. “He said he was meeting Andy on Sunday, though. Andy Wekstein.”

“Andy Wekstein of WekTech?” Deputy Adams’s eyebrows go to his hairline.

I nod.

“Hiking date?” Adams looks skeptical, as if the man who designed me and the man who sleeps with me would not be natural friends.

He’s not wrong.

“Breakfast date,” I say.

“Where?”

“A diner, I think?”

“The two of them get along?”

“They’re friendly.” A white lie, but why bring drama to Andy’s door?

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