“Yes.”
I ask for the hotel’s address, but he says, “You won’t find his car at the hotel. It’s been towed.”
“Towed where?”
Officer Boone tells me that after sitting in that hotel parking lot for over seven days untouched, the hotel called to have it towed, because the car wasn’t registered to any guests of the hotel.
“Why was Jake’s car at this hotel if he wasn’t a registered guest?”
“We don’t know. We’re looking into that, Mrs. Hayes. It’s possible he registered under a different name, but we’re not certain. I have an officer headed to the hotel now. We’ll be in touch once we know more.”
“Where is the car now?” I ask.
He tells me that Jake’s car was towed and impounded. He says that I can come claim it.
“Okay,” I say, asking where the car is impounded and the officer gives me an address, which I memorize until I can write it down. “I’ll be there this afternoon,” I say. “As soon as I can.”
Ryan is watching me as I end the call with Officer Boone. I come back down the hall, feeling overwhelmed, trying to make sense of this. Ryan comes toward me, meeting me in the middle, somewhere between the endless sea of blue lockers.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his head angled, his features open and soft.
I gaze up at him. I shake my head, breathless, searching for words. When I find them I say, “The police found Jake’s car.”
“What do you mean they found his car?”
There is so much I haven’t told Ryan. The last he knows is what I told him that afternoon in the school parking lot: that Jake left me. He doesn’t know what’s transpired since, because it’s all happening so fast. “There is a lot I haven’t told you,” I say, feeling guilty, though I don’t know why. I have no responsibility to tell Ryan what’s happening with Jake. Still, I think of the last time he and I really talked about Jake, standing in the parking lot the same day I discovered the tracking device on my car, with Ryan’s warm, tender hand on my elbow and him saying to me, Then he’s an idiot about Jake. “My husband didn’t leave me after all. I was wrong about that. Something has happened to him.”
His eyebrows pull together in concern. He tilts his head. “What do you mean something has happened to him?”
“I mean he’s missing. I’ve filed a missing person’s report with the police. The police are looking for him.”
“Oh my God, Nina. That’s terrible. Where was his car?” He reaches forward to give my shoulder a gentle squeeze. Ryan’s eyes are solicitous. They’re warm. He’s attentive, waiting quietly for me to speak, though my mind has gone to a dark place, thinking the worst if Jake has been separated from his car. Wherever he is, Jake has no money, no phone and now no car either.
“At a hotel in Bridgeview,” I say, hearing the subtle despair in my voice.
“Bridgeview?” he asks. “What was your husband doing at a hotel in Bridgeview?”
“I don’t know. The police say he wasn’t a registered guest, but that maybe he registered under a fake name.” I practically beg when I ask, “Why would someone do something like that, Ryan?”
He opens his mouth to say something. But before he can speak, my classroom gets loud again. Maybe it’s better that way. I don’t know that I want to know the answer anyway, that Jake met somebody at this hotel. I throw a glance over my shoulder toward the open door. My student teacher is in there with my class, but any attempts he’s made to quiet them are futile.
“I should go,” I say.
I feel Ryan’s hand come down on my arm, stopping me. “Do you need a ride?” he volunteers before I can leave.
“To the auto pound?”
“Yes.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I have my car. I can drive myself.”
Gently, he reminds me, “You won’t be able to drive both cars back, Nina, once you pick up your husband’s. Let me take you.”
“Oh.” My eyes lower. “I’m so stupid. I didn’t think of that.” I would have driven out to the auto pound only to realize I couldn’t get two cars back by myself.
“You’re not stupid. I’ll take you.”
“That’s sweet of you to offer. But no,” I say. “I can’t ask you to do that. I’ll just get an Uber.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll take you,” he says again, with some finality. “Those places can be sketchy.” I’m not worried about whether I’ll be safe. I’m just anxious to have Jake’s car back, but I realize there is no use arguing with him about it and so I acquiesce.
I say, “Okay. Thank you. I appreciate it.”
I get through the rest of the day, and then, at the end of it, Ryan follows me to my house in his car. I pull into the garage and he waits for me while I run inside to get Jake’s spare key fob from the box by the door. I call my mother and tell her I’ll be late but I don’t say why. I don’t want to worry her.
In Ryan’s car, I can barely sit still. I fidget with practically everything that comes within reach. He has the radio on and the music is quiet, calming, background noise. “Do you have everything you need to get the car?” he asks.
“I think so,” I say. “I have his key, proof of ownership and the vehicle’s VIN number. Can you think of anything I might be forgetting?”
“I don’t think so. You have your driver’s license?”
“Yes.”
“Everything is going to be okay, Nina,” he says, because he can see how worried I am. I appreciate it. Still, Ryan doesn’t know that for a fact. He doesn’t know that everything is going to be okay.
“I hope you’re right,” I say.
We’re quiet for a while. I don’t feel much like talking. I stare out the window, watching the world pass by. My mind is a million miles away, thinking about Jake and this hotel in Bridgeview. Why would Jake have gone there?
Ryan says, “I’m surprised you didn’t tell me what was happening with your husband sooner,” as he pulls onto the expressway and toward the auto pound. The auto pound sits just on the outskirts of the city, so that the closer we get, skyscrapers rise up in the distance like LEGO bricks, the street narrowing to a vanishing point.
His voice sounds almost hurt, and again, I feel guilty for not telling him.
I hear myself apologize. “I’m sorry, Ryan. It wasn’t anything intentional. I really thought Jake had left me. It’s only in the last few days that the situation changed.”
“What changed?” he asks.
“My mother thought she saw Jake at our home last Saturday. But she was wrong—it wasn’t Jake. Someone broke into my home, which is terrifying, but it also means that no one has laid eyes on Jake in two weeks. He isn’t using his phone or his credit cards, he hasn’t taken money from the bank. I don’t know what he’s doing for shelter, for food, or if he’s even alive.”
“Jesus,” he says. “Nina. I’m so sorry.” He glances sideways at me. “I wish you would have talked to me. I hate to think that you’ve been going through all this these last few days alone.”