Page 16 of You Know Why

“This is your husband?”

“That’s him, yes.”

Matheson nods, and the view changes. I watch, growing more and more confused, as Trey walks to the bathroom, goes in, then, less than a minute later, exits. Instead of turning back toward the gate, he moves to the escalator. His backpack is on his shoulder; he seems relaxed and calm. The view shifts: Now he’s going down the escalator, looking straight ahead. Another view: He steps onto the train. Another: He rides in silence, holding the bar above his head. Up another escalator, he disappears into a crowd of people. A new camera angle, this one from the baggage check-in area: He emerges from the terminal, passes the TSA checkpoint, and walks out the door.

He leaves.

My God, he actually leaves the terminal.

The last video shot is of Trey standing on the curb, and I’m able to hold it together until I see him cast one glance back at the airport doors with sorrow written across his features, so clearly agonized that tears spring to my eyes.

Then he steps into the back of a black SUV and is gone.

Matheson closes the laptop. “There was a rideshare sticker in the back window of the SUV. We’ve asked the Atlanta Metro Police to see if they can nail down the company that provided the car and talk to the driver, ascertain where he was dropped off. But seeing as Mr. Locke has not committed a crime . . .”

I barely hear him. Is this the last time I’m going to see my husband’s face? Has Trey left us for good? I glance through the window at the kids. They deserve better. They deserve more. How in the world do I explain that their dad has abandoned them? Abandoned me?

“This isn’t possible. This isn’t happening.”

“Unfortunately, ma’am, it is. Does he know anyone in Atlanta?”

“No. Definitely not.”

“And you say the trip was a surprise?”

“Yes, it was last minute. And as I told you earlier, there’s no reason in the world for us to be here at all. The first leg of the trip was to London, but we were bumped. This makes absolutely no sense. Why would he leave the terminal just before we’re to board the flight? Why is he not answering his phone?”

Matheson’s brow rises. “We don’t know. And unfortunately, there’s nothing illegal about what he did. Strange, yes, I will admit. But people leave marriages all the time.”

The words hit like an arrow, and I stiffen in the seat involuntarily.

He taps the table with his blunt finger. “I know this must be a shock. I know you’re struggling here. But unfortunately, right now, there’s nothing more we can do.”

My temper flares, and I bite my lip. Common sense tells me not to shout, but I am under duress, damn it.

“What the hell am I supposed to do, then? Wait here for him to return? Or what, just fly back home and hope he shows up? Fly to Italy and see if he magically appears at the hotel?”

There is a knock at the door. Matheson says, “Enter,” and a TSA agent steps in. He hands his boss a cell phone.

“We found it in the trash by the E-terminal escalator.”

Matheson takes it and hits the button. The screen lights up, and I see the family portrait we had done for Christmas last year—four smiles and the wagging tail of the dog. There are a number of notifications. Oh my God.

“This is your husband’s phone?” Matheson asks.

“Obviously,” I whisper. My heart is gone, dead, not beating. He trashed his phone. He doesn’t want to be found.

Now I’m really getting scared.

“Do you know his passcode?”

“I’m on his Face ID list.” I take the phone and swipe it open, waiting for it to recognize me. Nothing. The phone stays locked. I try again. It prompts for the passcode, and I enter the numbers we share on all of our accounts—phones, subscriptions, bank account PINs, everything. That, too, doesn’t work.

He’s wiped me from his system and locked me out of his phone. What the hell?

The officers start shuffling around. Matheson smiles sadly. “I’m afraid there’s nothing more we can do. You can try contacting the Atlanta police to see if they’d consider him a missing person. They’ll have our report. But since he left of his own accord, that’s going to be a hard sell.”

He stands, and I force myself to follow suit. I choke out the words, “Thank you for your help.”