Chapter 2 - The Missing Trail
-2-
Desperation drove Ryan scrambling back to his feet, his hands shaking so violently he could barely dial my number on his phone. The screen lit up with a generic dialing tone, but it went straight to voicemail after three rings. He tried again, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps, but the result was the same. He stumbled down the stairs, tripping over his own discarded luggage in the foyer, and rushed into the kitchen. Everything looked pristine, almost unnaturally so. The coffee maker was cold. The sink was empty. But as his frantic eyes swept across the kitchen island, he noticed something that made his heart skip another beat.
A coffee mug sat next to a half-empty carton of organic milk. It wasn't my mug—mine was a ceramic one with a hand-painted floral pattern that I used every morning. This was a heavy, industrial-sized travel mug bearing the logo of a local Denver pediatric clinic, one we had never visited. Next to it lay a crumpled receipt from a grocery store three blocks away, timestamped late Saturday afternoon—two days after Ryan had driven off to Aspen.
Someone had been in our house.
Ryan’s breath hitched in his throat. The panic of thinking we had died in solitude shifted into a terrifying paranoia. If our bodies weren't here, and someone else had been in the house, where were we? He rushed to the front door, flinging it open to look out onto the quiet suburban street. The morning sun was shining brightly over the manicured lawns of our upscale Denver neighborhood, indifferent to his inner turmoil. A mail carrier was walking down the sidewalk across the street, casually sorting letters.
Ryan bolted down the steps, ignoring his bare feet against the concrete. “Hey! Mailman! Wait!”
The middle-aged mail carrier stopped, looking up with mild irritation as Ryan sprinted toward him like a madman, his hair disheveled and his designer clothes rumpled.
“Did you see... did you see anyone leave my house over the last three days?” Ryan demanded, grabbing the mailman by the shoulder with a desperate grip. “My wife and my baby—where are they? Did an ambulance come?”
The mail carrier stepped back, frowning as he shrugged off Ryan’s hand. “Look, pal, I don't keep track of your family drama. But as a matter of fact, I did see someone at your house. Day before yesterday. A woman. She parked a silver SUV right in your driveway, walked right in using a key, and stayed for a good hour before she came out carrying a baby carrier and helping another woman—looked like she was having trouble walking—down the steps and into her car. Looked like a medical emergency, if you ask me. I figured you finally called a nurse for your wife since you’re always traveling.”
Ryan felt the ground drop out from beneath him. A silver SUV? Another woman? I had been alive when we left, walking or being helped out, but not by him. Not by anyone he knew.
“What woman?” Ryan pressed frantically, his voice cracking. “What did she look like? Did she say anything?”
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“I don't know her name, mister,” the mail carrier replied coldly, adjusting his mailbag. “She had short dark hair, wore a navy blue nursing scrub jacket, and drove off toward the highway. If your wife and kid are missing, maybe you should try calling the police instead of shaking down folks on the street.”
The mail carrier turned and walked away, leaving Ryan standing alone on the sidewalk, the morning breeze feeling like ice against his skin. The police. The word tasted like ash in his mouth. If he called 911, he would have to explain where he had been. He would have to explain why his ten-day-old postpartum wife was home alone while he was drinking whiskey on a luxury resort balcony in Aspen. He would become the prime suspect in whatever nightmare had just unfolded inside his own home. But as he looked back at the silent, empty house, he realized he had no other choice. His self-inflicted nightmare was only just beginning, and the secret of who had entered our home while he was partying was about to blow his entire world apart.
