His Missing Wife by Jaime Hendricks (nice books to read .TXT) 📕

if it was the bluish lights in the room, but he looked absolutely yellow. Jaundiced.

Daffodil.

He didn’t realize his eyes were closed until the creak of the drawer opening made his eyes go wide as the toe tag became visible. Then the plastic that was wrapped around the body. There was no way this could be Tessa! She’s not dead, in a bag. She’s at a design convention that he forgot about. That’s it! That had to be it. Please, let that be it. He relaxed as the drawer came closer to his body. It’s not her. Without warning, George yanked the cover open to reveal the person’s face. He understood why they needed an identification. The woman was cut up beyond belief.

At first sight, James almost fainted. His fingers gripped the edge of the slab with white-knuckled rage.

He hadn’t seen rings around a woman’s neck that dark since the night he met Tessa. Were they dark because her face was so, so pale? Lifeless? Expressionless? Dead.

But—it wasn’t Tessa.

James felt so guilty when he was glad that the tortured and bloody woman in front of him on the table wasn’t her. He almost cried and hugged the strange dead body to apologize, and to thank her for not being Tessa. He couldn’t stand the thought of this being her. At that moment, the rage came back. He was going to find her, no matter what he had to do. She’d never end up wrapped in plastic and stuffed in a drawer.

“No.” It was all he could say.

Solomon looked at him, his forehead crinkled. “You’re saying this isn’t your wife, Mr. Montgomery?”

Was someone holding Tessa, doing this to her? Was there a serial slayer out there, kidnapping women and cutting them up? Did someone have Tessa, and were they inflicting pain? He’d give anything to trade places if that were the case. She’d been through enough and he couldn’t deal with the images swirling in his head. James’s mouth opened again, but this time the bile that had been storming in his stomach came rushing out in an instant, half on the plastic all over the floor. He didn’t care when it splattered on his pullover and his shoes. He wished it landed on Solomon. That jerk-off wasn’t doing a goddamn thing to help Tessa.

George grabbed a bottle of water from a nearby minifridge and handed it to James, whose face was drenched with sweat; it dripped into his eyes.

“No,” he said again quietly. “It’s not Tessa.”

Solomon raised his eyebrows. “She was found at the edge of town, by that park near Huntsville. A woman was jogging the long trail with their dog, and the dog went crazy. Pulled his owner right into the woods. There she was. Shot,” Solomon finished, matter-of-factly, almost disappointed it wasn’t Tessa.

Solomon had to know it wasn’t her before he called. The woman’s hair, matted and bloodied as it was, wasn’t even the same color or length. He brought James here to look at this body to fuck with him. Tell us where you hid your wife’s body, murderer!

The bag was zipped back up and the drawer was closed. Back to the refrigerator, Jane Doe. Just like that. Someone else’s problem. Solomon addressed him again. “Wait, Montgomery, didn’t you say you don’t own a firearm? But the neighbor still says you do?”

Solomon was trying to trip him up. Fucking Gwen. “I don’t have a firearm. This isn’t Tessa. Can you please tell me what you’re doing to find my wife?”

This woman wasn’t Tessa, but someone still had her. He tried to remember the last time he saw her. The morning he left for work, she was still in bed, not feeling well. She wore a ribbed tank top and yoga pants. Wait—was her robe on? Or was she just snuggled up under the comforter?

He couldn’t remember. And that killed him. The fact that he had to identify a body made this become all too real.

He internally berated himself for never pressing Tessa for details of her life—how could he go about finding her now? He had no idea where she grew up, who her siblings were, who her foster parents were. He didn’t know what her favorite subject was or why she didn’t drive.

All he knew was that he loved her, and he was going to find her. No matter what it cost him.

He’d saved her once. He was her knight in shining armor, so she always said. He’d failed her in the worst way. He couldn’t shake the feeling that she was screaming for him to save her as someone took her, and if he didn’t find her soon, that was going to haunt him for the rest of his life.

At least, until he made someone pay for taking her away from him.

25

Tessa

Walking down the block with two days’ worth of groceries, I treasure the end of the cul-de-sac where our new house is located. The house isn’t huge; it’s a three-bedroom, two-and-a-half-bath colonial, and it’s rather old. Built in the eighties, Sasha had said. But the location is perfect, less than two miles to the main part of town, and the changes we need to make are cosmetic. With my new design business, I can do it all. I’m almost finished with my project at Jupiter’s, so I can dedicate the entire next month to updating our space.

At the top of the driveway, I punch the code into the garage door opener—our anniversary, naturally—and load the groceries through the laundry room, whose opening is attached directly to the kitchen. I place the bags on the counter and put the vegetables and meats into our refrigerator. The kitchen is decent but will eventually need an update. The appliances are black and there’s a beige-and-black granite countertop with a black porcelain sink. The floor and backsplash tiles are a matching peach hue. I bet this was a dream kitchen in the nineties, which is when the last family moved in. They raised their kids here, grew old