Page 21 of The Vow He Breaks

I look down at the planner, where Connor’s writing fills each square with the proof of a life interrupted. “This is why I need you.”

The humor leaves her face, and she reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. Neither of us says that Connor should be sitting here telling us the entire idea is ridiculous. The empty chair beside Murphy says it for us.

Before we leave, I make one last pass through Connor’s apartment, gathering his unopened mail into one stack, photographing the VHL entries again, and checking the bedroom closet. Both his suitcase and overnight bag remain, making a planned trip even less believable.

Birdie cleans Murphy’s litter box while I enter the small office, where Connor has arranged the books by subject and left no room for choosing one because its cover looks interesting.

I sit beside a photograph of our twenty-fifth birthday dinner and the crooked ceramic cup I made in seventh grade, which Connor has kept through four apartments despite its failures as a mug.

His computer is gone, which makes sense if he carried it to work on Tuesday. I open the top drawer and find paper clips, charging cables, sticky notes, and three packets of soy sauce. The second drawer holds tax folders arranged by year. The bottom one stops before it opens all the way.

I pull harder, and the drawer slides another inch with a scrape. A cable has fallen behind it, but that isn’t what holds my attention. The drawer is open slightly farther than it was when we searched yesterday. I remember pushing every one closed because straight lines calm Connor, and because touching his possessions made me feel as though I were borrowing his order for a few minutes.

“Birdie,” I call, keeping my eyes on the gap.

She appears in the doorway holding a plastic bag tied at the top. “If you found another expired condiment, I no longer have the emotional resources.”

“This drawer was closed yesterday.”

Birdie lowers the bag and joins me. “Are you sure?”

“No, but I think I am.” I pull the cable free and open the drawer. Inside are spare notebooks, envelopes, printer paper, and a thin layer of dust along the rear panel. Near the center lies a clean rectangle about the size of a paperback book or small document box. Dust outlines all four sides, proving an object remained there until recently.

Birdie leans over my shoulder. “Was that here yesterday?”

“I opened the drawer, but the cable caught and I didn’t force it. I assumed it was full.” I touch the clean area with one fingertip. “Whatever sat here is gone.”

“Connor could have taken it Tuesday.”

“He could have.” I look at the drawer, searching for clues about an object that no longer exists. “But if anyone came in while we were at dinner, they could have taken it too.”

Birdie reaches for her phone. “We should add this to the police report.”

I photograph the drawer, then call the number attached to our report. The woman records the detail but confirms that an unknown missing object doesn’t prove anyone entered the apartment. When I hang up, I tell Birdie, “Somewhere in Seattle, a computer now knows my brother owned a rectangle. The progress is inspiring.”

“You can be sarcastic in the car.” She retrieves the bag and heads toward the hall. “We need to leave before traffic turns the interstate into a parking lot.”

I slip the ugly ceramic mug into my tote so Connor can complain about the theft when he comes home. Murphy resists his carrier with all four paws, but two liver treats and an apology I don’t mean get him into the back seat. Before leaving, I look toward Connor’s ninth-floor windows, but none of the curtains move, and no answer reveals itself because I stayed to look.

Traffic opens as Seattle recedes behind us. Birdie searches for dresses on her phone while Murphy complains whenever the road curves. After rejecting prices that should include transportation and legal advice, she decides Lilly’s boutique can provide dresses and unwanted opinions about our undergarments.

The light changes, and I guide the car onto the entrance ramp. For several miles, the drive feels ordinary enough to tempt me into believing we are simply returning from an unpleasant overnight trip. Birdie talks about asking Lilly to close the boutique late, Murphy gives up protesting and begins snoring, and evergreens replace the taller buildings along the highway.

I notice the dark SUV in the mirror near Shoreline.

At first, it’s only another vehicle occupying the lane behind us, close enough for me to see a broad grille and windows tinted past the point of friendliness. I change lanes to pass a delivery truck, and the SUV follows. When I return to the right lane, it moves behind me again.

My palms dampen against the steering wheel. Half the SUVs in Washington are dark and built to look vaguely threatening. I can’t see the driver through the windshield, and road spray obscures the front plate.

“Do you think burgundy is too much for a wine tasting?” Birdie asks, scrolling through another page of dresses.

“Probably not.” I keep my voice even as I watch the mirror. “It might make you look committed to the theme.”

I slow by five miles per hour. The SUV stays behind us. I accelerate when the lane clears, and it matches the increase without closing the distance.

Maybe fear is making the SUV seem more suspicious than it is. Perhaps the driver uses the same route, or perhaps I’m assigning menace to tinted windows because I’ve run out of people to question.

The next exit advertises gas, coffee, and food. I signal later than I should and take it. The SUV continues past the split, then moves toward the exit lane. For one sick moment, I think it will follow, but a sedan blocks its path. The SUV swerves back onto the interstate and disappears behind a line of trucks.