I had not known he was warning me.
The police tried calling Daniel again. I called too. Each attempt went unanswered.
Then Detective Kellan contacted Daniel’s company.
I watched his face while he listened.
“What is it?” I asked when he hung up.
He did not answer right away.
“Please tell me.”
“Daniel was never on a business trip.”
My mouth went dry.
“That’s not possible.”
“The hotel reservation was fake. The flight was never taken. Nobody at his company has seen him in four days.”
Four days.
My husband had kissed my forehead on Monday morning, told me he would call from Chicago, and walked out with his suitcase.
Now I did not know where he was.
Or who he was.
The police searched the house that evening. I sat in the living room with a blanket around my shoulders, listening to drawers open and close upstairs.
Then Detective Kellan returned, holding a small metal lockbox from Daniel’s home office.
“Amber,” he said carefully, “do you know what this is?”
I shook my head.
Inside were newspaper clippings.
Dozens of them.
Some were old and yellowed. Some looked newer. All of them were about the disappearances from 22 years earlier.
My hand flew to my mouth.
“No,” I breathed.
There were photos of the victims. Articles about the roses. Notes in Daniel’s handwriting along the margins.
Officer Voss looked grim. “We need to issue a warrant.”
I stared at the clippings until the words blurred.
My Daniel.
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