Day One
Benny Abbott
The dogs breathe down our necks as Mallory negotiates the windy roads to my house.
She parks in my driveway, and we each take a leash.
Inside, I flip on my can lights and slowly lower the swag bag to the floor.
The place is immaculate—every surface gleaming, the air a bright punch of lemon and vinegar.
My house cleaner must have let herself out hours ago.
When I left this morning, I told her I’d be back before she was done.
I can barely comprehend that it’s the same day.
Richie, excited for a playdate in his own domain, springs across the furniture like the yellow bouncing ball in a sing-along video. Potsie, however, remains at my feet, watching me with probing eyes.
I bend down and kiss his head. “I wish you could talk.”
Mallory sighs.
When I stand, my eyes struggle to focus. I need food, and I need something for this headache. “Have you eaten?” I ask Mallory.
She holds out two shaking hands.
“Come on.” I lead her to the kitchen, where we both stop in our tracks.
“Bummer,” she says of the moonlit view outside my window.
I’d forgotten about the sideways tree. “Yeah.”
I pop some acetaminophen and feed the dogs as Mallory searches through my cupboards.
“You eat like a child,” she says. I’m tempted to remind her that her wife owns a cupcake shop, but I bite my tongue.
Mallory settles on a box of crackers, and I grab a block of cheese, and we take them to the sofa.
The dogs join us as soon as they’re done with their kibble, waiting at our feet for crumbs to drop.
“I keep thinking we must be missing some obvious explanation,” Mallory says mid-chew. “Have you told me everything? What else happened last night?”
My jaw dislodges as I debate whether or not to come clean. I’d hoped for more intel before admitting the rest, but maybe I’ve been going about this the wrong way. Maybe Mallory can help. I get up, return with the swag bag, and fish out the rose-gold computer.
“Did you take that from—is that—”
“Joy’s? Yes.”
Mallory raises her eyebrows.
“Don’t judge.” I open it up. “Joy wanted to record an episode, just the two of us.”
“An episode,” Mallory repeats.
“She wanted to issue a statement. That we were taking a break.” I hesitate, then add, “She wanted it done before Xander came home.”
“Because he would’ve talked her out of it,” she says. Not a question.
“I can’t say I’d blame him.” Joy and I have sat through our fair share of meetings with Apex Plus, but it’s Xander who’s put in the most time.
Hundreds of hours, likely. Not to mention the extortionate capital we’ve dropped on attorneys.
All that, and the deal is still only hanging by a thread.
“I kind of tried to talk her out of it too. It came out of nowhere. Like, we haven’t even finished the whale episode, and all of a sudden she wants a break? I was confused.”
“And she really didn’t explain?”
“No. I asked if it had something to do with the stalker. She said no. I asked if it had to do with negotiations. No. Health? No. She just said it was complicated and that was it.”
Mallory snaps a cracker in half and offers the pieces to the dogs. “Then what happened?”
“I backed off. I said if that was what she needed, then okay.”
“And then?”
“And then we started recording.” I’m already cringing at what horrible things might be on there if Joy didn’t get around to editing the episode. If I could give up a kidney to do last night over, I would. “And then she kicked me out.”
“Did you have a fight?”
“No. Maybe?” I can’t bring myself to look at Mallory’s face. “She changed her mind so fast. One minute she was telling me to sit down, the next she was saying she wanted to do it alone.”
“So you just left?” Her words are infused with disbelief. “Why didn’t you say any of this to the cops?”
My pulse is racing. I close the computer. It was a mistake to involve her.
“Hand it over.” She does the grabby motion with her fingers. When I don’t move, she does it again. “You want to find it before someone else does, right?”
I bite my lip. It’s like I’m staring straight at Xander when I meet her eyes. My shoulders drop. Joy isn’t the only one who’s missing. “But don’t go online,” I say. “In case—”
“They track it and realize you stole evidence?” She zips her lips with her fingers.
“I’ll give it back after,” I say, relinquishing the laptop.
She opens it, and we stare at the lock screen photo of Potsie’s squishy puppy face.
I told Joy a few weeks ago that her password was too easy to guess, and she looked at me like I was missing the point.
“It’s cute. I like to imagine Potsie and Richie and Fonzie all squished together holding hands on the Happy Days couch.
” When I returned a look that said she was obviously missing the point, she shook her head at me.
“It’s not like anyone can steal my computer anyway. I’m always home.”
