D iana

I’ve never heard Percy growl before. He’s a snotty cur—picky, clingy, demanding—but never aggressive. Never dangerous .

So there’s something about the sight of him, stock-still in the doorway, hackles raised, that has the hairs on the back of my neck standing at attention. He doesn’t even freak out like this when there’s thunder. I peer around him, perplexed. Nothing seems amiss. “Hello? Anyone — ”

Percy skitters in front of me, like he’s trying to protect me from something. Or someone. He’s growling deep in his chest, a constant, unnerving rumble. I’m afraid to touch him—afraid to move at all .

I look back at the driveway. James is definitely home. His car’s right there, gleaming in the sun. And those are his shoes by the door, with his briefcase toppled over them. It’s all so ordinary, like any other day. Though... Wasn’t there something, when I drove up?—something odd, out of place ?

Percy dashes for the living room, launching into a volley of barks .

“Percy! Bad dog!” I hasten after him, ready to cut and run at the first sign of danger. He’s making too much noise. If anyone is here, they definitely know we’ve arrived. I take in the scene: just an empty room, an empty couch, an empty glass nestled in Percy’s dog bed. Oh—that’s what he’s barking at ?

“Silly boy. This the problem?” I reach for the glass, and he lunges for me. My feet tangle together and I go down hard. Percy comes after me, knocking me on my back. I scream, throw up my hands to defend myself, but the bite never comes. He doesn’t even snap, just settles his paw on my chest, like uh-uh; nope—you’re going nowhere .

“Wh-what...?” I reach for him, stroking his big flat head, scratching him under the chin. The growling finally eases off, but the nervousness doesn’t. He’s shifting from foot to foot, pawing my arm .

“Ugh!—why can’t you talk ?”

Percy whines .

“Yeah. I hear you.” I keep petting him till he cools off enough to let me squirm free. Everything’s still, everything’s quiet, but something’s definitely off-kilter. I can feel it too: that quiet, gaping empty-house feeling, where there should be signs of life. Scenes from a nightmare world play out behind my eyes: I stare into the bedroom closet, dim from a blown-out bulb, but not enough to blot out the horror—James, hanging from the rod, blue and lifeless .

Or I make my way to the kitchen, find him bloody in a scatter of trinkets dropped by a fleeing burglar. Broken-necked at the foot of the basement stairs .

In the ballroom, with a candlestick, by Colonel Mustard ?

I pinch myself. I’m being stupid. Wasting time. And I need to focus. Something was wrong when I came in. Something out of place. I thought —

“Oh!” I nudge Percy out of the way and race for the door. It’s still there, staring me in the face: a dry spot on the driveway, right by my car. Someone was parked there during the cloudburst: someone who wasn’t me or James. Someone who’s taken James with them. Without his shoes or his briefcase; without... Did he have his keys ?

I rush back inside. There they are, cast off in their red ceramic dish. And the door wasn’t locked when I came in. Fonthill might be a small town, but not so small you’d do that on purpose .

And then there’s the glass, empty and abandoned in Percy’s dog bed. The one he didn’t want me to touch .

A picture’s starting to come together in my head, and it’s not one I like .

I need to get out of here fast . Whoever’s responsible for this, they’ll be back to take care of the evidence. I can’t be here when that happens .

I also can’t let them get away with it .

I reach for my phone, but my hand drops to my side. We’re way off the beaten track, miles from the nearest cop shop. By the time anyone arrives, anything could’ve happened. Can’t wait around like a sitting duck. I grab Percy by the collar and hustle him out to the car. He can be my alarm: anyone comes up that driveway, he’ll go off like a siren .

Unless he falls asleep, the silly mutt. I ruffle up his fur. “Good boy. Think you can watch the gate for me?” I point down the drive. Percy looks where I’m pointing, but whether he gets the message is anyone’s guess .

I shut him in and head inside, heart pounding in my throat. I want to race the clock, scurry from room to room, but I force myself to slow down. This’ll be my only chance to grab anything of value. My eyes dart this way and that, scanning for anything out of place. The foyer’s clean, and there’s nothing in the living room—but someone’s left an aspirin bottle on the kitchen counter .

So. That must be how they got James to drink whatever was in the glass. Must’ve been someone he knew. Someone he trusted .

I fold the aspirin into a Ziploc bag, taking care to keep my own prints off it. There’s a spoon in the sink I can’t remember leaving out, so I take that too, and start back for the living room .

Something rustles in the yard. I stand stock-still, skin crawling, suddenly aware of how exposed I am, here in the middle of the foyer, in full view of at least seven windows. Whoever—whatever it is, it’s coming closer. Creeping behind the bushes, pushing through the leaves .

I force myself to move, backing toward the wall. I can’t hear anything anymore. Maybe I’ve been spotted. I turn my head from window to window, positive there’ll be a face pressed to one of them—or maybe they’ll shoot me. Clear me away along with the glass, and any careless fingerprints .

