A local woman missing- Mary Kubica

“Maybe she’s misplaced it,” I suggest. There’s a mirror in our
entryway with brass pegs where we keep our keys. It wouldn’t be
hard to find. “I’ll go check on her.”
I head in the same direction Bea went. The front door, when I get
to it, is open a couple of inches as if she tried to slam the door
closed behind herself, but it didn’t latch. I gingerly push the door
open. I step inside the house and close the door behind me, feeling
like a fish in a fishbowl with the reporters watching from just outside.
I call out for Bea. There’s no response.
I try again. “Bea!”
Only silence follows.
My eyes go to the brass pegs that outfit the bevel-edged mirror in
the entryway. Only my keys are there.
I slip out of my shoes, dashing up the stairs in my bare feet. I try
our bedroom first. It’s empty, though one of Bea’s dresser drawers
has been pulled clear out and overturned on the floor. She was
looking for something. I check the bathroom, the spare bedroom. All
empty.
Running back down the wooden steps, I slip, my feet sliding out
from beneath me. I land on my backside, feeling the pain of it radiate
through my tailbone. I curse out loud at Bea, blind to what she’s
doing, but knowing it’s something reckless and rash, something that
leaves me in a bind.
I’m mad. I’m scared and confused.
I press myself up from the steps, rubbing my backside. I limp to
the kitchen, where our half-made dinner sits abandoned. Through
the glass door I see Josh, Leo and the police officers in our
backyard, still taking stock of Bea’s music studio.
My cell phone sits on the kitchen counter. I pick it up and try calling
Bea. She doesn’t answer.
Only seconds after I’ve ended the call does she text.
Forgive me. I didn’t mean for any of it to happen.
My heart races wildly inside me.
Forgive you for what? I type immediately back, punching each
letter into the keypad.