Page 3 of The Guilty One

I swallow and look down, gathering my hands in my lap as I try to understand what might be happening. The tattoo was his, the car, the phone, and wallet were his, but the ring, hands, face, and birthmark were not.

Does this mean there’s a chance he’s alive?

My throat clenches, and I want to call him, to hear his voice, but the police have his phone, so I’d simply be calling them. Still, I have to try.

I pull out my phone and find his name in my call log, clicking on it. I press the phone to my ear, my heart in my throat as I listen to it ringing.

Pick up.

Pick up.

Pick up.

Please pick up and tell me this has all been a misunderstanding. Laugh and ask what in the world I’m talking about. Tell me I should’ve called you before I rushed to the police station. Tell me you’re coming for me right now. Come and get me and?—

“You’ve reached Tate Thompson with Morris Realty. I’m sorry I couldn’t get to the phone right now, but if you’ll leave your name and number, I’ll call you back soon. Thanks.”

With tears in my eyes, I end the call. It was a long shot. I knew that, but it was a bit of hope I was still clinging to.

Where are you, Tate?

My chest feels hollow as I sit and wait, wanting nothing more than to get out of here and go look for my husband. When Officer Simone returns with two more officers in tow, I have a feeling it’s going to be a long time before I can do that.

The officers take their seats across from me, one pulling a chair from my side around to hers.

“Mrs. Thompson,” Officer Simone says, “these are my colleagues, Officer Chatham and Detective Monroe. We want to ask you a few other questions surrounding this investigation.”

It sounds so formal now. It went from a car crash—a terrible accident—to an investigation.

I nod, leaning forward. “Okay. Sure.”

“Officer Simone says you can’t confirm that the man who was driving your husband’s car was your husband,” Officer Chatham says. She’s older than Officer Simone, I’d guess, with thin wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. She has a kind but firm smile that tells me she means business.

Next to her, Detective Monroe, a Black man with a buzz cut, stares at me without saying a word.

“I can confirm that it’s not him,” I tell them. “It’s not.”

The detective places the folder back on the table and opens it once again, spreading out the photographs so I can see each of them in a row. “This man,” he says, pressing his finger into the photograph next to the man’s temple, “is not your husband? He isn’t Tatum Thompson?”

“No,” I tell them. “I’ve never seen this man in my life. It’s not my husband.” Why do I get the feeling they don’t believe me?

“How do you think a stranger would have come to be driving your husband’s car, ma’am?” Officer Simone asks.

“I have no idea,” I tell her. “But…you said you have his driver’s license. Surely you can tell the photo isn’t of this man.” Even as I say it, I know it’s a long shot because this man does bear a passing resemblance to my husband. They have similar square head shapes, dark hair and brows. They are around the same height and weight. Still, it isn’t him. I know it isn’t. “Maybe he robbed him. Maybe he took his wallet and phone and car.”

The officers exchange glances. “Are you able to place a few phone calls for us, ma’am? To anyone you believe might know your husband’s whereabouts? His family, his friends, coworkers…”

“Yes, of course.” I should’ve already thought of that. Why isn’t my brain working? I feel as if I’m drowning. I pull out my phone, staring down at the photo of the two of us and our boys. My heart plummets when I see the time. “Oh my god, my kids. I’m sorry. I need to…” I stand up, not finishing the sentence as I search for my mom’s name in my call log.

After the fourth ring, I’m about to end the call when she finally picks up. “Hello?”

“Mom…” I sob. “I need you to pick up the boys from school.”

“What? What’s going on? What’s wrong?”

“I’ll explain later,” I promise, though I have no clue how I’m going to explain any of this to anyone, myself included. “Can you get them for me?”

“Of course, babe. I’m on my way home from the store anyway, so I’ll swing by the school right now and get them. Is everything okay?”

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