Three Days Missing: A nail-biting psychological thriller with a killer twist!. Kimberly Belle
hook. “We’re going to want access to your home in order to get to that iPad, see if he’s made any contact with anyone online. They’ll want to take a good look at his bedroom, too.”
“What for?”
“Same reason they’ll have a long list of questions for you—to get in your son’s head. To see if there was anything going on in his life that might be relevant to his disappearance. And before your mind starts going to dark places, the fact he took his backpack is a good thing. It means he was prepared.”
I shake my head, certain of exactly the opposite. “I just don’t see Ethan wandering off in the middle of the night. He wouldn’t have left that cabin, not without explicit permission from his teacher. What about Miss Emma and the chaperones? What about the kids? Somebody must have seen something.”
“If I were standing in your shoes, those are pretty much the first questions I’d ask of the Lumpkin County police. How Ethan disappeared when he was surrounded by all those people.”
And right here, my mind goes to all those dark places the detective told me to avoid. Why didn’t Ethan scream, alert the chaperones? Did he go kicking and screaming or willingly, at the barrel of a gun? How did none of the other kids hear? How come no one saw it happen?
By now Detective Macintosh has veered off the main drag and is following 19’s fat, looping curves that lead into Dahlonega. The lanes are narrower here, the asphalt pitted and half-buried in places, deep, dark puddles that catch the tires and send us fishtailing toward the guardrails. I hold tight to the door handle as we lean into another curve, which he handles with the skill of a NASCAR driver.
“And the second question?” I say, once we’re back on solid ground.
He keeps his gaze superglued to the road, his words slow and careful. “The second is to start asking yourself who might want more time with Ethan. Because the longer your son is gone, the longer nobody can find him, the higher the odds climb that he’s not lost.”
3 hours, 33 minutes missing
I blink into the darkness of our Atlanta bedroom, and I don’t have to flip on a light to know that I’m in bed alone. No sounds of Sam, brushing his teeth or banging around in his closet for his running gear, which can only mean he’s already downstairs. My husband is a good man and a terrific mayor, but in his own house he lives on Planet Sam, where morning rituals are not performed with regards to those of us still sleeping. If he was still in here, I’d for sure hear him.
I roll toward my nightstand and check the time—six-oh-three. Twelve minutes before my alarm would normally send me shuffling down the hall to Sammy’s room to get him ready for school. Unlike his father, Sammy sleeps like the dead. Rousing him from underneath his blankets often feels like trying to tug an elephant through a bottle neck: impossible.
But this morning, Sammy’s bed is empty, and Sam and I are taking a rare day off. No endless, snaking car pool lines for me. No donor meetings or campaign rallies or schmoozing city council members for him. And best of all, no Josh, Sam’s ever-available chief of staff, to call or text or interrupt at the worst possible moment like he tends to do. Nothing but me and Sam and a long stretch of empty hours.
Heaven.
I swipe a hand over Sam’s side of the mattress, running my fingers along sheets that have long gone cool. Once upon a time, Sam and I stayed tangled in the sheets until noon. Granted, that time was pre-Sammy, pre–Sam throwing his hat in the ring for mayor, which he won in a surprise landslide, but still. I sure do miss those days.
I’m about to hit the switch for the blackout shades when the bedroom door opens and Sam steps in. He’s cradling something in a hand, his former-football-player silhouette lit up from behind with the hallway’s golden glow. He sneaks into the room in pajama pants and bare feet, the distinct sound of porcelain clunking in a hand. Sam curses under his breath.
“It’s fine. I’m awake.”
I flip on a lamp, and the shadows in the bedroom take shape. The sandalwood dresser on the far wall. The tufted chaise by the floor-to-ceiling window. Sam, approaching the bed with two steaming mugs of coffee in one hand. The scent hits me and so does his smile—warm, wholehearted, seductive.
He shifts one of the mugs to his free hand and hands it to me. “Extra strong, with the tiniest splash of coconut milk.”
As perfect an example as any of why Sam was elected mayor—his ability to give you exactly what you want before you even know you want it. The first sip provides a welcome and instant zing, like a tuning fork to the bloodstream.
“I’ll admit to being annoyed when I woke up alone, but you are officially forgiven. This is perfect, thank you.”
“So I’ve been thinking...” he says, sinking on the bed by my feet. He drapes a palm over my foot. “Why don’t we rent some bikes and ride the BeltLine? We could grab lunch at Ponce City Market and cupcakes at Saint-Germain, then spend the rest of the afternoon doing a pub crawl. It’s supposed to be a gorgeous day, not too hot. What do you say?”
“I thought today was supposed to be just you and me.”
It’s the only thing I asked for. A day without obligations. Without appointments and voter polls and mile-long to-do lists. After four years of craziness—and with the next four looming—I don’t think it’s too much to ask for. All I want is a day—a whole, glorious day—just us two.
“You, me, sunshine and cocktails,” Sam says. “What’s not to love?”
“The thousands of constituents who will recognize you, all of whom will want to slap you on the back and take a selfie to post to their social media, alerting everybody in the entire state of Georgia where to find us. That’s what’s not to love. And I know you. You’d never tell anyone to take a hike, not when it might cost you a vote. Our day won’t belong to us at all.”
Sam concedes the point with a shrug. “Okay, then. What would you like do?”
“What’s wrong with what we’re doing now?”
“Not a thing.” He pauses, feigning confusion. “What exactly are we doing?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
Sam’s brow folds in a frown. My husband lives life by the two-birds, one-stone concept. Doing nothing is something he has a hard time wrapping his head around—which is exactly why he needs it so badly.
“What about the cupcakes?” he says.
“That’s what DoorDash is for.”
“So you’re suggesting we just...do what exactly?”
“Lie around the house in our pajamas all day. Read the paper and eat crackers in bed. Do nothing and not get dressed, except to maybe float around the pool on a blow-up. Ignore everyone and everything except each other. Come on, tell the truth. Doesn’t that sound delicious?”
“I’m intrigued.” He swipes the coffee cup from my hand and settles it onto the nightstand next to his, then plants both hands on either side of my knees. “Tell me more about this not getting dressed business.”
It’s times like these that remind me how much I love my husband, why I gave up everything to move here and live this life. Samuel Joseph Huntington IV is smart and funny and handsome and charmed and charming. If he didn’t have this bone-deep need to serve, if he didn’t work day and night to prove to millions of Atlantans he’s never met that he’s worthy of their vote, he’d be damn near perfect.
Sam leans in for a kiss, right as his phone buzzes from the pocket of his pajama pants. I know before I see the screen who it is. Sam’s chief of staff is like a jealous mistress, intruding into our lives at the worst possible time and tempting my husband with the longings of needy constituents.
However,