Her Last Goodbye, page 2
“Yes, sir. One moment.”
Greg could hear the rapid clicking of a keyboard for several moments.
“Sir, I’m sorry but we’re unable to provide an updated location for that phone.”
“What? Why not?”
“It could be any number of reasons, such as a dead battery, no internet connection, or a SIM card issue...”
“I need to find her phone.”
“I would advise you to keep up with your efforts. Your wife could resolve the issue at her end, and then you can locate the phone. Is there anything else I can help you with today, sir?”
“What?” Stunned, Greg then said: “No.”
He was at a loss.
It was now 2:46 a.m.
He thought for a moment.
Jenn’s book club.
He’d call whoever hosted. But who was it? A small wave of shame rolled over him. He knew little about his wife’s book club group, other than a few first names, and that most of them lived in Ripplewood Creek.
Wait.
Greg went to the kitchen calendar, where Jenn had noted the meeting: “Book Club. L.”
That had to be Liz. Greg had met her at the mall. It was last year. Jenn introduced her as being in the club. Liz was a retired bank teller. But what was her last name? He thought for a moment. It started with an M...for Martin! No—Meyer! No—Miller!
It was Miller.
Liz Miller.
He needed her number.
Greg went beyond the kitchen to the alcove that was home to Jenn’s desk and computer, where she handled all their household finances. It was a foreign land to him. She kept it ordered, tidy. Jake smiled from a framed picture she kept on one corner.
Greg had seen Jenn with her little blue address book many times. Did she keep it here? The first desk drawer he opened had envelopes, bills, statements, warranties. The next drawer had a stapler, tape, pens, stamps, sticky notes, paper clips, and there—a blue address book! He flipped through it, coming to Jenn’s handwritten entry for Liz Miller, including her address in Ripplewood Creek and phone numbers for her landline and cell.
Gripping his cell, Greg called.
As it rang, he wrestled with the absurdity of his situation, the imposition, the embarrassment. Then, touching Jenn’s desk, looking into their son’s face, Greg confronted the break from the order of their lives.
A man answered, his voice groggy, bordering on a growl.
“Hello?”
Greg let out a breath. “Mr. Miller?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry for waking you. I’m Greg Griffin. My wife, Jennifer, was at your house earlier, for a book club meeting.”
Miller said nothing.
Greg continued, not believing the words as he spoke them aloud.
“Jenn, my wife, hasn’t come home.”
“What?” Miller’s voice was tense and he coughed.
“My wife hasn’t come home from your house.”
“What? She what? It’s three in the morning.”
“Mr. Miller, could I talk to your wife, please?”
Greg heard another voice in the background, then a rustling.
“Hang on.” Miller was less tense. “Hang on.”
More talking, then a woman’s voice, full of concern.
“Hello?”
“Liz Miller?”
“Yes.”
“This is Greg Griffin, Jenn’s husband. Was she at the book club meeting at your house tonight?”
“Yes, she was. What’s wrong?”
“What time did it end?”
“Ten thirty, maybe a bit later. Why?”
Greg tightened his hold on his phone.
“Jenn hasn’t come home.”
“She hasn’t come home?”
“Did she leave with the others?”
“Yes, they all left. It was after ten thirty. Greg, it’s only a ten-minute drive from my house to yours.”
“I know. Liz, could you call the others who were there? Maybe Jenn said something to one of them?”
“Yes. Yes, I will.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry to wake you.”
“Not at all. It’s all right.”
Ending the call, Greg stood there, almost numb.
Staring at Jenn’s address book, he considered a potential scenario: Jake was sick, or hurt. Jenn picked him up from Carter’s house and took him to the hospital. Maybe her phone died and she hadn’t called him yet, or it wasn’t that serious and she didn’t want to wake him.
Grasping at the possibility, Greg flipped through Jenn’s book. He knew Carter’s family, the Wileys. They lived two blocks over. Holly Wiley was an assistant manager at Walgreens. Her husband, Nate, was a welder, who coached kids’ softball and hockey. They’d had a couple of backyard barbecues together.
Greg called. Holly answered.
“Holly, this is Greg.”
“Greg?” Her voice was low, heavy with sleep. “What is it? Why’re you calling so late? Is everything all right?”
“Is Jake okay?”
“Jake? Yes, he’s fine. The boys are sleeping. Why?”
“Have you heard from Jenn tonight?”
“No.”
“Nothing at all?”
“I saw her when she dropped Jake off. Why?”
Greg hesitated.
“Greg, tell me what’s going on,” Holly said.
“Jenn hasn’t come home from her book club meeting.”
“She hasn’t come home? Oh my God, Greg!”
“Listen, don’t tell Jake. Or anybody. I’ve got to sort this out.”
“Maybe she had a flat tire or something?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. Listen, Holly, call me if you hear from Jenn.”
“Absolutely. Do you want me to send Nate over?”
“No. No, thanks. Please call me if you hear from her.”
Greg hung up, took a breath, went upstairs, got dressed, then grabbed the keys to his truck.
Three
Ripplewood Creek and Trailside Grove, New York
Greg backed his pickup out of their driveway, shifted from reverse to drive, then headed down their street.
