Page 23 of The Business Trip

“She’s in Atlanta.” I felt like I was slurring, like I was drunk. “It was a work trip and she met this guy and…”

“Sir, do you have any idea where in Atlanta she is?”

“No… I…” But then, suddenly, I realized I did know. What she said about Zillow. “Wait, yes, she texted me his address. Hold on.”

Putting her on speakerphone and with hands that continued to violently shake, I called up my text chain with Steph. Seeing her most recent text and the words “He’s going to kill me” made my body go cold, but I forced myself to breathe, muttering under my breath, “Come on, Robert, where is it? Where is it?” Scrolling backward, the text with the photo of the outside of his condo popped up. There it was, her words, with his address.

“4240 Horizon Lane,” I said. “She told me the neighborhood too. Um, wait, here it is… Peachtree Village.”

“Sir, we will get in contact with Atlanta police and send a dispatch right away. What is your name?”

“Robert… Robert Tayburn.”

“OK, Robert. We have your number. Someone will call you back if needed.”

“Thank you, oh, thank you. Hurry, please. Please hurry.” We hung up and tears sprang into my eyes. I sank down onto Steph’s bottom stair, gulping air into my lungs and trying to steady my breath.

Wiping my eyes, I suddenly realized I had not responded directly to Steph. I was so busy calling 9-1-1 I hadn’t even given a second to her. Instead of texting, I tried calling. It went right to voicemail. I tried again, and again.

“Oh, Steph, oh no,” I moaned, then frantically texted:

I called 911. They are on their way. CALL ME

There was no reply. Bolting back to my place, I felt fear and confusion now overtaking me.

“What the hell??” I yelled.

I wanted to throw the phone but knew that wasn’t wise, so I picked up a couple of pillows from the couch and started hurling them around, screaming. Evita got frightened, jumped down off the kitty condo, and scurried upstairs, probably to a closet. I would have to make amends with her later.

My fit lasted a few minutes. When the rage started to subside, I curled onto the couch in a fetal position and began to bawl. I felt like a child and didn’t care.

My phone rang. Standing and lunging for it, I hoped it was Steph, but instead it was her boss. I now recognized his number.

“Dave?” I cried into the receiver, skipping the hellos.

“Robert, are you OK?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know what’s happening. I got texts from Steph and I called 9-1-1 and now she’s not answering me.”

“9-1-1? What did the texts say?” Dave’s tone turned to worry.

“She said she thought this Trent guy she met was going to kill her. She was scared. I didn’t know what to do. I called 9-1-1 and they sent the Atlanta police over.”

“Robert, I think we need to get our heads together. I also have some information. Can you get to Channel 3 and meet me in my office?”

“Um, yes, yes, sure. I can… but what do you mean, you have information?”

“Robert—I need you to sit down now. Are you sitting?”

I wasn’t, but I lied. “Yes.”

“OK, Robert—we have some reason to believe that the person texting might not be Stephanie. Have you actually spoken to her since she got to Atlanta?”

Now I sat involuntarily, more collapsed, in fact, back onto the couch.

“What do you mean? Of course it’s her. She texted me a ton and left me a voice memo. She sent me a photo. Of her in Atlanta. Sightseeing.”

“Where was she?” Dave asked.

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