of sugar and vanilla.
Sam was easy to fall in love with. I did it that very day.
* * *
Muffled voices make their way up the stairs, prodding me across the bedroom to the closet, where I peel off my T-shirt and slip into a silky tank. I pull a pair of hot-pink pumps from the shelf, step into them one by one. At the bathroom mirror, I take down my ponytail, run my fingers through my hair, dab on some under-eye concealer and lip gloss. When measuring yourself against anyone, even if it’s only your former self, high heels and makeup always help.
I find Sam seated behind the Italian desk in his study downstairs, a masterpiece of walnut and smoky glass. This room is Sam’s domain, with modern furniture and leather wall paneling and burgundy velvet curtains that pool like blood on the black oak floor. All dark and sleek and masculine like him, all but the silver bowl on the corner of his desk, which I filled with gardenias from the backyard. They scent the air with a sweet perfume that sticks out like an escort in a boardroom.
Across from Sam, in one of the matching blue swivel chairs, sits Brittany, his director of communications. A police officer stands to her left.
None of them look happy.
“What’s wrong?” I say from the doorway.
Brittany twists in her chair, giving me a perfunctory smile. “Good morning, Mrs. Huntington. Sorry to disturb so early on a Saturday.”
For some reason I can’t quite explain, her formal greeting makes me hate her just a little. Maybe it’s because she’s still clinging to her twenties, and the further I get from that decade, the more I resent girls as pretty and smart as Brittany. The entire world is her oyster—what is she thinking, wasting her youth here in Atlanta?
Sam gestures across the desk to the empty chair next to Brittany. “Come sit down.”
Something about the way he says it makes my heart beat faster, and not in a good way. I glance at the cop, then Brittany, whose all-business expression doesn’t match her outfit. Salmon-colored shirt; purple running shorts; long, bare legs with just the right amount of muscle. This was supposed to be her day off, too, and she looks like she came straight from the gym.
I move to the chair, but I don’t sink into it. “Just tell me. What’s going on?”
“One of the kids from Sammy’s class went missing last night,” Sam says. “A little boy named Ethan Maddox. The police are working on the assumption he was taken.”
My eyes go wide, and I press a hand to my stomach. Poor Ethan. Poor Ethan’s parents. “Taken as in kidnapped?”
Sam defers to the police officer, who nods.
My legs give out, and I fall into the chair. “Oh my God. Do they have any idea who?”
I have an idea who: Ethan’s wife-beater felon father. I’ve heard the schoolyard rumors about their divorce, have watched the video some eyewitness uploaded to YouTube. Any man capable of assaulting his wife in a CVS parking lot in broad daylight, with dozens of iPhones pointed at his face capturing every blow in full-color, high-definition, is capable of kidnapping his own child.
“The Lumpkin County Sheriff’s team is looking at a number of possibilities,” the officer says carefully. “Folks connected to the school, to the child’s family, as well as any locals listed on the offender registries.”
My gaze zips to Sam, whose expression turns to stone. He’s thinking the same thing I am: a sexual predator lurking at the edge of the camp, surveying the kids like a starving man at a farmer’s market, selecting the ripest fruit. It could have been any kid. It could have been Sammy.
I am suddenly thinking about where I left my car keys. Thinking about navigating morning traffic to hightail it to Dahlonega. I am desperate to see my child.
“Call Josh,” Sam says to Brittany. “I know he’s visiting his sister but haul his ass back up to the city. I need his input on how we can best respond to this. The school hasn’t finished alerting the parents yet, and we’ve got to be careful how we approach things. We don’t want to incite panic or step on the sheriff’s toes, but I want to have a statement ready as soon as he gives us the go.”
Brittany swivels back and forth in her chair. “I’ve left Josh like a hundred messages already. Apparently, they don’t have reception wherever his sister lives.”
Probably not far from the truth. I don’t remember the name of the town, but Josh’s sister lives in the backwoods of southern Georgia, a tiny blip on a bright red map. No streetlights, no Walmart, just a couple of neighbors sitting on lawn chairs, waving Confederate flags.
“Keep trying, will you?” Sam says. “In the meantime, let’s you and I put our heads together and come up with a plan.”
She slides a laptop from the bag at her feet and begins clacking away. The police officer stands pressed against the bookshelves, his hat clutched in his hands, awaiting orders.
Sam turns to me with a pained look, and I stop him with a shake of my head. An Atlanta child is missing. There’s no need to apologize.
I turn to the police officer and Brittany. “How do you two take your coffee?”
The last thing Sam needs to worry about is me.
5 hours, 24 minutes missing
Ever since the dogs screeched to a stop at Black Mountain Road, the game plan has changed, something that becomes clear when the dining hall fills with rain-soaked bodies, shouting orders with a new sense of urgency. They see me and avert their eyes, a sign of respect that hits me like a cold, hard slap. Dawn notices and hauls me out of there, guiding me outside to a cabin across the clearing. She parks me on a tiny two-seater couch.
“Why don’t I make us some tea?” she says. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a little warming up.”
It’s then I notice that my teeth are chattering. I bite down hard until the noise stops. “Tea would be great, thank you.”
The cabin is dark and tiny, a square space with a round table, a musty-smelling couch and the most basic of kitchenettes lining the back wall. The glass of the lone window is filthy, coated with cobwebs and crud and framed with two strips of faded floral fabric. The air in here is just as cold as outside, just as damp, and I shiver.
Dawn flicks on the electric teapot, then settles on the couch next to me. Her eyes are kind.
“We’ve told you why we are taking a good, close look at Andrew. Why don’t you start by telling me why you think we’re mistaken.”
Her question surprises me more than a little. From the second the detective showed up at my door, I’ve been trying to talk myself out of the possibility Andrew would have anything to do with this, and my denial hasn’t gone unnoticed. Do I think they’re mistaken? Maybe, but I also never thought Andrew would hurt me like he did, either.
“I suppose you know what he did.” I can barely push out the words. My mouth is a desert, my tongue sandpaper against my teeth.
“I’ve read the police reports, yes.” The kettle turns off with a sharp click, the water bubbling into a rolling boil. Dawn pushes up from the couch. “But I’d really like to hear it from you.”
I hesitate, trying to summon the strength to rehash all that ugly drama. The thing is, I’ve spent a good part of the past half year trying to not think of Andrew, and I still cringe whenever his name tunnels unintentionally across my consciousness. The way we broke apart was messy and painful, and I’m still fighting to find forgiveness—for him and for myself, for the way Ethan has unwittingly ended up in the middle.
“Things had been bad between us for a while,” I begin, my breaths coming fast and hard, like I just jogged up three flights of stairs. “At least