He had his back to her, fiddling one-handed with the sponge. “I’d rather speak to you. You’ve met her.”

Let it go, Wild. If you think it’s got legs, you can pass it on yourself.

Adam was right. For now, she would listen.

Garrick talked her through his wife’s disappearing act. The empty glass on the patio. The lack of note. His assumption that she had been asleep in the spare room with the door shut when he’d left for his interview at the crack of dawn.

“Phone?” said Wildeve.

“It’s off. I can’t find it.”

“You’ve tried friends and family?”

“Yes, no sign of her.”

“Purse, house keys?”

“In her handbag.”

Wildeve inspected her bitten nails before looking up at him. For an adult without ongoing mental health issues, in the absence of a suicide note, without any other indicators of harm, Olivia Lockwood fell under the umbrella of low risk. She’d been gone only a few hours. Not long enough to panic. But what elevated this case was the nine-year-old boy. Few women willingly walked out on their responsibilities without some kind of explanation. But the father seemed invested, so it wasn’t a social services job. Not yet.

“Mr. Lockwood?” She met his gaze. His reaction was important. So many husbands were behind the disappearances of their wives. This wasn’t a formal interview. No caution given. No record taken. Technically, she wasn’t on duty. But it would help her decide what to do next.

“I know this is a difficult question, but do you have any reason to suspect she might be with someone she doesn’t want you to know about?”

A flicker in his eyes. He was drying the plate with a tea towel and kept rubbing the same spot.

“Mr. Lockwood?”

He turned to her and she saw his despair. “It’s possible.”

“Tell me everything,” she said.

* * *

His name was Orson Heller. He was four years younger than Olivia, and they’d worked at the same advertising agency in Manchester.

Late nights working on pitches with tight deadlines had turned into drinks had turned into a sixteen-month affair.

“How did you find out?” Wildeve felt the pull of pity.

“Same old story.” He placed two mugs of coffee on the table and sat down opposite her. “She’d left her phone on the armrest when she went to answer the front door. I picked it up to check the time because I was supposed to be collecting Evan from soccer.” He sighed. “A message popped up. It was clear they’d fu—” His son clattered into the kitchen, helped himself to a biscuit, and left again. “Slept together.”

“Is it over?”

“So she says.”

“When did it end?”

“About six months ago.”

To Wildeve, a complex equation of emotion was written across his face. Concern, warmth, a sense of holding himself at arm’s length.

“But you’re still together—?”