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The office had bookshelves, a filing cabinet, more pictures, many with Margo in uniform. Army, he determined upon closer inspection, when she was much younger.
Peter frowned. Why would this woman, this private investigator who’d been in the Army, a woman with connections to law enforcement and the DA’s office and a criminal defense lawyer and God knew who else, why would she take Annie?
Why would she help Annie disappear?
His wife had lied. Plain and simple, she had made up some bullshit story to convince some do-gooder bitch to help her screw with him. The man who had taken care of her for seven years. The man who had provided, given her a home, done more for her than anyone! Her mother was dead, her father a deadbeat. She’d been barely scraping by working at that coffee shop, living with a pot-smoking roommate in a crappy apartment when he met her, when he fell in love with her, when he promised to love and protect her for the rest of their lives.
He pounded his fist on the desk. The knickknacks and photo frames jumped; one fell over. He righted it, looked again around the room. Lots of books, framed pictures, a cork board with notes and snapshots. He scanned them; they all seemed personal.
Order balloons for Austin’s birthday.
Call Grandma A on Sunday.
Confirm Sat. party.
A wall calendar looked out of place; it was from St. Dominic’s Catholic Church. Above the calendar was a simple carved wood crucifix mounted on the wall. He flipped through the calendar’s pages. Here she had written birthdays, anniversaries. Her birthday was at the end of this month; someone named Austin was two days later. An anniversary this weekend. June, July, August... In September, there were four birthdays in a row—Adam (21st), Uncle Rafe (24th), Mom (25th) and Josie (27th), then an anniversary on the 30th—Uncle Tom & Aunt April, #34.
Every month had at least one birthday or family event. How much family could one person have?
He opened the closet. It was smaller than the closet in her bedroom, but just as organized. Shelves with more books, office supplies, a couple warm coats and sweaters hanging in plastic bags. A tall narrow safe. Guns? Papers? Information about his wife?
He didn’t even attempt to open the safe.
Peter walked through the rest of the house. It was as tidy and organized as the bedroom and office. He could respect a woman who kept a clean space. He opened the refrigerator, frowned. The door was filled with beer, the shelves practically bare. Some fruit in the drawers, a few condiments on the top shelf, a container of leftovers—some sort of stew—not much else.
The kitchen opened into the eating area and family room. It looked like someone had taken out some walls and opened the place up. There was even a large laundry room off the kitchen with built-in cabinets, a counter, and walk-in closet that had been converted into a pantry. She stocked a lot of staples—at least twenty gallons of water, canned food, flour, cereal, the top shelf packed with military rations, another shelf with stacks of ammo—at least 500 rounds each of .38, .357, .45, 9mm, 30-30 rifle ammo as well as more than a thousand rounds of 5.56, used in the popular AR-15. Paranoid or prepared? A quick glance told him she wouldn’t have to leave her house for weeks if she was under siege.
He hated this woman—she’d taken his wife—but he was certainly intrigued by anyone who was both organized and disciplined.
Margo Angelhart was his adversary. He would need to be cautious when dealing with her.
The side door from the laundry led to the driveway and the garage. Peter unbolted the door and exited, doubly cautious. He didn’t hear or see anyone. The sun was down, a thin red line to the west. The night was so clear he could see the remaining glow framing the White Tank Mountains twenty-five miles away.
He would check out her storefront, see if it was legit, find out if she had anyone working for her. Maybe he could pick up some clue. Something to tell him where this woman, this bitch, took Annie.
First things first. He needed to report that Annie was missing. He should have done it today, but he had hoped she’d come back on her own. Now? He had no choice. She was missing and he was concerned about her and the safety of his children.
Because Annie Carillo was mentally ill. That’s the only reason she would leave him.
He headed home. Who would believe him? He had to be clear, focused in how he answered questions. Annie was ill, certainly. In fact, he’d noticed a change in her behavior and personality after Marie was born. He had wanted her to go to the doctor. Perhaps she suffered from postpartum depression. She wouldn’t go to the doctor... Yes, it all came clear to Peter as he drove.
Annie was sick. She needed help.
Why hadn’t he called the police right away? They would ask...
Because she left him a note... He thought she would return. Called friends. But now he’s very worried.
He smiled. He would find her or the police would find her. She would come home. He would be the best, most attentive, most loving husband in the world. He’d take a leave of absence, have his mother move in to help with the children. When the time was right, when enough months had passed that Annie thought he’d forgiven her, he would punish his wife.
Annie was not going to get away with putting him through this hell.
Twenty-Two
Margo Angelhart
At 10:30 p.m., Jack dropped me off at home.
I loved my little house. I fixed it up myself with Jack’s help, hiring a professional contractor to tackle the big projects like updating the kitchen. While I still had some items left on my to-do list—for when I had extra time and money—my home had become my sanctuary.
