Chapter 2: The Empty Compartment
Ryan Mitchell was halfway to the interstate when his phone buzzed in the cup holder.
He glanced at the dashboard clock.
8:17 a.m.
The traffic report was warning drivers about a slowdown near the next exit, and the sun had climbed high enough to turn the windshield into a sheet of pale gold. He loosened his tie slightly and reached for his briefcase at the passenger-side footwell.
His presentation notes were inside. So were two folders for the meeting he had spent most of the previous evening preparing for.
He opened the case at a safe roadside stop and checked the main compartment.
Folder.
Notebook.
Pens.
A packet of printed financial projections.
Then he lifted the padded divider where his laptop should have been.
Empty.
Ryan stared into the compartment.
He checked the pocket beneath it, even though he knew the computer was too large to fit there. He unzipped the front section and searched between the documents. His fingers brushed a charging adapter, a tangled cable, and a receipt from the coffee shop near his office.
No laptop.
He shut his eyes.
“Damn it! I left my laptop on the kitchen counter.””
The words came out sharper than he intended.
He leaned back against the seat and pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose.
The presentation wasn't impossible without the computer, but it would be a disaster. The latest figures were in a spreadsheet he had updated after midnight. The printed copies were missing two charts, and the backup file was on the company network.
Mr. Collins had already warned him that another incomplete presentation would reflect poorly on his chances for the regional director position.
Ryan looked toward the road.
He could call Vanessa and ask her to bring it outside. That would take a few minutes, assuming she answered. Or he could drive back, grab it, and still make the meeting if traffic cooperated.
He picked up his phone.
Vanessa's contact appeared on the screen, her smiling photograph filling the display.
Ryan paused.
He remembered her kiss on the cheek, the way she'd straightened his jacket, and her reminder not to work too hard.
He smiled faintly.
She would tease him about forgetting something important. Then she'd probably make him a fresh cup of coffee while he collected his laptop.
He could practically hear her.
You'd forget your own head if it wasn't attached.
Ryan shook his head, amused despite himself.
“Okay, sweetheart,” he muttered, setting the phone down.
“I'm coming back.””
He closed the briefcase, checked the traffic in his mirrors, and pulled away from the roadside stop.
The drive back took less than ten minutes.
During those minutes, Ryan thought about his presentation, the promotion, and the new responsibilities that might finally allow him to stop bringing work home every evening.
He thought about the vacation Vanessa had mentioned the previous weekend.
They had talked about Savannah, a quiet hotel near the river, and two days without emails or conference calls. She had laughed when he suggested turning off his phone completely.
“You wouldn't last three hours,” she'd told him.
“Watch me.””
“You'd find a way to check your messages from a stranger's phone.””
“That's a terrible accusation.””
“It's an accurate one.””
He remembered laughing with her over breakfast.
The memory warmed him as he turned into his neighborhood.
Then he entered his driveway and saw the mower.
It stood beside the walkway, angled awkwardly toward the flower bed. The grass around it had been cut, but the machine was silent, and no one was working in the yard.
Ryan slowed.
He looked toward the side garden.
Empty.
He checked the area near the garage, then the strip of grass beside the fence where Ryan Cole usually parked his equipment.
Nothing.
Ryan pulled into his usual spot and switched off the engine.
“Where did Ryan go?””
He stepped out of the car.
The morning air smelled of freshly cut grass and damp soil. A few clippings had stuck to the walkway, and the mower's collection bag was only partly full. It looked as though the work had stopped in the middle of a pass.
Ryan glanced at his watch.
He had paid the gardener to finish the front and back lawns that morning. Ryan Cole had been reliable so far, and the man usually sent a text if he needed to leave early.
There was no reason to panic.
Perhaps he'd gone to retrieve a tool from his truck. Perhaps a neighbor had called him over. Perhaps he'd received an urgent phone call.
Still, Ryan found himself looking toward the house.
The front curtains were open.
He couldn't see anyone inside.
He walked up the porch steps and reached for the door handle.
It turned easily.
“Vanessa?”” he called as he entered.
No answer.
He closed the door behind him and set his briefcase on the small table in the hallway.
The house smelled faintly of coffee and the lemon cleaner Vanessa used on the kitchen counters. Sunlight fell across the hardwood floor. A throw pillow sat slightly crooked on the living-room sofa, and a magazine lay open beside it.
Nothing seemed out of place.
Ryan crossed into the kitchen.
His laptop sat on the counter, right where he had left it.
“There you are,” he said under his breath.
He moved toward it, already mentally rehearsing the opening slide of his presentation.
Then he stopped.
A second mug stood beside his own.
It was a white ceramic mug with a blue rim, one Ryan didn't recognize from their usual breakfast routine. There was a thin line of moisture beneath it, as though it had been rinsed and placed there only moments earlier.
Ryan looked at the sink.
Two teaspoons lay beside the faucet.
He frowned.
Perhaps Vanessa had invited a neighbor in for coffee. It wouldn't have been unusual. She was friendly, and several women on their street stopped by without arranging anything in advance.
But he couldn't remember Vanessa mentioning visitors.
He picked up his laptop, checked that it was charged, and glanced toward the staircase.
A soft sound came from upstairs.
A footstep.
Then another.
Ryan turned.
“Vanessa? I'm back!””
His voice traveled up the stairwell.
No answer came.
He waited, one hand resting on the counter.
Perhaps she was in the bathroom with the water running. Perhaps she was on the phone. He could have called her from the kitchen, but something about the silence made him hesitate.
He listened.
The refrigerator hummed.
A car passed outside.
Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard creaked.
Ryan set his laptop down again.
“Vanessa?””
Still nothing.
He pulled out his phone and checked the screen.
No missed calls. No messages.
He considered texting her, then dismissed the idea. She was somewhere in the house. There was no reason he couldn't simply walk upstairs and tell her he was leaving again.
He slipped his phone into his pocket.
As he moved toward the hallway, a faint sound drifted down from above.
Laughter.
A woman's laughter.
Vanessa's laughter.
Then a second laugh, lower and unfamiliar.
Ryan stopped at the foot of the staircase.
The sound disappeared.
For several seconds, he stood perfectly still, staring at the steps.
He knew his wife was upstairs.
May you like
He knew someone else was with her.
And for the first time that morning, the ordinary explanations he had been giving himself began to feel like excuses.