At this hour, Trailside Grove was tranquil.
He rolled by houses with parked SUVs and sedans reflecting streetlamps or the peaceful glow of garden lights. While his neighbors slept, he traveled deeper into his nightmare, dragging the back of his hand across his stubbled face.
Why can’t I reach her? Did she have a breakdown? Was she in an accident? Where is she?
Greg glanced at his phone in the holder on his console.
Not a word from her, or anyone.
With each driveway and house he passed, each corner he turned, he looked at every vehicle, searching for Jenn’s blue Corolla.
He dropped his windows to let the flow of cool night air keep him sharp as he set out to follow her path. He was taking the route she would most likely have followed to Liz Miller’s house and back.
He kneaded his temple.
This can’t be happening.
No other traffic was in sight as he left his neighborhood and drove along Taconic Street, a straight two-lane road of homes built on larger lots in the sixties, most of them owned by patriotic, flag-on-the-porch people retired from blue-collar jobs.
Why didn’t Jenn come home?
At the intersection, he turned left onto Sentinel Trail, upgraded a few years ago to accommodate the growing suburbs. It was now a four-lane road, two lanes running in each direction. Heading west, he passed the U-Haul rental and storage, the Sunoco and Mobil gas stations, strip malls, offices for legal, accounting, and dental services. All of them closed.
There were few cars in sight. He continued on Sentinel, its gentle curves flowing to the larger outlets where he and Jenn shopped—Walmart, Lowes, and Wegmans. All of them were closed, their vast parking lots empty. At the twenty-four-hour windows of the Wendy’s and McDonald’s, he spotted a trickle of cars in the drive-through lanes.
No Toyota Corollas.
Stopped at a red light, worry gnawing at him, Greg called Jenn again and sent another text, to no avail. Then he flipped through her address book and typed in Liz Miller’s address in Ripplewood Creek.
The light turned green.
He passed more strip malls with Fancy Paws Pet Grooming, Make My Day Florist, Big Louie’s #1 Pizza, then a Bank of America branch before leaving the commercial zone.
He accelerated as Sentinel Trail continued west, bordered by shrubs and a long line of high wooden fencing, concealing backyards but not rooftops as the artery divided Trailside Grove to the south and Noble Haven to the north. After half a mile, the fence line gave way to Bluebird Park, a dense forest that stood as a natural border between the newer suburbs and the hamlet of Ripplewood Creek.
Greg knew the area, had a good idea of where he was going, and the directions on his phone affirmed it, indicating he turn right. He did, glancing at the sign that said: Welcome to Ripplewood Creek. Est. 1845.
It had originated as a farming settlement, was surrounded by forests and undeveloped rural expanses. Now, with its newer communities, Ripplewood had a population of nearly ten thousand people.
Will I find Jenn here?
The exit put Greg on Ripple Valley Boulevard, the two-lane main street through the hamlet. Parts of its eastern edge backed onto Bluebird Park. He passed St. Bartholomew’s church. Its electrically lit cross was bright in the night. He took his eyes from the road to examine the church parking lot.
It was empty.
Then he came to the long, lonely stretch of the boulevard; it had no houses, no stores, no buildings as it curved through the woods. He looked into them, dense and dark for an extra moment—
BUMP-THUMP!
His truck jolted. He’d hit something with a vibration, a thudding, then crumpling and scraping under him.
He stopped, got out, and looked under his pickup. In the ambient light, he saw it. He’d run over an orange plastic traffic cone.
Didn’t even see it!
Cursing, he yanked at it but it was wedged solidly in the undercarriage. He crouched and, half-crawling, seized it, pulling repeatedly, his hands slipping, grating against the steel frame, peeling his skin as the cone came free.
He tossed it to the shoulder, then pulled his shirt up and wiped his face with it. Looking down the road behind him, he saw, lying on its side, a blinking yellow beacon that someone had knocked over. It and the cone had been set to caution drivers of roadwork—a patch of new asphalt.
Greg went into the brush off the shoulder, picked up the cone, replaced it, stood up the beacon, then resumed driving along the long, uninhabited stretch bordering the forest. It continued for some distance before coming to a line of houses, the fire hall, more houses, the school, the child and day care center, the gardening center, and more houses.
He was certain this was the route Jenn had taken.
There was no traffic, no one on the street.
For a moment, he wondered if the toppled beacon and roadwork had something to do with Jenn.
How could it?
He dismissed it.
Rethinking things, he stopped, turned around, parked near the work area and got out with a flashlight from his truck. He raked the light over the grassy ditch and along the fence line and overgrowth that marked the border of a closed-off wooded area. It belonged to the county or state; he couldn’t remember. Greg probed the dense forest with his light.
There’s nothing here.
He got back into his truck and continued deeper into Ripplewood, studying every parked car he saw, his spirits lifting when he spotted a blue Corolla but it wasn’t hers. It had a peace-sign bumper sticker on it. He glanced up at the Wood Creek Apartments, a complex of twin ten-story buildings. Then he passed the Bluebird Retirement Manor and came to the commercial center.