The heavy irony of this exchange is not lost on me now as I key in potsierichiefonzie.
Before I can take my next breath Mallory has already disconnected the Wi-Fi.
She then turns off location services and hard restarts while I run to get my own computer.
A minute later, both laptops are up and running.
Fingers hovering over the touch pad, Mallory says, “How many hours ago would that have been?”
It’s 10:12 p.m. I do the math. “Twenty-seven.”
We start in the most obvious places. Mallory pulls up Joy’s Finder application, looking for files saved in the past twenty-eight hours, just to be safe.
She probes the hard drive, the trash, and everything else she can access offline.
Beside her, I scan each and every TSMSYL folder Joy has access to in the cloud.
The search comes up empty.
“Maybe she didn’t finish it,” Mallory says.
I’m not sure if this makes me feel better or worse. None of this makes any sense. I lean back on the sofa and stare at my hands. I scrubbed them raw at Joy’s house but the elimination-print ink refused to come off. “We should post something,” I say finally. “Ask our listeners for help.”
Mallory widens her eyes. “Keller said not to.”
“She said she didn’t recommend it.”
“Ostensibly for a reason.”
“She didn’t know what she was saying. She can’t possibly understand how much reach we have.”
Mallory rests her elbows on her thighs, hands clasped and head down as if in prayer. She’s thinking of Apex Plus, I’m sure. Uncertainty tugs at my gut, but just as quickly my resolve is back. “Screw negotiations. There’s no podcast if there’s no Joy.”
She lifts her head.
“We went to the police about Joy’s stalker, and they did nothing.
And now Joy and Xander are missing.” I see a response forming at Mallory’s lips, and I hold up a hand.
“Think about it. Joy was in no way obligated to tell our listeners she needed a break. She must have wanted to make that public for a reason.”
“But then she didn’t. She didn’t even let you stay. You don’t even know what she was gonna say.”
It stings to hear the truth repeated back at me, but I’m undeterred. “If the situation were reversed, if I were the one missing, I’m certain Joy would do the same. We have listeners everywhere. There has to be someone out there who knows something.”
In the end, Mallory gives in.
We move to my office, where I pull an old microphone and two sets of headphones from the closet. The dogs get bones to chew on in another room, and within minutes my laptop is set to record.
Our headphones go on.
Mallory sucks in a chestful of air and gives me the cue.
“This is Benny Abbott,” I say, before begging our listeners for help.
“IT’S UP,” MALLORY says, joining me in the living room. “I updated the website too.”
A rush of cold hard reality washes over me. “Socials?”
She nods.
Well. She sinks down onto the cushion beside me, then springs right back up to collect a bottle of wine, two glasses, and two more packets of crackers. I’ve just finished pouring when a loud knock startles us both. The dogs go nuts, barking and circling the room like the floor is on fire.
Mallory’s wife is through the door before it’s halfway open. “I can’t believe it!” Quinn’s voice is a sonic boom. “I can’t believe it.”
I’ve met Quinn maybe ten times in the past six months; every time, I have to do a double take in order to connect her average size with her enormous presence. Dropping her purse, she wraps Mallory in a tight hug.
“I see you, I see you,” she says to the dogs as they jump all over her. “You’re so big now.”
I get the next hug, after which she grabs hold of both my arms. She’s rocking plaid pedal pushers, and her jet-black hair is tied back with a scarf, exposing the words BITE ME in cursive script beside a pair of cherries on the nape of her neck.
Through smoky red lips, she whispers, “Tell me everything you know.”
We do. Ten minutes later, Quinn is shaking her head. “I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit.”
I don’t disagree. “Do you think there’s anything else we should be doing?”
Quinn turns to Mallory, ignoring me completely. A wordless communication passes between them; it stretches out for so long I begin to wonder if they can actually hear each other’s thoughts. Quinn lifts the wine bottle from the coffee table to check its contents. “Help me find another glass?”
“First cabinet,” I say, but Quinn is already dragging Mallory from the room.
They disappear, and I wait for Quinn’s booming voice to cut through. When it doesn’t, I start getting antsy. I’m missing something. Something strange is going on. After another silent minute, I tiptoe toward the kitchen, ready with an excuse about opening another bottle.
Halfway around the corner, I stop. Mallory is crying into Quinn’s shoulder. Quinn gives me a somber, closed-mouth smile as she strokes her wife’s hair.
Humbled, I retrace my steps and wake up Joy’s computer.
