Chapter 1

“Amy. It’s me again. Starting to really worry, here.” I have to pause
because there’s a plane that looks like it’s about to land on top of my
car. Mercifully, it continues on. “I’m waiting in the parking lot and the
website says you landed over an hour ago … So … just, uh … yeah
… I’m starting to really worry. Call me.”
I hang up and stare out over the massive parking lot, watching
people drag their luggage to the designated stands so that they can
be picked up by one of the prowling buses that will take them to the
main terminal.
Come on, Amy. Where are you?
She called me on Friday evening to let me know that she had
arrived safely in Boston and that she had checked in to her hotel.
She’s been to Boston a couple times these past few months. During
our call, we said our “good nights” and “I love yous,” which is the
routine that we’ve established over twenty years of marriage.
Whenever she goes on a business trip, we call each other every
evening, if only for a few minutes, just to see how the other’s day
was, tell each other “I love you,” and say “good night.”
But that call on Friday was the last I heard from her.
It’s now Sunday afternoon.
She didn’t call me last night, and she didn’t answer her phone
when I tried to reach her. It wasn’t a big deal, or at least, I didn’t
think so at the time. She’s in a different time zone. The meeting with
the potential client could have run long and I know it’s causing her a
lot of stress. She’s on edge, has been for months, but she said she
was getting close. So, I assumed that she had simply fallen asleep
last night. I left her a message, wishing her a good night, telling her
I loved her, and to call me in the morning when she woke up to
confirm her flight.
But I didn’t hear from her this morning.
There was no call letting me know she had fallen asleep. No call to
let me know that she was on her way to the airport. No call to let
me know that she had landed and that I should head to the terminal
to pick her up.
My thumb nervously taps the steering wheel as another plane
roars overhead.
I need to get home— No. Correction: Amy and I need to get
home.
Tatum, our seventeen-year-old daughter, and Aiden, her nineteen
year-old boyfriend, are hanging out tonight, and there is a standing
rule that they are not to be alone in the house together.
I check my phone again and sigh.
She had to have missed her flight, but why wouldn’t she message
me?
What’s going on, Amy?
A few hours of radio silence is one thing. Phones die, people get
busy, but this doesn’t feel like that.
Something’s up.
I pull up the contacts on my phone and scroll down to the number
for Malcolm Davis, Amy’s boss at Fortis Capital, the hedge fund
where she’s in charge of recruiting new accounts. Amy gave me his
number three years ago when she got the job but was adamant that
it was to be used for emergency purposes only. I’ve never dialed it
until now.
Malcolm answers on the third ring.
“Hello?”
“Malcolm. Hi. It’s Mark Burcham.”
“Mark. Hello,” he answers in genuine surprise. “It’s been a while.”
“Yeah. It has.”
Malcolm and I have met a few times at holiday parties and
functions here and there. He’s in his early sixties but has the energy
of someone in their thirties. He’s athletic and sociable, and has
become somewhat of a paternal figure to Amy.
“I’m glad you called,” he says, before I can say more. “Have you
heard from Amy? She didn’t show up for dinner last night.”
I blink. Amy didn’t say anything about Malcolm going on the trip
with her.
“You’re in Boston?” I ask.
There’s a pause.
“Boston? What would I be doing in Boston?”
“I thought you maybe went with Amy to talk with that potential
client.”
“A client? What client?”
“The one in Boston. The one Amy’s been trying to recruit for—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold on, Mark. Maybe we should start over.”
He takes a breath and employs a calm, controlled manner. “Now,
what’s going on with Amy? Where is she?”
“She’s— She went to Boston again to meet with that client you
wanted her to bring in.” I attempt to match his calmness, but I can’t
help speaking faster as I try to explain. “I was wondering if you had
spoken to her because I haven’t heard from her since Friday night.
I’m at the airport, waiting to pick her up. Her plane landed over an
hour ago and I still haven’t heard anything—”
“Mark,” he interjects. There’s now a crack in his calming tone. “I
have no idea what you’re talking about. Amy was supposed to meet
with the team last night for dinner here in Los Angeles to discuss
new strategies, but she never showed. I don’t know of any potential
client in Boston.”
There’s a sudden ball of lead filling my stomach.
“What? No. Malcolm— She’s been going to Boston. She said …
you’ve been sending her to meet with this guy.”
“Did she mention the potential client’s name?”
“No. She said it was confidential. She’s been there a couple times
these past few months. You had to have noticed that she was gone.”
He hesitates.
“Malcolm?”
“She has taken some time off,” he says, choosing his words
carefully. “But she said she was spending time with you and Tatum.”
The ball of lead crashes to my feet.
Amy lied to Malcolm? And she lied to me? No. That can’t be right.
Amy would never do that. Why would she lie? This has to be some
sort of misunderstanding. Malcolm has to be confused because this
doesn’t make any sense. Why would Amy tell me that Malcolm was
sending her to Boston and tell Malcolm she was taking time off to
spend with me and Tatum? Where would she—?
“Mark?” Malcolm asks, bringing my swirling thoughts to a
temporary halt. “Is everything okay?”
“… I don’t know.”
There’s a long silence, punctuated by the rumble of another
incoming plane.
“Did Amy say anything before she left?” he asks. “Was she acting
differently in any way?”
“I, uh … I’m sorry, Malcolm. I don’t know.”
