Chasing Tomorrow

“Did you see her?” Jeff asked. “In person?”

Ignoring him, the agent punched in a code to turn off the alarm and walked into the kitchen, taking notes. Jeff followed.

“I asked you a question,” he said, grabbing her by the elbow. “Did my wife come to your offices this morning?”

Helen Flint looked at him as if he were something unpleasant that was stuck to the bottom of her shoe. “Let go of me or I’ll call the police.”

Jeff did as she asked. “I’m sorry. It’s just that my wife’s been missing for more than two weeks. I’ve been terribly worried about her.”

“Yes, well. Your personal problems are none of my business. But in answer to your question, your wife instructed me by telephone. We haven’t met.”

“Did she say where she was calling from?” asked Jeff.

“No.”

“Well, did she leave a number, at least?”

“She did not. I have an e-mail address. She said that would be the best way to contact her.” On the back of another card, the agent scribbled something down. “Now, if you don’t mind, Mr. Stevens, I really must get on.”

Jeff looked at the card. His heart plunged for a second time. It was a Hotmail address, generic and untraceable.

“If she contacts you again, Miss Flint, please ask her to get in touch with me. It’s really very important.”

The real estate agent gave Jeff a look that clearly translated as Not to me it isn’t.

Jeff went back to Gunther’s.

“At least you know she’s alive and well.” Gunther tried to get Jeff to look on the bright side at dinner.

“Alive and well and selling our house,” said Jeff. “She’s dismantling our life together, Gunther. Without even talking to me. That’s not fair. That’s not the Tracy I know.”

“I suspect she’s still very hurt.”

“So am I!”

It pained Gunther to see Jeff fighting back tears.

“I have to find her,” he said eventually. “I have to. There must be something I’ve missed.”

REBECCA MORTIMER WAS GETTING ready for bed when the doorbell to her apartment rang.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me.” Jeff Stevens’s gruff, gravelly voice on the other side of the door made her heart skip a beat. “Sorry to come by so late. It’s important.”

Rebecca opened the door.

“Jeff! What a lovely surprise.”

“Can I come in?”

“Of course.”

He followed her into a living room littered with half-drunk cups of coffee and books on Celtic manuscripts. Rebecca’s hair was wet from the shower and the nightshirt she was wearing clung in places to her still-damp skin. Jeff tried not to notice the way it rode up when she sat down on the sofa, exposing the smooth, supple skin of her upper thighs.

“The disk you gave me,” said Jeff. “The footage of Tracy with McBride. Where did you get it?”

For a moment Rebecca looked nonplussed. Then she said, “Does it matter?”