A local woman missing- Mary Kubica

facedown. I turn it over. The text is still there on the screen, staring
back at me.
Josh doesn’t wait to be let in. He opens the door and steps right
inside. I slide the phone into the back pocket of my jeans before
Josh has a chance to see.
“Hey,” he says, “how about you save some water for the fish.”
Leo complains to Josh that he is cold. “Well, let’s get you out of the
bath,” Josh says, stretching down to help him out of the water.
“I need to wash him still,” I admit. Before me, Leo’s teeth chatter.
There are goose bumps on his arm that I hadn’t noticed before. He is
cold, and I feel suddenly guilty, though it’s mired in confusion and
fear. I hadn’t been paying any attention to Leo. There is bathwater
spilled all over the floor, but his hair is still bone-dry.
“You haven’t washed him?” Josh asks, and I know what he’s
thinking: that in the time it took him to clear the kitchen table, wash
pots and pans and wipe down the sinks, I did nothing. He isn’t angry
or accusatory about it. Josh isn’t the type to get angry.
“I have a client in labor,” I say by means of explanation. “She
keeps texting,” I say, telling Josh that I was just about to wash Leo. I
drop to my knees beside the tub. I reach for the shampoo. In the
back pocket of my jeans, the phone again pings. This time, I ignore
it. I don’t want Josh to know what’s happening, not until I get a
handle on it for myself.
Josh asks, “Aren’t you going to get that?” I say that it can wait. I
focus on Leo, on scrubbing the shampoo onto his hair, but I’m
anxious. I move too fast so that the shampoo suds get in his eye. I
see it happening, but all I can think to do is wipe it from his forehead
with my own soapy hands. It doesn’t help. It makes it worse.
Leo complains. Leo isn’t much of a complainer. He’s an easygoing
kid. “Ow,” is all that he says, his tiny wet hands going to his eyes,
though shampoo in the eye burns like hell.
“Does that sting, baby?” I ask, feeling contrite. But I’m bursting
with nervous energy. There’s only one thought racing through my
mind. I hope you rot in hell, Meredith.
Who would have sent that, and why? Whoever it is knows me.
They know my name. They’re mad at me for something I’ve done.
Mad enough to wish me dead. I don’t know anyone like that. I can’t