“Suzanne Hope,” Adam said.

“You have her phone number?”

“Yeah, Andy found it for me online.”

“Okay. How far away does she live?”

“Probably a twenty-minute drive.”

“Give me the number.” Rinksy stuck out his hand and wiggled his fingers. “I’ll show you a clever little cop technique you can use, but I’d appreciate it if you kept it to yourself.”

Adam handed him the phone. Rinsky lowered his reading glasses back down his nose, picked up the kind of black telephone Adam hadn’t seen since his childhood, and dialed the number. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I got a block on my caller ID.” Two rings later, a woman’s voice answered. “Hello?”

“Suzanne Hope?”

“Who’s asking?”

“I work for the Acme Chimney Cleaning Service—”

“Not interested, take me off your list.”

Click.

Rinsky shrugged and smiled. “She’s home.”

Chapter 23

The drive took exactly twenty minutes.

Adam pulled up to one of those sad garden apartment complexes of monotonous brick that catered to young couples saving up to buy a first home and divorced dads who were broke and/or wanted to stay near the kids. He found apartment 9B and knocked on the door.

“Who is it?”

It was a woman’s voice. She hadn’t opened the door.

“Suzanne Hope?”

“What do you want?”

He actually hadn’t planned for this. For some strange reason, he had figured that she’d open the door and invite him in and then he could explain his reason for coming here, even though he still wasn’t sure what that reason was. Suzanne Hope was a potential thin thread, a tenuous connection to what had led Corinne to run off. Maybe he could gently pull on the thread and, to mix metaphors, learn something.

“My name is Adam Price,” he said to the closed door. “My wife is Corinne.”

Silence.

“Do you remember her? Corinne Price?”

“She’s not here,” the voice he assumed was Suzanne Hope’s said.

“I didn’t think she was,” he replied, though now that he thought about it, perhaps he had held out the smallest unspoken hope that finding Corinne would be that easy.

“What do you want?”

“Can we talk a second?”

“What about?”

“About Corinne.”

“This isn’t my business.”

Shouting through a door felt distant, of course, but Suzanne Hope was clearly not yet comfortable opening it. He didn’t want to push it and lose her completely. “What’s not your business?” he asked.

“You and Corinne. Whatever troubles you’re having.”

“What makes you think we’re having troubles?”

“Why else would you be here?”

Why indeed. Score one for Suzanne Hope. “Do you know where Corinne is?”

Down the concrete path and to the right, a postal worker eyed Adam with suspicion. Not surprising. He had thought about the divorced dads who show up here, but of course there were divorced moms too. Adam tried to nod at the postal worker to show him that he meant no harm, but that didn’t seem to help.

“Why would I know?” the voice asked.

“She’s missing,” Adam said. “I’m trying to find her.”

Several seconds passed. Adam took a step back and kept his hands at his sides, trying to look as unthreatening as possible. Eventually, the door opened a crack. The chain was still in place, but now he could see a sliver of Suzanne Hope’s face. He still wanted to come inside and sit down, talk to her face-to-face, engage, disarm, distract, whatever it would take. But if a chain made Suzanne Hope feel safe, then so be it.

“When was the last time you saw Corinne?” he asked her.

“A long time ago.”

“How long?”

Adam saw her eyes look up to the right. He didn’t necessarily buy the idea that you could tell lies by the way the eyes move, but he did know that when someone’s eyes look up and to the right, it usually indicated that the person was visually remembering things, as opposed to the left, which meant visually constructing things. Of course, like most generalizations, you couldn’t really count on it, and visually constructing did not mean lying. If you asked someone to think of a purple cow, that would lead to visual construction, which isn’t a lie or deception.

Either way, he didn’t think she was lying.

“Maybe two, three years ago.”

“Where?”

“It was a Starbucks.”

“So you haven’t seen her since . . .”

“Since the time she figured out I was lying about being pregnant,” she finished for him. “That’s right.”

Adam hadn’t expected that answer. “No phone calls?”

“No phone calls, no e-mails, no letters, nothing. I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

The postal worker kept moving, kept delivering the mail, kept eyeing Adam. Adam put his hands to his eyes to shade the sun. “Corinne followed your lead, you know.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“You know what I mean.”

Through the crack in the door, he could see Suzanne Hope nod. “She did ask me a lot of questions.”

“What kind of questions?”

“Where did I buy the prosthetic belly, how did I get the sonogram pictures, stuff like that.”

“So you directed her to Fake-A-Pregnancy.com.”

Suzanne Hope put her left hand against the frame of the door. “I didn’t ‘direct’ her anywhere.” Her voice had a little snap in it now.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Corinne asked, and I told her about it. That’s all. But yeah, she was almost too curious. Like we were kindred spirits.”

“I’m not following.”

“I thought she’d judge me. I mean, most people would, right? Who could blame them? Weird lady pretending she’s pregnant. But it was like we were kindred spirits. She got me right away.”

Wonderful, Adam thought, but he kept the sarcasm to himself. “If I may be so bold,” he said slowly, “how much did you lie to my wife?”

“What do you mean?”

“For one thing”—he pointed to the hand on the doorframe—“there’s no wedding band on your finger.”

“Wow, aren’t you a real-life Sherlock?”

“Were you even married?”

“Yes.”

He could hear the regret in her voice, and for a moment, he thought she would slip that hand back inside and slam the door shut.

“I’m sorry,” Adam said. “I didn’t mean—”

“It was his fault, you know.”

“What was?”

“That we couldn’t have kids. So you’d think Harold would have been more sympathetic, right? He was the one with the low sperm count. Shooting blanks. Bad swimmers. I never blamed him. It was his fault, but it wasn’t his fault, if you know what I mean.”

“I do,” he said. “So you’ve never really been pregnant?”

“Never,” she said, and he could hear the devastation in her voice.

“You told Corinne you had a stillborn.”

“I thought maybe she’d understand better if I said that. Or, well, not understand. Just the opposite, really. That she would sympathize anyway. But I wanted to be pregnant so badly, and maybe that was my fault. Harold saw that. It made him withdraw. Maybe. Or maybe he never really loved me. I don’t know anymore. But I always wanted kids. Even as a little girl, I wanted a big family. My sister Sarah, who swore she’d never have any, well, she has three. And I remember how happy she was when she was pregnant. How she glowed. I guess I just wanted to see what it was like. Sarah said being pregnant made her feel like somebody important, everyone always asking when the baby was due and wishing her luck and all that. So one day, I did it.”

“Pretended you were pregnant?”

Suzanne nodded in the doorframe. “As a gag, really. Just to see what it would be like. And Sarah was right. People held doors for me. They wanted to carry my groceries or give me their parking spot. They asked me how I was doing and really seemed to care about the answer. People get hooked on drugs, right? They get hooked on highs, and I read it’s all because of some dopamine release. Well, that’s what this did. It was a dopamine release for me.”