Page 10 of The Vanishing Wife
Not today.
But he had been. At this house, yesterday morning. And so had she. Right before she’d found herself standing in the middle of her living room without any memory of how she’d gotten there or that she’d been injured.
Elyse stretched for the nearest guardrail to steady herself. It wasn’t the same old, storm-swollen wood as on the stairs. This was new wood, painted white with thin wires meant to keep children and adults from going through. She peeked over the railing, gauging the distance between the deck and the beach below. The pain in her shoulder seemed to intensify at the thought of falling.
A chill took hold despite the sweat beading at the nape of her neck. The wires of the railing were close enough it would be difficult for someone to fall through them. But over? That didn’t seem difficult at all. Fear suffocated the last of her confidence. She backed toward the staircase, all too aware of the position she’d put herself in.
Sunrise had crept farther along the beach, breaking through the property line and highlighting the weeds clawing for purchase in the sand. For what she assumed would be a multi-million-dollar home, little care had been put into maintaining the property. Had the man from her memory been the owner? Maybe a caretaker? She couldn’t be sure, and she wasn’t willing to stay long enough to find out.
Elyse retraced her steps down the stairs and onto the wood-slatted path. She was halfway to the beach when a different kind of reflection caught her attention. It was hard to ignore. Something so bright, half-buried in the sand. She would’ve passed over it had it not been for the exact position of the sun. She stepped off the wood slats. Warning bells sounded off in her head. An alarm telling her to get out while she still could, but she had to confirm it for herself. She had to know.
She pinched the heavy black brick between her index finger and thumb.
A phone. Cracked. Dead.
No. Not just a phone. She turned it over in her hand, ran her thumb over the scratch across the back. Where her keys had gouged the aluminum as she packed the car for this trip for their family vacation. Elyse turned her gaze upward, to the deck ten feet off the ground.
She hadn’t just dropped her phone in some kind of accident. No. Someone would’ve called an ambulance in that case.
She’d been pushed.
SEVEN
Gulf Shores, Alabama
Saturday, September 21
10:46 a.m.
Leigh’s heart rate quickened as she shouldered out of the patrol vehicle.
The humidity was an assault to her entire body thanks to the breeze coming off the water. The gulf spanned from one side of her peripheral vision to the other even three hundred feet from the shore. Sky-piercing hotels and high-density condos demanded attention from either side of her as she tried to breathe through the sudden wave of heat coming off the asphalt. It was September. Back in Quantico, the ground would’ve already been covered in an inch of snow and ice. She’d overdressed, but she couldn’t think about that right now.
They had reports of a body.
Detective Moore rounded the hood of her patrol car. Not so much as a bead of sweat spotting that impeccable uniform. Leigh would have to ask for deodorant recommendations as long as she was here. Because there was no way hers was going to cut it. She nodded toward the vehicle grinding to a halt behind them. “Didn’t take the vultures long.”
Two media vans skidded to a halt. Frantic cameramen and newscasters with exaggerated makeup, glaringly white teeth, and perfectly styled hair evacuated through the side doors. One was already holding a microphone, ready to face the local residents with a potential break in the story.
“Didn’t take him long either.” Leigh’s stomach sank.
“That’s the husband. Move!” The sharks had caught blood in the water. Both newscasters scrambled to beat each other to the finish line of sticking a microphone in Wesley Portman’s face as he shoved free of the family SUV.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Detective Moore reached back into the patrol car and untethered the radio from the dashboard. Requesting additional units. Gulf Shores was already running low on officers between the scene at the house and this new one. Now they had to save Wesley Portman from being eaten alive by the press.
“Mr. Portman, where is your wife? Did you have anything to do with her disappearance?” Question after question. Thrown like a bowl of spaghetti against the wall and hoping something would stick. Each volley meant to catch a target by surprise. To see what mistakes he made. “Is this where you hid her body? What went wrong in your marriage? Where is your daughter? Do you believe your wife’s disappearance has anything to do with the teenage girl police can’t seem to locate?”
“I didn’t hurt Elyse, and my daughter’s whereabouts is none of your business. Now, get out of my face.” Wesley Portman brought both hands up to prevent the cameras from getting their six o’clock news shot, but it was too late. He narrowed uncovered eyes at Leigh as he advanced toward her. Car door left open. “Is it her? Is it Elyse?”
The sharks kept on the tail of their prey. “Mr. Portman, why did you do it? What are you hiding?”
That was a good question. Wesley Portman had a secret. She could feel it in every carefully constructed word out of his mouth. It was only a matter of time before she learned what it was. Leigh intervened, maneuvering Wesley behind her. “Take another step, and all of you will be under arrest for compromising a crime scene. You will have your answers as the case develops. For now, let us do our damn jobs.”
“Hey, you’re Leigh Brody. You’re that FBI agent who exposed an entire police department’s corruption in New Hampshire, aren’t you? That coverage went national.” The newscaster nearest her launched a microphone into Leigh’s face. “Agent Brody, what can you tell us about these missing women? Are they connected to the case in Lebanon?”
“Come on, Caroline. You know we can’t give you any information this early in the investigation, so you might as well take a hike.” Detective Moore turned her back on the news reporters. She tried putting her face dead center of Wesley Portman’s attention, but he was marginally taller than the blonde with all that weight on her shoulders at over six feet. “Mr. Portman, I need you to let us do our jobs. We don’t have any facts at this point. Please get back in your vehicle. Go be with your daughter. I will contact you when we have more information on your wife’s disappearance.”
“This is my fault. I knew something wasn’t right.” He scrubbed a hand through thick hair, and the cameras locked on him ate it up. No longer the confident data scientist Elyse had described in months of conversations. Now he resembled something like an empty seashell Leigh could pick out even this far from the shoreline. “I should’ve done more.”