He had arrived ten minutes after her call on the non-emergency police line. Normally, the dispatcher told her, they would ask her to come in and fill out a report on her own. But it just so happened that Officer Daley was in the area, so he’d be able to swing by. Lucky her.

Daley took a letter-size sheet of paper and placed it out on the coffee table. He clicked his pen and started asking questions.

“The missing person’s name?”

“John Lawson. But he goes by Jack.”

He started down the list.

“Address and phone number?”

She gave them.

“Place of birth?”

“ Los Angeles, California.”

He asked his height, weight, eye and hair color, sex (yes, he actually asked). He asked if Jack had any scars, marks, or tattoos. He asked for a possible destination.

“I don’t know,” Grace said. “That’s why I called you.”

Officer Daley nodded. “I assume that your husband is over the age of emancipation?”

“Pardon?”

“He is over eighteen years old.”

“Yes.”

“That makes this harder.”

“Why?”

“We got new regulations on filling out a missing person report. It was just updated a couple weeks back.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

He gave a theatrical sigh. “See, in order to put someone in the computer, he needs to meet the criteria.” Daley pulled out another sheet of paper. “Is your husband disabled?”

“No.”

“Endangered?”

“What do you mean?”

Daley read from the sheet. “ ‘A person of age who is missing and in the company of another person under circumstances indicating that his/her physical safety is in danger.’ ”

“I don’t know. I told you. He left here last night…”

“Then that would be a no,” Daley said. He scanned down the sheet. “Number three. Involuntary. Like a kidnapping or abduction.”

“I don’t know.”

“Right. Number four. Catastrophe victim. Like in a fire or airplane crash.”

“No.”

“And the last category. Is he a juvenile? Well, we covered that already.” He put the sheet down. “That’s it. You can’t put the person into the system unless he fits in one of those categories.”

“So if someone goes missing like this, you do nothing?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way, ma’am.”

“How would you put it?”

“We have no evidence that there was any foul play. If we receive any, we will immediately upgrade the investigation.”

“So for now you do nothing?”

Daley put down the pen. He leaned forward, his forearms on his thighs. His breathing was heavy. “May I speak frankly, Mrs. Lawson?”

“Please.”

“Most of these cases-no, more than that, I’d say ninety-nine out of a hundred-the husband is just running around. There are marital problems. There is a mistress. The husband doesn’t want to be found.”

“That’s not the case here.”

He nodded. “And in ninety-nine out of a hundred cases, that’s what we hear from the wife.”

The patronizing tone was starting to piss her off. Grace hadn’t felt comfortable confiding in this youth. She’d held back, as if she feared telling the entire truth would be a betrayal. Plus, when you really thought about it, how would it sound?

Well, see, I found this weird photo from the Photomat in the middle of my pack from Apple Orchard, in Chester, right, and my husband said it wasn’t him and really, it’s hard to tell because the picture is old and then Jack left the house…

“Mrs. Lawson?”

“Yes.”

“Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

“I think so. That I’m hysterical. My husband ran off. I’m trying to use the police to drag him back. That sound about right?”

He remained unruffled. “You have to understand. We can’t fully investigate until we have some evidence that a crime has been committed. Those are the rules set up by the NCIC.” He pointed to the sheet of paper again and said in his gravest tone: “That’s the National Crime Information Center.”

She almost rolled her eyes.

“Even if we find your husband, we wouldn’t tell you where he was. This is a free country. He is of age. We can’t force him to come back.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“We could make a few calls, maybe make a few discreet inquiries.”

“Great.”

“I’ll need the vehicle make and license plate number.”

“It’s a Ford Windstar.”

“Color?”

“Dark blue.”

“Year?”

She didn’t remember.

“License plate?”

“It begins with an M.”

Officer Daley looked up. Grace felt like a moron.

“I have a copy of the registration upstairs,” she said. “I can check.”

“Do you use E-ZPass at tollbooths?”

“Yes.”

Officer Daley nodded and wrote that down. Grace headed upstairs and found the file. She made a copy with her scanner and gave it to Officer Daley. He wrote something down. He asked a few questions. She stuck with the facts: Jack had come home from work, helped put the children to bed, gone out, probably for groceries… and that was it.

After about five minutes, Daley seemed satisfied. He smiled and told her not to worry. She stared at him.

“We’ll check back with you in a few hours. If we hear nothing by then, let’s talk some more.”

He left. Grace tried Jack’s office again. Still no answer. She checked the clock. It was nearly 10 A.M. The Photomat would be opening now. Good.

She had some questions for Josh the Fuzz Pellet.

Charlaine Swain slipped on her new online lingerie purchase-a Regal Lace babydoll with matching G-string-and pulled up her bedroom shade.

Something was wrong.

The day was Tuesday. The time was 10:30 A.M. Charlaine’s children were at school. Her husband Mike would be at his desk in the city, the phone wedged between shoulder and ear, his fingers busy rolling and unrolling his shirtsleeves, his collar tighter by the day but his ego too proud to admit the need for a bigger size.

Her neighbor, the scuzzy creepazoid named Freddy Sykes, should be home by now.

Charlaine glanced toward the mirror. She didn’t do that often. There was no need to remind herself that she was over forty. The image that stared back was still shapely, she guessed, helped no doubt by the babydoll’s underwired support-but what had once been considered buxom and curvaceous had weakened and loosened. Oh, Charlaine worked out. There was yoga class-yoga being this year’s Tae Bo or Step-three mornings a week. She stayed fit, battling against the obvious and unbeatable, holding tight even as it slipped away.

What had happened to her?

Forget the physical for a second. The young Charlaine Swain had been a bundle of energy. She had zest for life. She was ambitious and a go-getter. Everyone said it. There was always a spark with Charlaine, a crackle in the air, and somewhere, somehow, life-just plain living-had extinguished it.

Were the children to blame? Was it Mike? There was a time when he couldn’t get enough of her, when an outfit like this would make his eyes widen and his mouth water. Now when she strutted by, he would barely look up.

When had that started?

She couldn’t put her finger on it. She knew the process had been gradual, the change so slow as to be almost indiscernible, until, alas, it was a fait accompli. It hadn’t all been his fault. She knew that. Her drive had waned, especially during the years of pregnancies, post-natal nursing, the ensuing exhaustion of infants. That was natural, she supposed. Everyone went through that. Still she wished that she had made more of an effort before the temporary changes hardened into something apathetic and enduring.

The memories, however, were still there. Mike used to romance her. He used to surprise her. He used to lust after her. He used to-and yes, this might sound crude-jump her bones. Now what he wanted was efficiency, something mechanical and precise-the dark, a grunt, a release, sleep.