Page 18 of The Guilty One

“Yeah,” I croak out. “And you?”

“Few days ago, yeah. And now this. What are we going to do about it?”

“What do you mean? It’s done, isn’t it?”

He breathes in, deep and unsettling. “I wish it were that simple, but no. He was going to tell and now he’s gone. That’s not a coincidence.”

I don’t know how to respond. I’m too terrified by what he’s insinuating. “I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re saying.”

“If you didn’t and I didn’t, there’s only one other person who could’ve. I think it’s time we paid him a visit.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

CELINE

As I’m driving home from Tate’s office, the screen on the car lights up with an incoming call from a number I recognize from my numerous attempts to call it today. I lean forward and tap the green button to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Mrs. Thompson?” The detective’s monotonous voice fills the line.

I swallow the lump in my throat, realizing this might be one of the last times I’m called Mrs., but I can’t allow myself to think like that. “Um, yes. It is.”

“Mrs. Thompson, this is Detective Monroe with the Oakton County Police Department. I received your messages and am sorry it’s taken this long to get back with you, but I’m calling you with an update on your husband’s case.”

My heart stalls as I wait to hear what he’s going to say. Have they found him? Do they know what happened to him? Did he run away and leave me? Is he hurt? Is he dead?

I want to ask all of this, but instead, my tongue has turned to cotton, and I can’t seem to force my mouth to work at all. Not a sound comes out of my throat, no matter how hard I try.

“We have been able to confirm the identity of the man who was in your husband’s vehicle during the crash yesterday,” he says.

I take a sharp inhalation of breath. “You have?”

“Does the name Dakota Miller sound familiar to you?”

I rack my brain but come up empty. Finally, thankfully, my voice comes back to me. “No, I don’t…I mean, I don’t think so.”

I can hear him shuffling papers over the line. “Did your husband ever talk about his time at Highland University?”

The question confuses and shocks me in equal measure. “Not…really. It was a long time ago. Why?”

“We’ve been able to connect your husband with Mr. Miller through their university. We’ve just spoken to Mr. Miller’s next of kin, his wife, who is out of town on a business trip and believed her husband was at work today. When we asked her about your husband or why they might be in contact, why he would be in your husband’s vehicle, she couldn’t tell us. She said she’d never heard Dakota mention Tate’s name, but we did find out that he’s also an alumnus of Highland and that he and your husband attended during the same years. It seems that he and your husband were classmates, and though we still can’t prove it, between the matching tattoos, the fact that he was in your husband’s car with his phone and ID, and the connection to Highland, it’s becoming increasingly difficult to deny the likelihood that they knew each other.”

I swallow. “What does any of that have to do with why he was driving Tate’s car yesterday? Even if they knew each other in college, they weren’t still in contact. I’d know if they were. Tate talks to me. He tells me everything.” Almost everything, apparently. “Did he…I mean, they didn’t work together, right? No. I’d know if they did.” I answer the question before he has the chance. “Are you any closer to finding Tate? Do you have any new leads aside from this man’s name? I’m sorry I’ve called so much, I just feel like I’m not being told anything. Not that it’s your fault, it’s just…” I heave a sigh, not bothering to finish the thought. Thankfully, he steps in without waiting.

“Unfortunately, we don’t have anything concrete to report just yet, but we’re actively following up on a few leads and will be in touch as soon as we can. In the meantime, if you remember anything your husband might’ve mentioned to you about his time in college, particularly anything that relates to Dakota Miller, please give me a call back at this number so we can discuss it.”

“Okay, sure. I will.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Thompson. We’ll be in touch, okay?”

I nod, though he can’t see me, and end the call, my mind spinning. What in the world was my husband’s old college buddy doing driving Tate’s car? How did he manage to have a wreck? And where is Tate?

When I get home, the first thing I do is head to our bedroom and pull out Tate’s laptop. His password here is the same as it’s always been—our anniversary.

I type it in and unlock the screen, trying to decide where to go first. I open his email account and search for the name the detective gave me: Dakota Miller.

To my surprise—it almost feels too easy—there are seventeen results for Dakota Miller in my husband’s inbox, spanning back over the last three years, with two of them just before Tate’s disappearance.

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