Page 25 of The Vanishing Wife

“No.” And the thought that Elyse might not have known about any of it wedged in. “But it sounds like it’s time for another conversation with Wesley Portman.”

In that moment, Leigh saw past the blood and the crime scene and the pup tents marking potential evidence. There were signs of a life well lived, of family photos on vacations and of a little girl aging year by year, of personal items and hobbies and family game nights and love. This. This was what Leigh had wanted, what she’d always admired and envied about Elyse. A family. People who she could love and who loved her back. Who would help her hold on to all the good instead of focusing on the bad if Elyse wasn’t here? Christmases and birthdays and dinners out for As on report cards—all the things that’d gotten eaten up by one bad man. Every family had its issues and its heartaches, its secrets, but the fact Elyse might not ever call again, or be there during Leigh’s follow-up appointments, solidified a sharp pain in her chest. Tears pushed into her eyes. Followed by embarrassment.

“Excuse me.” She retraced her steps out of the living room and into the hallway just before the entryway without waiting for Detective Moore’s answer. To the small bathroom tucked off to one side. Locking the door behind her, Leigh turned on the faucet to cover the gasp of a sob escaping free from her control. She’d held it together. All yesterday and this morning. But she’d hit her limit on loss.

Pain laced both sides of her throat as she lowered her face over the sink. Handfuls of cool water—she’d lost count of how many—worked to calm her nervous system. Until she could face herself in the mirror. The water hadn’t helped rid the sadness from her face. Not even time would manage that feat, despite what so many people had said to her as a teen. Time heals all wounds. It’ll just take time. Things will get better, you just have to give it time. Except they were all a lie. Time didn’t heal wounds. It just allowed them to scar over. They were still there, underneath the surface. Reminders of her failures.

Her gaze caught a framed photo in the slightly crooked medicine cabinet mirror as she dried her face with a hand towel hanging off the wall to her left. Of Wesley, Elyse, and a younger version of Ava—maybe five or six—on a cruise ship. The sky was a brilliant blue behind them with the ocean spreading wide from one side of the frame to the other. Their wide smiles seemed almost contagious. Enough to pull Leigh’s mouth at one corner as she traced the family’s faces through the glass. A rush of joy chased back the hole digging deeper throughout this case. A palpable longing for more than a life of moving from one investigation to the next, of witnessing the worst mankind had to offer. It was pictured so perfectly right here, in her friend’s face.

But had any of it been real? Leigh dropped her hand away, accidentally brushing against the surgical wound across her belly. Pain thrust her back into her body, and the images of a future with a family of her own vanished as quickly as they’d appeared.

A knock jarred her back into the moment. To the fact she’d broken down in the middle of a crime scene. She hadn’t done that before. Even faced with the possibility her brother’s abductor had become active again. Lack of sleep, the surgery, the addition of pain killers, this case—it’d all combined to erode her usual defenses, but she had to keep it together. For Elyse.

Leigh replaced the hand towel then twisted the old metal doorknob to face Detective Moore on the other side of the thin wood. “You got something?”

“You were right before. My techs swabbed the kitchen cabinet where the husband claims he got the injury behind his ear.” The detective handed off her phone with a page of forensic results filling the screen. “There was no DNA. Wesley Portman lied to us.”

EIGHTEEN

Gulf Shores, Alabama

Wednesday, September 18

11:03 a.m.

She’d charted his routines.

When he left for work. When he returned home. His favorite beer. His preferred shows in the glow of the television at night. She catalogued the model of his phone—the same shape as hers—and the color of the case. Black silicone. She learned Samuel Thornton worked local construction from a piece of mail from his insurance company by day and blared country music as he pulled into the driveway of the beach house the same time every evening.

It was easy to figure out the ins and outs of a person’s life given enough time and dedication.

She didn’t quite understand how a blue-collar worker could afford the multi-million-dollar home, but she didn’t have to have a complete financial audit to understand the kind of man Samuel Thornton was. She just had to be patient.

