Gone, Baby, Gone Brooklyn
Gone, Baby, Gone
Brooklyn
They put me in a cold, white room with a rectangular metal table and four silver metal chairs.
It couldn’t be less inviting. Through what must be a two-way mirror, I can see the kids in the room next door, abandoning their cards in favor of some random board game TSA has scrounged up.
They’re being troupers; I honestly couldn’t be prouder.
I, on the other hand, am absolutely coming apart at the seams. I’m openly shivering, and not just because the room is freezing.
They confiscated my bag when we got here.
I should have grabbed my heavier sweater before they did.
Not that it would help. Most of the chill I’m feeling is internal.
Still, I slide the thin gray cashmere over my arms and pretend it helps.
My mind is a jumbled mess. I need to get it together, fast. But nothing about what’s happening makes any sense.
Why would Trey leave us? Why would he tell us to get on the plane?
Something has happened to him, something terrible.
I know it in my soul. And I don’t know how I’m going to go forward without him.
I just want to find my husband. Sitting in this room is not helping.
I go to the door and bang on it. No one responds. I bang again, shout. Nothing.
Don’t panic. Don’t freak out.
You’ve done nothing wrong. You’re not under arrest. You can see the kids. Everyone is okay.
They have to let me go. I have to find him. And I have to hold it together long enough to make that happen. I’m going to kill him for scaring me like this.
I immediately sober. I shouldn’t have said that.
The chief finally comes back and interrupts my spiral with an offering: a steaming-hot paper cup of coffee. He dumps creamers and a variety of colored packets of sugars and substitutes on the table. “I didn’t know what you liked.”
“I appreciate it.” I doctor the dark brew with cream and stevia, and take a deep sip. The jolt of caffeine helps steady my nerves. And it is blissfully warm, unlike everything else in this godforsaken place.
A few more uniformed officers from Atlanta PD and TSA join us and stand against the walls, and the chief sits across from me. His salt-and-pepper hair is shiny, his ice-blue tie is in a perfect Windsor knot, and his voice has a tinge of a Southern accent.
“Mrs. Locke. I need to show you something.”
He puts a laptop on the table. I recognize an aerial view of the gate—this is the security footage. It looks like we were standing right in front of a camera; it shows me and the kids from the back. Trey is facing the camera. His face is creased with worry.
“This is your husband?”
“That’s him, yes.”
Matheson nods, and the view changes. I watch, growing more and more confused, as Trey walks to the bathroom, goes in, then, less than a minute later, exits.
Instead of turning back toward the gate, he moves to the escalator.
His backpack is on his shoulder; he seems relaxed and calm.
The view shifts: Now he’s going down the escalator, looking straight ahead.
Another view: He steps onto the train. Another: He rides in silence, holding the bar above his head.
Up another escalator, he disappears into a crowd of people.
A new camera angle, this one from the baggage check-in area: He emerges from the terminal, passes the TSA checkpoint, and walks out the door.
He leaves.
My God, he actually leaves the terminal.
The last video shot is of Trey standing on the curb, and I’m able to hold it together until I see him cast one glance back at the airport doors with sorrow written across his features, so clearly agonized that tears spring to my eyes.
Then he steps into the back of a black SUV and is gone.
Matheson closes the laptop. “There was a rideshare sticker in the back window of the SUV. We’ve asked the Atlanta Metro Police to see if they can nail down the company that provided the car and talk to the driver, ascertain where he was dropped off.
But seeing as Mr. Locke has not committed a crime . . .”
I barely hear him. Is this the last time I’m going to see my husband’s face? Has Trey left us for good? I glance through the window at the kids. They deserve better. They deserve more. How in the world do I explain that their dad has abandoned them? Abandoned me?
“This isn’t possible. This isn’t happening.”
“Unfortunately, ma’am, it is. Does he know anyone in Atlanta?”
“No. Definitely not.”
“And you say the trip was a surprise?”
“Yes, it was last minute. And as I told you earlier, there’s no reason in the world for us to be here at all.
The first leg of the trip was to London, but we were bumped.
This makes absolutely no sense. Why would he leave the terminal just before we’re to board the flight? Why is he not answering his phone?”
Matheson’s brow rises. “We don’t know. And unfortunately, there’s nothing illegal about what he did. Strange, yes, I will admit. But people leave marriages all the time.”
The words hit like an arrow, and I stiffen in the seat involuntarily.
He taps the table with his blunt finger. “I know this must be a shock. I know you’re struggling here. But unfortunately, right now, there’s nothing more we can do.”
My temper flares, and I bite my lip. Common sense tells me not to shout, but I am under duress, damn it.
