THE PERFECT CRIME

Chapter 2

SIX MONTHS LATER

THE BUZZING OF the phone lying on the table was what woke Bellamy. He yawned, wiped his face, and ran a hand through his bedhead. It was only when he looked up that he realized he wasn’t in his bedroom. The laptop he’d used to Google search missing people yesterday was on top of his torso. His finger jabbed a button. The light from the screen immediately came on and he squinted. Where do missing people go? The topic of an article written by a private detective he’d been following and listening to his podcasts ever since Anne disappeared was boldly pasted on the screen.

His eyes scanned the words and the painful memories returned with such force that was capable of knocking him out. He’d thought the two bottles of vodka he’d downed last night would be massive enough to take away his problem. He’d been wrong. Worse, he was having the biggest hangover of his life. That was the problem with alcohol; it never solved the problem.

He didn’t drink that much, but he had resorted to it after Anne disappeared and the police thought her trails had gone cold. There was literally nothing they could do. They’d given up on her. She’d become a memory. But he hadn’t given up. He’d find her, even if it meant turning every stone on earth.

Screw the police. They never did anything anyway.

After Anne had left that night, he’d gotten a strong compulsion he hadn’t had before. His instincts had told him she was hiding something from him. She’d been elusive during their conversation. She had avoided eye contact. She’d been uncomfortable by his side. She was in a hurry to leave. It didn’t feel like Anne.

Bellamy had seen all these signs, but yet he let her go all by herself that night. Maybe if he had insisted on driving her home, Anne would still be here by now. They would have been happily married and perhaps expecting their first child. Bellamy had talked about having many kids when they got married.

He would have woken up this morning with Anne sleeping beside him, saying nice things like, Morning sunshine. How are you? but instead, he’d woken up on the couch in the living room, his laptop staring blankly at his face, and the bottles of vodka from last night sitting on the floor. This was his fault. Anne was gone because of him. He didn’t try hard enough to protect her.

He had to get up, take a bath, and start the day, but he didn’t want to. Did any of that matter when his source of strength was gone? Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to put all his strength into Anne because now that she was gone, he couldn’t do anything.

Sighing, he picked up the laptop, sat up, and deposited it on the table by the ceramic flower vase. The sun was up and rays of it splintered into the room, casting hues on the wall. He rose and passed across the spacious living room, climbing a spiral staircase upstairs where he used the bathroom. He threw up into the sink and rested his hands on the rim.

The mirror above the tap had the reflection of a depressed man, not the Bellamy six months ago. He hadn’t been the same and it showed from every aspect of his life. He was dead without her. It would have been easier to move on if he knew what had become of Anne. He’d read a dozen papers of strange disappearances. Watched reality shows about people vanishing without a trace. Some showed up years later and were completely different. Others never did and they were forgotten just like that. He wouldn’t forget Anne. He couldn’t.

He splashed water across his face, letting the coldness soothe his skin, the pains gradually subsiding. If it was possible to wash pains away, he’d have submerged himself in the sea. He brushed his teeth, opened the medicine cabinet, and picked up the capsules he had been abusing. He popped two into his mouth and drank from the tap water.