A local woman missing- Mary Kubica

I’m no sooner on my feet than I have to rush past Josh and to the
toilet. I fall to my knees before it, grasping the seat with clammy
hands. The three or four drinks I had last night are not enough to
make me sick. It’s what came after that lays waste to my insides.
“Wow,” Josh says, coming up behind me. He stands in the
bathroom doorway, smirking proudly as I wipe the vomit from my
mouth with the back of a hand. “That was a heck of a birthday
celebration. You sure showed Bea a good time. She’s lucky to have
you.”
I’m not known as being the life of the party. I’m more of a wet
blanket when it comes to nights out. I’m typically the first to want to
go home. This is uncharacteristic of me. Josh is relishing the idea of
me being hungover because it doesn’t happen often.
He fetches a washcloth from the vanity. He soaks it in cold water
and hands it to me. As I take it, I see mud still buried beneath my
fingernails, despite my scrubbing last night.
I hide my hands from Josh. My telltale heart is beating.
Word begins to spread later that day. It starts on Facebook. It
starts as a plea. Shelby and I are Facebook friends, as I’m Facebook
friends with many of my clients. Shelby is tagged in another friend’s
post. That friend is looking for her.
That evening, Shelby makes the local news.
Josh and I watch together. The kids are in bed; it’s the ten o’clock
news. I freeze up when the story breaks, barely daring to breathe as
the anchorwoman talks about Shelby. I should tell Josh that I know
her. I should tell Josh she’s a client.
But I get cold feet. I hesitate because I’ve never been much of an
actor. I worry my reaction would come off as unauthentic and give
me away.
And then, because I didn’t do it right away, I can’t tell him later.
Because he’d want to know why I didn’t tell him before. It’s the same
as what happened with Marty. As the days go on, I can’t tell him
about the malpractice suit or Dr. Feingold or any of it, because it
would all look so dodgy and dishonest.
I brood over the police coming by, asking if I know Shelby, and me
having to decide whether to lie. If I lie, I’d never get away with it. But