“What the hell am I supposed to do, then? Wait here for him to return? Or what, just fly back home and hope he shows up? Fly to Italy and see if he magically appears at the hotel?”
There is a knock at the door. Matheson says, “Enter,” and a TSA agent steps in. He hands his boss a cell phone.
“We found it in the trash by the E-terminal escalator.”
Matheson takes it and hits the button. The screen lights up, and I see the family portrait we had done for Christmas last year—four smiles and the wagging tail of the dog. There are a number of notifications. Oh my God.
“This is your husband’s phone?” Matheson asks.
“Obviously,” I whisper. My heart is gone, dead, not beating. He trashed his phone. He doesn’t want to be found.
Now I’m really getting scared.
“Do you know his passcode?”
“I’m on his Face ID list.” I take the phone and swipe it open, waiting for it to recognize me.
Nothing. The phone stays locked. I try again.
It prompts for the passcode, and I enter the numbers we share on all of our accounts—phones, subscriptions, bank account PINs, everything. That, too, doesn’t work.
He’s wiped me from his system and locked me out of his phone. What the hell?
The officers start shuffling around. Matheson smiles sadly. “I’m afraid there’s nothing more we can do. You can try contacting the Atlanta police to see if they’d consider him a missing person. They’ll have our report. But since he left of his own accord, that’s going to be a hard sell.”
He stands, and I force myself to follow suit. I choke out the words, “Thank you for your help.”
“If you’d like to leave your contact details, we will certainly call you if any new information arises.”
Hand shaking, I write down my email and phone number, Matheson gives me his card, and that’s it. The interview is over. I am free to leave. And go where? I have no idea.
The kids are scared and quiet. They know something momentous has happened.
We are escorted from the secure area. Eden signals that she’ll be a minute and peels off to talk to Matheson.
The checked bag is waiting; they’ve pulled it off the plane. Four still has Trey’s carry-on, and I kneel to hug him. “It’s okay, baby. We’re going to sit in these chairs for a bit while Mommy calls Aunt Margot, okay?”
“Where’s Daddy?”
“Daddy had to run an errand.”
“So, no Italy trip?” Neve chimes in.
“Not today, babies.”
She twirls in a perfect circle. “Yay, let’s go home! I can dance in the recital, Mommy. They said they’d save my spot, just in case.”
“Maybe, honey. I need to think, okay? Give me a second.”
Four takes my hand. “Miss Eden said we could stay here and play if you need to make some calls.”
Eden comes through the door just as he finishes. She smiles, wide like a crocodile. Her dentition is imperfect, her front incisors jut forward a bit, making her face lupine, but charming.
“Hi there. Totally can.”
“I’m sure you have someplace to be that’s not here.”
“I actually live in Atlanta, quite nearby. I’m happy to stick around while you get situated. And I’d love to talk to you some more. I’m so sorry about all of this. I hope I didn’t cause an issue.”
I would never normally allow a stranger this much access to my kids, especially one who claims to know my husband, but we’re in uncharted territory. I’m desperate, and I could use the help, that’s for sure. And I want to find out how she knew Trey’s real name.
“I’m sure it wasn’t you. But yes, if you can keep an eye on them, just for another half an hour or so? I’m sure you’re tired and want to get home.”
“No problem. Do what you need. I’ll take them back into the secure area again so you don’t have to worry. Just have someone ask for me when you finish.”
“Thank you, Eden.” I kiss each baby on the forehead and again tell Four he’s in charge, and Eden leads them back through the door. Neve does several pirouettes for her, and she claps appreciatively.
With a sigh, I take Trey’s carry-on to the seats across from the secure area and plop down.
He packed his own bag, but I know what’s inside.
Merino-wool shirts, pants, shoes, boxers, his Dopp kit.
He’s a simple guy, unfussy about most everything.
I’m an expert in packing light, even when it’s going to be chilly, and thankfully, he listened to my suggestions.
No reason to take a ton overseas; you can do laundry cheaply every few days.
I unzip the bag and start pawing through it, touching everything, the built-in zipper areas first, then slower through his clothes, toiletries .
. . nothing is unusual. Everything smells like him, a mixture of cedar and lime that is the base for his cologne.
The pockets of his pants hold nothing unusual.
The tracker is still in place inside the suitcase’s lining, as is the cell phone he got at the AT it’s one of the rare things we don’t have in common.
I prefer classical. I played violin in the orchestra in school and once thought of going professional with it.
Then my parents gave me a camera, and that was that.
Trey likes screamy heavy metal that sounds like the singers’ vocal cords will shred and burst at any moment.
Damn it, I need to get into his phone.
This line of thought exhausted, I do the only logical thing. I call my sister, still watching the doors hopefully as if I can conjure Trey to appear.