There’s no one. Nothing. I ease myself back against the wall, press myself flat. No use—there are windows everywhere. Anyone looking in —

A squirrel bursts out of the roses and bounds across the grass. I choke off a scream that tries to turn into a laugh. Shit.... I’m not cut out for this. I bend over, hands on my knees, breathing hard. Can’t pass out. Can’t fuck this up .

At last, the faintness passes. Ten running steps, and I’m on my knees by the dog bed, stuffing the zip-locked glass into my purse. And that’s—is that everything? I bend down to peer under the couch and coffee table, but there’s nothing but empty space. Not even a dust bunny .

I’ve pushed it far enough. Time to go .

* * *

M y pulse only stops racing when the doors to the police station whoosh shut behind me, deadening the sound of the street. A blast of air conditioning hits me in the face, and... There. There it is. I’d forgotten how it felt to breathe free .

Percy presses his head against my leg. I reach down to pet him, and my hand has stopped shaking. It’s calm in here. Controlled. A place where problems get solved .

“Ma’am—ma’am, you cannot bring that dog in here .”

Or not .

“What am I supposed to do, leave him in the car?” It’s got to be ninety degrees out there. “Besides, he’s not the problem. My husband—he’s missing, and I think—no, I know something’s wrong. Can’t I just—just let me talk to someone !”

“Well....” The officer reaches for Percy’s leash. “Give him here. I’ll grab someone for you .”

He leaves me in a small, white room, where I wait. And I wait. And wait some more. There’s nothing in here but a scratched-up table and a couple of hard plastic chairs. I’m starting to feel like I’m the one in trouble, locked up, awaiting interrogation, when the door swings open at last. It’s a different guy this time, older, tired-looking .

“Sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Sergeant Shelton. So this is a....” He glances at his notepad. “Missing persons complaint ?”

“Yeah, my husband—James Ashby, Dr. Ashby—he’s gone, and I found — “

“Hold on a second.” He flips open his notepad again, rifles through the pages .

“What are you — “

‘Yeah, sorry—hold on.” He gets up and leaves, over my protests. This sucks. James could be out there, hurt, scared, and this guy’s, what? Checking his fantasy football lineup? I shove my own chair back and head for the door. No way am I going to sit on my ass while my world falls apart around me .

No one’s in the hallway, or in the lobby. Even the desk sergeant’s nowhere to be seen. I poke my head into what looks like someone’s office: also deserted .

Fuck’s sake, there’s got to be somebody here! “Hello ?”

“Diana Ashby ?”

I jump. Someone’s crept up behind me—another unfamiliar face. What is this, pass-the-buck day? This one’s name tag reads Inspector Wallace . Well, at least I’m moving up the ranks .

“Come in. Sit down.” He ushers me into the empty office. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Pop ?”

Not quite. “My husband. Get me my husband .”

Wallace sighs and sinks into his chair, gesturing for me to do the same. “Ma’am, while I can assure you we’re looking for your husband, he is not a missing person.” He steeples his fingers. “I’d call him more of a...fugitive, at this point .”

“I... What?” That’s thrown me for a loop. “You’re already looking for him ?”

“Mrs. Ashby, were you aware of your husband’s substance abuse problems ?”

“Substance abuse—no!” This guy’s starting to piss me off. “He hasn’t touched a drop in over a year. Not even at New Year’s. Not at our wedding. If you think — “

“What I think is that several Fentanyl patches have been reported missing from Greater Niagara General, where your husband has privileges—and where he swiped his dispensary card this morning .”

I go to interrupt, but Wallace keeps talking .

“So we’ve got that, and his assault on a fellow Dovecote employee—also this morning. And... Yeah, looks like he fled the scene.” Wallace flips open a manila folder. “Now, I’ve got — “

“Wait!” I don’t have time for this. I’ve already wasted the better part of an hour sitting around the station, and now... This isn’t right. “He doesn’t do drugs. Never has. And I saw — “

Wallace skates a printout across the table. “Doesn’t do drugs, huh? Let’s see: drunk and disorderly, drunk and disorderly—multiple DUIs; had his license revoked for two years—oh! And here we go: possession of drugs for the purpose of trafficking .“

“You’re not listening!” I bat the paper to the floor. “That last one—he got pulled over for speeding, and there was a medical scale in his trunk. But there were never any drugs. No charges filed .”

“Mrs. Ashby — “

“And when I came home today, the front door was open. His car was in the driveway—his shoes, his briefcase—someone obviously — “

“Mrs. Ashby !”

“I’m trying to tell you — “

“Your husband — “

“Stop interrupting me! ” If he’d just let me get this out —

“Mrs. Ashby, I’m going to need you to listen for now. If there’s anything you still need to add, when I’m through, I’ll be happy to hear it.” Wallace leans back in his chair. “Ready ?”

I nod. Fine. The faster he gets through this, the faster I’ll get my turn .

“Your husband was picked up at his home by a female companion.” Wallace holds out another photocopy. “Here: from Red Door Escorts. Used his company credit card—a sign of compromised judgment, wouldn’t you say ?”

