“We noticed that either you or your wife slept on the sofa last night,” Detective Montrose says.

His tone feels accusatory. Or maybe I’m imagining it. I don’t know. I’ve never been the husband of a missing wife. I push back because I know they are blaming me for what happened. I’ve seen crime shows on TV. Cops always blame the husband.

“Really?” I strain to keep my cool but fail. “That’s what you’re saying to me? What the fuck? So what! I slept there because Sophie’s been battling a cold. We almost canceled this trip because of it. What are you trying to put out there? That we had a fight or something?”

“We’re just asking,” Lee says. “We have to ask.”

“Fine,” I answer, my lips taut over my teeth. It’s a physiological reaction. I cannot control it. “What are you actually doing to find her?” I ask, fighting hard for composure. “She’s not here. You can see that. Some sick fuck took her. Why aren’t you going door-to-door or searching every goddamn ditch between here and Potlatch?”

“We’ve already sent out a statewide BOLO for your wife,” Montrose says. “But we don’t have much other than her driver’s license picture from the DOL database. We don’t know if the man took her on foot or in a car. Or a truck. There’s not a lot for anyone to go on.”

“Adam,” Lee says, “honestly, my partner is right. We don’t have much to go on. Your description from a hundred yards out without glasses gives us only an idea about who we’re looking for. Red jacket. Hat of some kind, according to another witness. Average height and weight.”

“That’s the best I can do,” I say.

“Right,” she says. “I know.”

I’m counting on the police to believe me, but I know from watching TV and reading the paper that you become a target as soon as you report that your wife has died or is missing. Sympathy erodes in five minutes and turns to suspicion, and then accusations fly. First they are quiet. Murmurs of those who have no real standing. Then a trickle that turns into a tidal wave. I didn’t consider that any of that could ever happen to me. I never considered until that very moment that my wife would be missing.

“Did you hear anything unusual last night?” Detective Montrose raises his pen to pad, waits for my answer.

“I would have told you if I had.”

“Around two? Very late.” This time it’s Lee who is speaking.

“No. Nothing. Lee, why are you treating me like this?” I hold her gaze, unblinking. “You know me. You’re asking me questions like you don’t believe anything I’ve said.”

Lee swallows. Her pale white skin blushes a little. She used to turn red when I teased her when we were kids. The color is pink, not red. But there’s color there. Good. I feel like shit. In fact, there are plenty of bad feelings to go around at the moment. They aren’t focusing on what’s happened to Sophie.