A local woman missing- Mary Kubica

long and straight because somehow, inexplicably, Bea never gets
bedhead.
“I want to jump in the shower before they get here,” she says, they
meaning the subcontractors who are working on our home. The
house is old and we’re in the midst of a messy renovation. The
house is full of historic elements, which we love: the ceiling
medallions; the original, oversize windows; the library with its builtins;
the servant stairs. They tell a story. But the bathrooms and the
kitchen are seventies-era, thanks to some previous owner who did a
hack job on them. They lack the charm the rest of the house still has.
We’re getting those redone, brought back to a modern version of
their original state, to restore the history and authenticity of the
home.
There’s a combination lockbox on our front door. The workers
come and go whenever they want. Their workday starts as early as
seven a.m. If we aren’t quick to shower in the morning, they catch us
in our pajamas. These men know their way around our house
because they’re here even when Bea and I aren’t. It had never
bothered me before, but now, in light of what’s happened over the
last twelve hours, it does.
The contractor came recommended from Josh, who had work
done on his own home, a 1890s Queen Anne. Apparently they’re
whizzes at keeping the integrity of historic homes. Meredith, though
pleased with the final result, hated the invasion of privacy. She
couldn’t wait for their renovation to be through, she’d told us, saying
how glad she was to have that lockbox removed from her door, to
regain sole possession of her home afterward. I’m thinking now that
Bea and I should take it a step further than that and have the locks
replaced, because who’s to say one of the subcontractors couldn’t
have duplicated the key? It makes my stomach hurt to think about
someone besides Bea and me having a key to our home.
“Any news from Josh?” I ask. It’s early. I don’t expect Bea to have
heard from him, but as it turns out, she has.
“I just saw him,” she says, telling me that he was in the backyard,
letting his dog out.
“What did he say?” I ask Bea, measuring out the coffee and
pouring it into the filter. I hope for good news, but it’s not.