Elyse rubbed the plastic baggie protecting the hair she’d collected from one of the beds in the beach house between both fingers. Long and dark. Not unlike Ruby Davis’s. She’d been sitting here for over an hour, wondering who she would even take it to to have it tested. And what was she supposed to compare it against? She wasn’t privy to forensic evidence. She didn’t know Ruby’s family or have a relationship enough to collect a sample from a hairbrush or toothbrush. Did Gulf Shores PD have Ruby’s DNA? Would Detective Moore believe her if she admitted her suspicions? The former felt like a given in a missing persons investigation. The latter was what kept her from calling the detective again.

She added the baggie to the collection of photos she’d taken from Samuel Thornton’s home in her nightstand and closed it. Just as Wesley came into the room. “I wasn’t sure you were coming home,” she said.

There was a haggardness to his appearance. Disheveled and so very not like her husband. There were men who took care of themselves physically, then there was Wesley. Who invested in the best hair products, who had a more complicated skin care routine than she did. Who searched for boutique quality that would last years rather than fast fashion. This man standing in the doorframe wasn’t the man she’d married, and for a moment, her nerves got the best of her. “I could say the same about you.”

She hated this. This… distance between them. They’d always been on the same page when it came to the priorities in their lives. Family first, Ava’s education, quality time, and equal housework. They’d matured together and grown apart sometimes but had always come back together. Elyse shoved to a stand, closing the distance between them. “I’m sorry about what I said the other night. About how you never prioritize me. I know how hard you work to support our family, and even if I don’t see it, I know you would do anything to make sure we’re taken care of.”

He didn’t seem to have an answer for that, and a hit of warning pooled at the base of her spine. “Those phone calls… They’re not what you think. Not entirely.”

Not entirely. Which meant there had been another affair. Despite her best efforts, tears burned in her eyes, but Elyse swallowed them back. She’d been through this once and made a complete fool of herself. Sobbing, yelling, arguments—all of it weak in her then condition after chemo treatments. None of it had made a damn bit of difference then, and it wouldn’t now. And she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction this time. Elyse took a step back. Enough to help her keep her composure. Her arms folded across her chest, aggravating the soreness in her shoulder. “Who is she?”

“Does it matter?” His eyes glistened with moisture. It took a lot for him to let his feelings show. Data analysis was impartial, and he had to be too, but there was no stopping the destruction now. “It’s over now. She’s out of my life. I want you, Elyse. You’re my wife. I want… us.”

“Us. That’s funny. Because you keep choosing other women, Wesley.” Gravity intensified its hold on her insides, pulling blood from her face and neck into her legs. His absence over the past day and a half testified one key detail: This woman, whoever she was, had been local. Was it really that easy for him? To be in a place for less than a week and find someone willing to look past his wedding ring? “You keep choosing to hurt us. Me. Ava.”

“I’m sorry.” He took that step forward, but Elyse couldn’t stand the thought of him getting any closer. She retreated, halting him in his place. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen?—”

“Don’t tell me you’re sorry. It doesn’t mean anything,” she said. “It hasn’t since you slept with that woman from your office while I was going through cancer treatments, while I was grieving the loss of our daughter. Your sorry has been worthless for years, and I’m tired of hearing it. I’m just… tired. Of the secrets and the excuses and wondering if you’ll ever keep your promises.”

The past three days compounded in an instant, nearly taking her legs out from under her. “And I’m done with all of it, Wesley.”

“What does that mean?” The question quavered, as though he’d been afraid to even ask. His confidence, charm, and support slipped.

The answer had been sitting between them for the past four years. All this time, and she’d denied its very existence. Denied the trust issues she’d developed since discovering the truth, denied second-guessing every word out of his mouth, denied her overcompensation in trying to keep him physically interested. She’d convinced herself it would all go away with time, but he hadn’t given her the chance. “I’m done. I want you out. I don’t care where you go. I’m filing for divorce, and in case you’re wondering, I’m going to take you for everything you have. Including our daughter.”

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