“Well, will you please call me the moment you hear from her?”
“Sure,” I respond, my voice drifting.
I hang up the phone.
Amy. What’s going on?
Chapter 2
“Thank you for calling The Viceroy Hotel. My name is Chris. How
may I help you?”
“Hi, Chris. My name is Mark Burcham. My wife had a reservation at
your hotel this weekend. She checked in on Friday. I just wanted to
make sure she checked out this morning. Her name is Amy
Burcham,” I say, keeping my eyes on the road to navigate the stop
and-go traffic on my way back to Sherman Oaks.
“Is your name also on the reservation?”
“No. It would have been through her … her company, Fortis
Capital.” Knowing what I know now, I can’t help the hesitation. “But
her name will be on the reservation,” I quickly add.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t give out that information.”
“Okay, but could you tell me if there is a reservation for Fortis
Capital?”
“No. Again, I’m sorry.”
“Listen, uh, Curt?”
“It’s Chris.”
“Chris. Sorry about that, but look, you won’t get in any trouble. I
promise. I’m just trying to find my wife … She’s missing.”
Speaking the words aloud is terrifying, but she is missing … isn’t
she? It’s been over thirty-six hours since I’ve heard from her, and I
have no idea where she is.
“I’m truly sorry, sir, but I can’t give out any sort of information
regarding reservations. It’s against company policy.”
“No. I understand,” I say with a sigh. “Thank you.”
I hit the button on the steering wheel to end the call while rolling
to a stop behind a pickup truck. Lanes of idling cars stretch out
before me into the Sepulveda Pass on the 405.
Do I call the cops? What would I say?
“My wife is missing.”
“When was the last time you saw her?” the cop will ask, taking
notes with a pen and a notepad, I assume.
“I dropped her off at the airport. She told me that she was going
to Boston on a business trip, but she told her boss that she was
taking time off work to spend more time with me and our daughter.”
The cop will stop writing and look up at me. “So, she lied to you
and your boss about where she was going?”
“… Yes,” I will have to answer.
The cop will take a second to chew on the end of the pen before
replying, “Well, technically, it doesn’t sound like she’s missing. It
sounds like she doesn’t want to be found.”
I don’t know if that’s what the cop would say. The truth is that
there is no cop. I’m the one who pointed out to myself that it sounds
like Amy might not want to be found.
The Amy I know would never do that, but it’s the only explanation
I can think of.
My brain runs laps inside my head for the entire hour-plus drive
back into the valley, without arriving at any other conclusions.
Eventually, I pull into the driveway of our house. It’s white with a
black roof and trim. The technical term for the style is “industrial
farmhouse.” I hate that label but love how it looks.
I hit the clicker to open the garage door and pull inside. Taking a
moment to collect myself before exiting the car, I glance in the
rearview mirror at the Mustang parked in the street as the garage
door closes. Normally, that would be a huge problem, but right now,
it’s the least of my concerns.
I finally get out of the car and walk slowly to the door. Twisting the
knob, I enter the kitchen, which opens up to the living room on my
right.
There, on the couch, Tatum is reclining against Aiden. The Bad
Boy. The Rebel (even though his parents were the ones who bought
him the Mustang that’s sitting in the street). Aiden, with his dark
eyes and disheveled hair. He’s every father’s worst nightmare, and
he’s cuddling with my daughter, whom I will forever see as my little
girl. The little girl who used to crawl into bed with Amy and me when
she was really upset. She would curl up into a ball next to me and I
would stroke her hair until she fell asleep.
As you can tell, I’m having a hard time accepting that my little girl
isn’t a little girl anymore.
“Hey, Dad,” Tatum calls over her shoulder without taking her eyes
off the show she and Aiden are watching on the television.
“Guys,” I say, tossing my keys onto the counter and taking a few
steps toward the living room. “You know the rule about being in the
house alone.”
Aiden’s little smirk nearly sets me off before Tatum turns toward
me.
“You were supposed to be back two hours ago. Should we have
waited outside or something?” She stops and looks behind me.
“Where’s Mom?”
“She had to stay another night in Boston,” I lie. “Last-minute
thing.”
Tatum considers it for a split second before shrugging, turning
back to the TV and resettling against Aiden.
“Hey, we still need to talk about you two being alone in the—”
Tatum groans. “Ugh. Fine. Next time we’ll wait. Okay?”
Any other time, I’d point out to them that that rule is there for a
reason. A few months ago, Amy and I caught Aiden sneaking out of
Tatum’s room in the middle of the night. I was ready to tell them
that their relationship was over right then and there, especially when
Aiden tried to play it off like it was no big deal. Then, Amy pulled me
aside and explained that my way would only make things worse. As
evidence, she brought up her own father’s aversion to me when we
started dating, and how it only made me hotter in her eyes. I
countered that Aiden didn’t need my help in that department but
took her point. In the end, Amy and I decided that there were going
to be some new rules; first and foremost was that Tatum and Aiden
were never to be alone together at our house or Aiden’s. Parents
always had to be present, and if anything like that were to happen
again, we were going to do things my way. Tatum responded with a
pouty “Fine.” Aiden mumbled, “Whatever,” which once again almost
caused me to go nuclear, but Amy defused me by placing her hand
on my knee.
“Dad,” Tatum says from the couch, snapping me out of it