Greg had seen Jenn with her little blue address book many times. Did she keep it here? The first desk drawer he opened had envelopes, bills, statements, warranties. The next drawer had a stapler, tape, pens, stamps, sticky notes, paper clips, and there—a blue address book! He flipped through it, coming to Jenn’s handwritten entry for Liz Miller, including her address in Ripplewood Creek and phone numbers for her landline and cell.
Gripping his cell, Greg called.
As it rang, he wrestled with the absurdity of his situation, the imposition, the embarrassment. Then, touching Jenn’s desk, looking into their son’s face, Greg confronted the break from the order of their lives.
A man answered, his voice groggy, bordering on a growl.
“Hello?”
Greg let out a breath. “Mr. Miller?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry for waking you. I’m Greg Griffin. My wife, Jennifer, was at your house earlier, for a book club meeting.”
Miller said nothing.
Greg continued, not believing the words as he spoke them aloud.
“Jenn, my wife, hasn’t come home.”
“What?” Miller’s voice was tense and he coughed.
“My wife hasn’t come home from your house.”
“What? She what? It’s three in the morning.”
“Mr. Miller, could I talk to your wife, please?”
Greg heard another voice in the background, then a rustling.
“Hang on.” Miller was less tense. “Hang on.”
More talking, then a woman’s voice, full of concern.
“Hello?”
“Liz Miller?”
“Yes.”
“This is Greg Griffin, Jenn’s husband. Was she at the book club meeting at your house tonight?”
“Yes, she was. What’s wrong?”
“What time did it end?”
“Ten thirty, maybe a bit later. Why?”
Greg tightened his hold on his phone.
“Jenn hasn’t come home.”
“She hasn’t come home?”
“Did she leave with the others?”
“Yes, they all left. It was after ten thirty. Greg, it’s only a ten-minute drive from my house to yours.”
“I know. Liz, could you call the others who were there? Maybe Jenn said something to one of them?”
“Yes. Yes, I will.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry to wake you.”
“Not at all. It’s all right.”
Ending the call, Greg stood there, almost numb.
Staring at Jenn’s address book, he considered a potential scenario: Jake was sick, or hurt. Jenn picked him up from Carter’s house and took him to the hospital. Maybe her phone died and she hadn’t called him yet, or it wasn’t that serious and she didn’t want to wake him.
Grasping at the possibility, Greg flipped through Jenn’s book. He knew Carter’s family, the Wileys. They lived two blocks over. Holly Wiley was an assistant manager at Walgreens. Her husband, Nate, was a welder, who coached kids’ softball and hockey. They’d had a couple of backyard barbecues together.
Greg called. Holly answered.
“Holly, this is Greg.”
“Greg?” Her voice was low, heavy with sleep. “What is it? Why’re you calling so late? Is everything all right?”
“Is Jake okay?”
“Jake? Yes, he’s fine. The boys are sleeping. Why?”
“Have you heard from Jenn tonight?”
“No.”
“Nothing at all?”
“I saw her when she dropped Jake off. Why?”
Greg hesitated.
“Greg, tell me what’s going on,” Holly said.
“Jenn hasn’t come home from her book club meeting.”
“She hasn’t come home? Oh my God, Greg!”
“Listen, don’t tell Jake. Or anybody. I’ve got to sort this out.”
“Maybe she had a flat tire or something?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. Listen, Holly, call me if you hear from Jenn.”
“Absolutely. Do you want me to send Nate over?”
“No. No, thanks. Please call me if you hear from her.”
Greg hung up, took a breath, went upstairs, got dressed, then grabbed the keys to his truck.
Three
Ripplewood Creek and Trailside Grove, New York
Greg backed his pickup out of their driveway, shifted from reverse to drive, then headed down their street.
At this hour, Trailside Grove was tranquil.
He rolled by houses with parked SUVs and sedans reflecting streetlamps or the peaceful glow of garden lights. While his neighbors slept, he traveled deeper into his nightmare, dragging the back of his hand across his stubbled face.
Why can’t I reach her? Did she have a breakdown? Was she in an accident? Where is she?
Greg glanced at his phone in the holder on his console.
Not a word from her, or anyone.
With each driveway and house he passed, each corner he turned, he looked at every vehicle, searching for Jenn’s blue Corolla.
He dropped his windows to let the flow of cool night air keep him sharp as he set out to follow her path. He was taking the route she would most likely have followed to Liz Miller’s house and back.
He kneaded his temple.
This can’t be happening.
No other traffic was in sight as he left his neighborhood and drove along Taconic Street, a straight two-lane road of homes built on larger lots in the sixties, most of them owned by patriotic, flag-on-the-porch people retired from blue-collar jobs.
Why didn’t Jenn come home?
At the intersection, he turned left onto Sentinel Trail, upgraded a few years ago to accommodate the growing suburbs. It was now a four-lane road, two lanes running in each direction. Heading west, he passed the U-Haul rental and storage, the Sunoco and Mobil gas stations, strip malls, offices for legal, accounting, and dental services. All of them closed.
There were few cars in sight. He continued on Sentinel, its gentle curves flowing to the larger outlets where he and Jenn shopped—Walmart, Lowes, and Wegmans. All of them were closed, their vast parking lots empty. At the twenty-four-hour windows of the Wendy’s and McDonald’s, he spotted a trickle of cars in the drive-through lanes.