At its heart stood the hamlet’s original town hall, a two-story stone building with a clock tower and fluted columns. Nearby, with their colorful signs aglow, was a Trader Joe’s, a Citizen Bank, a Rite Aid, a Valero gas station, and a Korner Fast convenience store. All were closed, except the Korner Fast.
Not a car or person in sight, as if all of Ripplewood were deserted.
At the traffic light, Greg turned left onto Appleleaf Road. Passing Ripple Hill Elementary, it curled deep into Auden Glen, a sedate neighborhood, lush with mature trees that deepened the darkness.
Houses here were built in the 1970s on larger lots, sitting farther back from the street. Greg slowed, and in the glow of exterior house lights, he scanned driveways and the shoulder for Jenn’s car.
A blue Corolla was parked near a crosswalk, but it was an older model with a crumpled fender. Not Jenn’s.
His directions chimed, alerting him to turn right onto Oak Shade Drive. He slowed again, rolling through the section of pretty homes, going a block when his phone confirmed he’d arrived at his destination on the right.
There it was: Liz and Calvin Miller’s ranch-style home with a wide paved driveway, treed lot, flourishing lawn, and flower garden.
Greg parked in front and stared.
She’d been here a few hours ago. What could’ve happened?
He looked to his phone, his heart pounding faster now.
No messages, nothing. He checked the time. It had taken him a little over twelve minutes to get here. He went online to check for any recent traffic accidents, found nothing in the area. He couldn’t bring himself to see the Millers, not now, and he couldn’t sit here. Turning his truck around, he set out to retrace Jenn’s path to their home.
Where is she? There’s got to be some explanation.
He left Oak Shade Drive, headed back down Appleleaf, coming to the business section at Ripple Valley Boulevard when he had an idea.
Greg pulled into the all-night Korner Fast convenience store and went inside. The clerk behind the counter was playing a game on his phone.
“Can you help me?” Greg said.
The clerk, Dallas, according to his name tag, was over six feet, and could’ve been a high school football player. He had a wispy blondish beard and acne on his face, wiry hair pulled into a ponytail. Raising his head, he paused, sizing up and assessing Greg before he said: “Sure, what’s up?”
“I’m looking for my wife. Was she in here tonight?” Greg held up his phone with a picture of Jenn, beautiful smile, arm around Jake, taken last week on their deck. “She’s driving a blue Corolla. Did she stop in here?”
The clerk looked at Jenn then at Greg and shook his head.
“You’re sure?” Greg asked. “Could’ve been after ten thirty?”
“If she came in before midnight, I wouldn’t know. I started at midnight, and she hasn’t been here since then.”
Nodding slowly, Greg thanked him.
Back in his truck, Greg dragged his hands over his face.
She always comes straight home after book club.
His pulse picked up as he resumed driving, leaving Ripplewood Creek along Sentinel, passing the stores and offices, turning onto Taconic, then home, hoping to see her Corolla in the driveway, or in the garage as he watched the door rise.
Nothing.
Sitting in his truck, he tried calling and texting Jenn again.
Nothing.
Then he checked her Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram accounts for new postings.
Nothing.
Tossing his phone onto the passenger seat, he resumed searching. This time he went to the twenty-four-hour windows at the Wendy’s and McDonald’s, showing Jenn’s picture to the workers, asking if she’d been there. He did the same with the clerks at the twenty-four-hour Sunoco and Mobil gas stations.
No one had seen her.
He drove behind the big retail stores, searching the delivery bays. He drove behind the strip malls, checking their service lanes for Jenn’s car.
Nothing.
He searched and drove for miles and for hours, his heart hammering, knowing that with each minute and hour that passed, the horror was slowly twisting around him as again and again, he followed the path to Liz Miller’s house in Ripplewood and back home.
Finally, he parked in his driveway, looked to the east.
Where are you?
Watching the sky turning pink and orange, he was overcome with helplessness.
This can’t be happening—and after what I was doing tonight—please, no. Please come home.
But his hope sank as the sun rose and with it, every fear.
Staring at his phone in his dirty, scraped hands, he shuddered then, steadying himself, raised it and made a call.
It was answered on the first ring.
“This is nine-one-one. Where is your emergency?”
Greg hesitated, reaching inside to form the words, clearing his throat.
“I’m in Trailside Grove. My wife is missing.”
Four
Buffalo, New York, Trailside Grove
The emergency dispatcher took the last of the information she’d requested from Greg then said: “We’ll send a car to you, sir.”
The call ended.
Staring at his phone, he swiped to Jenn’s picture and her smile.
Looking into her eyes, his skin prickled.
This is really happening.
Several houses down his street, a neighbor he didn’t know was getting into his SUV. Watching him head off to work, Greg ached for Jenn to return and restore the routine of their lives. Maybe it was exhaustion, or fear, enveloping him, but when Greg got out of his pickup, he entered his house in a trance. A quick shower and coffee might help him focus before police arrived, if he had time, he thought.
He managed to get the coffee started when his phone rang.
“Hi, Greg, it’s Holly. Any word on Jenn?”