James wouldn’t make that mistake. Not again. He stopped carrying that card after the first time it got him in trouble. Unless... Unless it wasn’t a mistake. Unless this was his big “fuck you” to Nasmith, to me, to everyone who was bound to find out .

I’ve never known him to be that passive-aggressive, but I’m learning all kinds of things about him today .

Still—

“I don’t believe that. Someone must’ve... I don’t know .”

“Ma’am, at this stage, there is simply no evidence of foul play .”

“But there was — “

“Your husband’s been having difficulties at work for some time: showing up late, wandering off in the middle of the day, feuding with colleagues—Is it not possible that your own little outing in this morning’s papers pushed him over the edge ?”

“I—“ I don’t know. This is all news to me. As far as I knew, everything was fine, or as close to fine as it could be, considering .

Except... He did call me from St. John’s Trail, the day we went to the carousel. Right around lunchtime. Wandering off in the middle of the day ....

“Now, I’m told the two of you had an altercation this morning—and with Dr. Ashby’s history of, uh, risk-taking behavior, is it not also possible he decided to throw himself a little party ?”

“I don’t... That doesn’t sound....” I flash back to the first time we met. He was definitely on something then. That pallor, those pinprick pupils—maybe it was Fentanyl, or something like it. He didn’t look well today, either. Thought he had one of his headaches, but I didn’t look that closely. Barely looked at him at all, once he started talking. What if he was high?—on the brink of disaster, even then ?

It occurs to me I didn’t know he attacked Nasmith, either. Maybe our breakup was never about saving his life’s work. Maybe he was trying to get rid of me before he spun out of control .

“This doesn’t make any sense. We’re—There would’ve been signs. He’d have been sick. Stressed. Coming home late.” Something else crosses my mind. “Wait—Who told you James and I were fighting ?”

“That’d be a—“ He rifles through his notes. “—a Thomas Cantwell. Looks like your husband called him in some distress, obviously impaired. He was worried .”

Tom reported him? That doesn’t sit right, either. Most people run to their friends’ sides when something’s wrong. Not to the police. Unless... Well, unless they’re out of sympathy. Into the tough love zone. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen much of Tom lately. If something was going on at work ....

“But... Didn’t you check on him? When Tom called ?”

Wallace frowns. “Ah—Well, your argument actually came up when Mr. Cantwell was reporting the assault. We did send someone to pick him up, but no one was home. Which...given the charges on his card, makes sense .”

I must’ve just missed them. A few minutes earlier or later, we’d have crossed paths. If the cops were there before me, did they see the glass? Ignore it ?

I guess it doesn’t matter. Maybe it’s just a glass, after all .

“I thought ....”

“Yes?”

I twist my purse strap between my fingers. “None of this makes any sense. I don’t see how he could’ve...when he’d have had time to....” My objections die on my tongue. It kind of is starting to make a sordid sort of sense .

“Ma’am, I’m just going to ask you a few questions about your relationship, and anything you might have noticed over the last few weeks — “

I’ve suddenly had enough. I stand up. “No. I’m going .”

“Listen, if I’ve offended you — “

I shake my head, backing away quickly. I’m done here. The air conditioning’s starting to remind me of a morgue, and the smell of coffee’s making me sick. I have to get away, somewhere quiet—somewhere I can think .

He keeps talking, but I’m stumbling out the door, through the lobby, and I’ve never been so relieved to step out into a muggy summer’s day. Percy barks, and I spot him on the other side of the parking lot, being walked by the desk sergeant. I practically run to collect him .

It’s time to go home—my home. Guess Percy will be coming with me, after all .

Every part of me wants to fight this. Wants to believe it’s not true. But isn’t the simplest explanation usually the correct one? And what’s simpler: James getting some bad news and going on a bender, or Nasmith somehow spiriting him away, leaving breadcrumbs of corruption and scandal in his wake ?

Nasmith. Nasmith would love this. Nothing would get James out of the way faster than a neat frame of sex, violence, and illicit substances. But the way Wallace was talking, it sounds like he was already on his way out the door. Why frame him, when he’s halfway to hanging himself ?

Percy’s fallen asleep in the back. That’s another thing: James was the one who suggested I take him. Ditching the last of his responsibilities before he destroyed himself? Or holding out a scrap of comfort in an impossible situation ?

It seems like only a moment ago we lay in bed, planning an evening of strawberries and romance. And that night on the pier, when I told him he was going to be a father—how could he turn from that so quickly ?

He couldn’t .

He wouldn’t .

He did .

Even if, by some miracle, none of the rest of it’s true, he was still willing to sacrifice me on the Dovecote altar .

I slam down my palm on the horn. It’s louder than I remembered. I startle and swerve. So does the driver in front of me. I wave my hand out the window: sorry !

Last thing I need is to cause an accident .

I tighten my hands on the wheel. That was it: that was my freakout. I’m done now. No more .

What I need is a nap, and a walk, and something to eat. Time to sort through everything I’ve seen and heard. James might be running scared, acting on instinct, but we can’t both be doing that. One of us has to stay calm, get to the truth .

And it looks like that has to be me .