Page 34 of Brutal Husband

I thought that if a child goes missing, there would be some credible evidence of how it happened. A strange man spotted in the neighborhood. Someone who saw the nine-year-old walking by herself. A second or two of Harriet on someone’s security footage. Harriet has vanished without a trace.

Day by day, I watch Annie crumple before my eyes.

One evening, I sit exhausted at the dining table in front of the half-hearted meal I’ve put together. I can’t imagine what my friend must be going through. To carry a child in her body, to love and care for her day after day, only to lose her and not know why.

Nero sits down at the dinner table without a word, picks up his knife and fork, and begins to eat grilled chicken and salad. Finally, he notices me staring at him. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You have no idea, do you?”

He keeps eating. “No idea about what?”

“Next door. Harriet.”

“I don’t keep up with the local gossip. Is she getting a divorce?”

“It’s Annie, and no she’s not. Harriet is her daughter, and she’s gone missing. How could you not have noticed? There have been police on our street just about every day.”

“Teenagers run away sometimes.”

I slam my hand on the table. “She’s not a teenager. She’s nine. Achild.”

Nero’s eyes narrow, and he lays down his knife and fork. “I sense you have grievances. Maybe you should tell me what they are instead of acting like a child yourself.”

I shake my head and stare at the wall. Employees have grievances. Customers have grievances.

My husband watches me silently. “Perhaps I could have been more attentive to you lately. Things are dangerous right now. I have enemies. There are things you have no idea about.”

“So tell me.”

“You don’t need to know. You don’t want to know.”

“You’re full of shit, Nero.”

He looks at me and then pointedly at my wine glass. Getting to his feet, he says, “Have another drink, Rieta.”

A moment later, he slams out of the house.

Somewhere around midnight, I finish the bottle of wine, and Nero still isn’t home.

“I want a divorce,” I mutter, saying it to the empty room. It feels liberating, so I say it even louder. “I want a divorce from my husband.”

Yes, that’s it, and now that I know what I want, I don’t want to wait a second longer. Staggering to my feet, I head for the garage. Distantly it occurs to me that I probably shouldn’t drive in the state that I’m in, but there are other, louder parts of my brain that don’t care.

I drive to several of Nero’s clubs, but the bouncers tell me that my husband isn’t there, and I don’t see his car. Several of the bouncers ask me if I’m all right, and I tell them that I’m just fine for the first time in months, in fact, I’mgreat, and that confuses them even more.

But I’m becoming frustrated. I try calling Nero, but his phone rings out. After a burst of inspiration, I drive to his office.

There are a few cars in the parking lot near his office, and one of them looks like Nero’s. I squint at the license plate. It’s Nero’s car.

“Ha.” I open the car door, get out, and slam it behind me, making my unsteady way toward the front door. I know Nero is in there.

This marriage ends tonight.

My head is pounding.

I groan, open my eyes, and close them again when I realize my bedroom is bathed in hideously bright morning light. I didn’t close the curtains before I fell into bed. Just how much wine did I drink?

I want to go on lying there feeling like crap, but my headache is steadily growing worse. I get out of bed and stumble into the bathroom for a painkiller, which I swallow down with water straight from the faucet.

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