I can’t just sit around and eat crackers.
This time, I widen the focus to the past ten days.
There are a half dozen new files on the desktop, most relating to her research for last week’s episode on attic disasters.
Her Notes app shows two recent saves. First, a short to-do list: schedule haircut, dentist appointment, call someone re: gutters.
The second is a grocery list. All basic stuff.
There’s also a new folder, saved on the desktop two days ago, called XYZ. I open it. There are four files—three audio, one PDF. The audio files are raw tracks from our last three episodes. The PDF is also titled XYZ. I click on it, and a window pops up asking for a password.
“Huh,” I say aloud.
I key in potsierichiefonzie. Incorrect. I try a few other guesses: richiepotsiefonzie, different combinations of our names, her birthday, my birthday, our dogs’ birthday, Xander’s birthday. I even try the word password. All incorrect. There’s no way to see a preview.
I click on the recording of last week’s episode. Maybe Joy mentioned something that will strike me differently on a second listen. Some clue, some subtext that might provide further insight into her recent state of mind.
The opening is standard TSMSYL. I talk about how hot it is for the end of September, and Joy mentions her new whisper-quiet air-conditioning system. “Just listen to that.”
“I can’t hear anything.”
“Exactly.”
I scrub forward, knowing the next part is a deep dive into Halloween candy—dark versus milk chocolate, nut versus nougat—and then Joy sets up the day’s topic. “We’re going way back for this one. To the year 1999.”
“Time travel. I’m game.”
“You’re fourteen years old. It’s early January.
Holidays are over. Your parents are back at work, but you’re still on winter break.
You roll out of bed around ten, grab some leftover pizza from the fridge, and head straight for the living room.
You’ve got your heart set on a day of PlayStation, but there’s a note on the TV: DO NOT turn this on until you’ve returned ALL XMAS DECORATIONS to the attic! ”
Past Me groans. “Not the attic.”
Joy’s laugh is diabolical.
“That’s right. You do as your parents asked, and just as you’ve lugged your last box up there, the attic ladder snaps back into place.”
“Of course it does. I’ve seen this movie.”
“No matter what you try, the ladder doesn’t budge. And it’s cold. Your breath is coming out in big white clouds. You start ripping open dusty boxes in search of a blanket. And this is when you find yourself face-to-face with … a creepy doll.”
Past Me laughs.
“How do you get out before (a) Chucky comes to life, and (b) you freeze to death?”
I smile, remembering the look on her face when she said this—mischievous grin offset by one deep dimple, cheeks pink, bangs so long they were almost touching her lashes.
“Is my sister in the house?” Past Me asks. “Is she the one who locked me in the attic?”
I hit pause, realizing my mistake with a sinking stomach. My sister loves Joy. I can’t let her learn about this from anyone else.
By the time Quinn and Mallory return from the kitchen, I’ve got Sarah on speakerphone.
“How long have they been missing?” Sarah asks.
“I don’t know.” It’s the chorus of my life right now. “Could be twelve hours. Could be twenty-four.”
“What can I do? Tell me what to do. Do you need me to come out? I can move my patients around and be there tomorrow.”
I’m tempted, but her practice is only barely in the black. She can’t afford to fly out here just to hold my hand, and Sarah being Sarah, she wouldn’t let me reimburse her for it either. “You don’t have to do that.”
“This isn’t good, Benny. You need someone. I don’t want you to be alone.”
“He’s not alone,” Quinn says. “He’s got me and Mallory.”
I toss a grateful glance her way as my phone dings. We all look down at it.
“And Luna,” Mallory adds, still staring at my ex-wife’s message.
“Luna,” my sister echoes. “Did you say Luna?”
“She just texted.” I read it aloud in monotone: “What the hell, Benny? What’s going on? Do you need me to come over?”
Sarah blows out a soft whistle. “I didn’t know you guys were still talking.”
We’re not. Barely ever. I pinch the bridge of my nose. “She’s just worried about Joy.”
“God, that’s complicated. Are you going to write her back?”
“It would be weird not to.”
She hums in agreement and makes me promise to keep her in the loop. “I’ll jump on a plane the second you say go.”
I thank her, end the call, and bury my face in my hands.
“Um, Benny…” Quinn says.
When I look back up, Mallory is holding out her phone.
I squint at it, trying to understand what I’m seeing, and the blood rushes from my head.
We have 359 new messages on our website.