A local woman missing- Mary Kubica

KATE
11 YEARS BEFORE
May
The next morning when I wake up, Bea is already gone. It was
nearly one o’clock by the time I went to bed. I only got five hours of
sleep, and even that was intermittent at best, because I kept thinking
of Meredith and Delilah, hoping that by morning there’d be good
news. Hoping that by morning they’d be found.
Now I take the servant stairs down to the kitchen and find that Bea
is in her studio, working again because the back door is open. There
are two staircases in our house, one in the front, and this one, which
is narrow, curved and tucked away in back, a passageway from the
second floor to the kitchen, dating back to times when servants
weren’t meant to be seen. It’s one of the reasons I first fell in love
with the old home, for its history.
Bea must have taken her own breakfast out to the studio to eat
while she works. She’s left me a plate. The cool, humid morning air
comes in through the open door.
Bea had the detached garage converted into a music studio when
she moved in with me. It’s a charming place, though one I rarely go
inside because it’s Bea’s workplace, much in the same way that she
doesn’t ever show up at my office. Boundaries are important in a
relationship.
Bea writes her own music in the garage. She records it. I know I
shouldn’t, but still I try and listen in sometimes because Bea has a
sexy voice. It’s husky and rich and thick. You’d think she smoked a
pack a day by the sound of her voice, but she doesn’t. But unless
she leaves the door open by mistake I can’t hear inside.
I met Bea six years ago at a bar in the city where she was
performing. It was the summer before vet school. I was working as a
cocktail waitress to earn extra cash for school. We fell in love. Two