Three Days Missing: A nail-biting psychological thriller with a killer twist!

I swipe a hand over Sam’s side of the mattress, running my fingers along sheets that have long gone cool. Once upon a time, Sam and I stayed tangled in the sheets until noon. Granted, that time was pre-Sammy, pre–Sam throwing his hat in the ring for mayor, which he won in a surprise landslide, but still. I sure do miss those days.

I’m about to hit the switch for the blackout shades when the bedroom door opens and Sam steps in. He’s cradling something in a hand, his former-football-player silhouette lit up from behind with the hallway’s golden glow. He sneaks into the room in pajama pants and bare feet, the distinct sound of porcelain clunking in a hand. Sam curses under his breath.

“It’s fine. I’m awake.”

I flip on a lamp, and the shadows in the bedroom take shape. The sandalwood dresser on the far wall. The tufted chaise by the floor-to-ceiling window. Sam, approaching the bed with two steaming mugs of coffee in one hand. The scent hits me and so does his smile—warm, wholehearted, seductive.

He shifts one of the mugs to his free hand and hands it to me. “Extra strong, with the tiniest splash of coconut milk.”

As perfect an example as any of why Sam was elected mayor—his ability to give you exactly what you want before you even know you want it. The first sip provides a welcome and instant zing, like a tuning fork to the bloodstream.

“I’ll admit to being annoyed when I woke up alone, but you are officially forgiven. This is perfect, thank you.”

“So I’ve been thinking...” he says, sinking on the bed by my feet. He drapes a palm over my foot. “Why don’t we rent some bikes and ride the BeltLine? We could grab lunch at Ponce City Market and cupcakes at Saint-Germain, then spend the rest of the afternoon doing a pub crawl. It’s supposed to be a gorgeous day, not too hot. What do you say?”

“I thought today was supposed to be just you and me.”

It’s the only thing I asked for. A day without obligations. Without appointments and voter polls and mile-long to-do lists. After four years of craziness—and with the next four looming—I don’t think it’s too much to ask for. All I want is a day—a whole, glorious day—just us two.

“You, me, sunshine and cocktails,” Sam says. “What’s not to love?”

“The thousands of constituents who will recognize you, all of whom will want to slap you on the back and take a selfie to post to their social media, alerting everybody in the entire state of Georgia where to find us. That’s what’s not to love. And I know you. You’d never tell anyone to take a hike, not when it might cost you a vote. Our day won’t belong to us at all.”

Sam concedes the point with a shrug. “Okay, then. What would you like do?”

“What’s wrong with what we’re doing now?”

“Not a thing.” He pauses, feigning confusion. “What exactly are we doing?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

Sam’s brow folds in a frown. My husband lives life by the two-birds, one-stone concept. Doing nothing is something he has a hard time wrapping his head around—which is exactly why he needs it so badly.

“What about the cupcakes?” he says.

“That’s what DoorDash is for.”

“So you’re suggesting we just...do what exactly?”

“Lie around the house in our pajamas all day. Read the paper and eat crackers in bed. Do nothing and not get dressed, except to maybe float around the pool on a blow-up. Ignore everyone and everything except each other. Come on, tell the truth. Doesn’t that sound delicious?”

“I’m intrigued.” He swipes the coffee cup from my hand and settles it onto the nightstand next to his, then plants both hands on either side of my knees. “Tell me more about this not getting dressed business.”

It’s times like these that remind me how much I love my husband, why I gave up everything to move here and live this life. Samuel Joseph Huntington IV is smart and funny and handsome and charmed and charming. If he didn’t have this bone-deep need to serve, if he didn’t work day and night to prove to millions of Atlantans he’s never met that he’s worthy of their vote, he’d be damn near perfect.

Sam leans in for a kiss, right as his phone buzzes from the pocket of his pajama pants. I know before I see the screen who it is. Sam’s chief of staff is like a jealous mistress, intruding into our lives at the worst possible time and tempting my husband with the longings of needy constituents.

However, it’s not Josh on the phone but Brittany, his communications director. Sam hits Ignore, then tosses the phone on the bed. Almost immediately, it buzzes from between the sheets. This time when he reaches for it, he powers it down and drops it in the nightstand drawer.

“See?” he says with a proud grin. “I can tell people to take a hike when I want to.”

“Pushing an employee to voice mail is not exactly telling her to take a hike, but you do get points for trying.”

He crawls over me, moving up the soft, messy sheets. “How many points?” he whispers, his breath hot on my neck. “What do I win?”

“Me.” My arms wind around his waist, my body pressing into his, long and lean, my mouth craning up for his. “You win me.”

I wrap my legs around him and we are instantly coiled, our bodies fitting together like two pieces of the same puzzle.

He kisses me, and the house line rings.

Sam’s lips freeze on mine.

“If you answer it, I will kill you.”

Sam looks at the phone, then back to me. I shake my head.

The phone rings again, shrill and insistent.

All around us, the love spell settles like faded confetti.

Sam rolls off me with a groan. He swipes the handset from the holder, stalks to the sliding glass doors, heaves one of them open and hurls the handset into the backyard. A few seconds later, I hear it hit the water with a plunk—the brand-new Bang & Olufsen sinking to the bottom of the pool.

He turns back, victorious. This is the Sam I fell in love with—unpredictable, surprising, just the right side of naughty. Slayer of my dragons, even if only for a day.

“Now. Where were we?” He puts a knee on the bed.

I hold out my hand for his.

And that, dammit all to hell, is when the doorbell rings.

KAT (#u03eea51d-f047-5aff-81d5-b5be4fc24ed8)

4 hours, 56 minutes missing

When Detective Macintosh told me to start thinking about who would want some more time with Ethan, is it conditioning or dread that my mind goes straight to Andrew? I think about what the repeated stimulus might have been, all those times he brought our son back late on his given weekends. First five minutes, then ten, then a half hour or more, though he never said a word. Never asked for an extra day, or if next time he could keep Ethan for one more night. Just handed Ethan over with a wave and a casual “See you in two weeks, buddy,” even though we all knew it was more than an hour past Ethan’s bedtime.

And honestly, Andrew is not that subtle. If he had wanted more time with Ethan, he would have bitched about the schedule ages ago. He would have had his lawyer bury mine under an avalanche of letters and memos, all of which demanded a hasty—and expensive—response. Death by a million cuts seems to be his divorce strategy, and my bank account is proof that it’s working. Why change course now?

And of course Andrew wants more time with his child. Any father would. If I were faced with visitation rights of every other weekend, holidays and school breaks at his discretion, it wouldn’t be enough for me, either.

But none of that means he’d steal Ethan from his cabin.

Does it?

* * *

The last six miles take an eternity.