My foreman left a sweatshirt hanging over the stair rail inside the home we are building. I don’t hesitate to put it on, covering the ridiculous shirt I’m still wearing. At this point, I’ve lost my sense of humor completely. The tight jeans seem to be getting tighter, feeling more unbearable as I try to navigate the job site, my thighs and testicles rubbed raw by the suffocating fabric. 

My mind wanders all day long, my workload exponentially heightened by the fact that my workers are screwing up left and right, but not in a good way.

When I finally take a lunch break, my hands are swollen and chaffed from fastening and re-fastening screws on joists, my legs sore from standing on a ladder for hours and straining my body upwards. I have a mind to fire every single one of my employees, but I need them, despite their lack of skill—or maybe, it’s lack of giving a shit. I don’t have the time, nor the resources to hire out at this point. We need to get this house built.

I struggle to focus on my two hours of broken sleep, the second crappy night’s sleep in a row. Images flood my mind over and over again—the shattered glass, the blood stain, our master bedroom completely torn apart. I can’t stay here in this dusty half-built home….

A call comes in from the city inspector, and I remember he is coming today. I’m feeling so overwhelmed, I can’t answer it.

“Chris!” I call downstairs to my foreman. He doesn’t respond so I call again, my voice a frantic plea for help. 

He rushes into the framed out bedroom where I’m sitting on a ladder. He looks terrified, like he suspects something has gone awfully wrong.

“I need you to stay here and cover for me. The inspector should be here any minute.”

His eyes grow wide. “…But Hayes, we’re not ready for this.”

“Tell him to hold off the inspection for a couple days. I can’t deal with this right now.”

He scratches his bald head, waiting for more feedback. I give him a quick nod of gratitude before taking off. I feel incredibly guilty, but I need to make progress; I need to find Candace.

The sky is threatening to downpour once again. Thunder rumbles in the distance, and flashes of lighting catch my eye as I drive away. I try Candace’s phone again for what feels like the hundredth time since last night. Now it is directing straight to voicemail, indicating that her phone is most likely dead. 

I pour over my options. I can head to the police station and bug them for clues or insights, or I can head over to the house, to look for more clues myself. Although I am certainly not a detective, I’m feeling desperate, so I decide on the latter. 

When I show up, I am stunned by what I witness. Not only is the entire property taped off with signs of ‘no trespassing’ and ‘crime scene,’ a board has been nailed up to cover the shattered glass, covering the front door and making the home appear derelict. 

To my surprise however, the door swings open, and there stands a clumsy Laura in the doorway holding a large box of diapers and fumbling to get a grip on it, along with a mysterious grocery bag, bursting with items. I leap over to assist, the yellow tape catching just slightly across my ankles, causing me to fumble as I jog across the lawn. I catch myself and grab the box from her shaky hands.

“How did you get in here?!” I ask. “The property’s off limits, as you can see.” I spin in a slow circle, peering at all the tape and notices. My tone is a tad sarcastic.

She looks up at me rather confused, though. “Oh…no. I mean, the door was open. I walked right in.”

“Huh?” Surely, that’s not a good thing.

I follow her back to her vehicle and open the trunk. The car is still running with the kids sitting quietly inside. 

“Hey, guys.” I wave and smile at them, but my mind is racing with terrible thoughts. Before I can say a word to Laura, she is dashing back to the house like she’s forgotten something.

“Laura?”

She is on a mission. That, I can gather. What is she up to? 

I look around to check if anyone is watching. Unfortunately, my neighbor, Tom, is indeed watching through his living room window. He’s an old boy whose wife died a few years ago. He doesn’t come out much, but he is staring at me now, his expression stern and leery. He doesn’t trust me in the slightest, evidently. I wave to him anyway, and shoot him an awkward smile. His expression remains tense, as he retreats behind the curtain, disappearing into the shadows. 

Great. My neighbor thinks I’m a kidnapping psychopath.

Suddenly, Laura returns with a carseat hoisted against her stomach. She is struggling a little, but trying not to let it show. I remove my daughter from the back passenger’s seat, giving her the space to install it. I wait patiently, clutching Lilly softly in my arms, feeling her warm little hand snug against my forearm. 

It’s taking a little longer than expected. I begin to whistle very casually, wondering if I should offer some assistance. 

I swear, five whole minutes have passed when she yells abruptly in frustration. “FUCK. THIS. THING!”

“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” I hand Lilly off in her direction. “Okay, Sailor Jerry. Let me help you with that. Geez…”

Out of nowhere, I hear Lilly utter a tiny word under her breath, but I can’t quite make out what she’s said. I tilt my ear closer to her mouth. “What was that, baby girl?” I peer down at her chubby little face, waiting for a response.

“Fuck.” She says it so softly and innocently.

“O-kay…” My voice is high-pitched. I’m getting a little irritated now. I turn back to tackle the car seat installation predicament. “Let’s just get this thing installed for you before you start teaching Lilly all the words.”

I don’t think I was prepared for what comes next…

“FUCK YOU, Anthony!!” Her eyes are glossy now, her face a deep shade of red. “This is all your fault! Whatever this is, whatever’s going on right now, it’s because of you!!”

I hold out my hands in defense as if to shield my sensitive reality from this verbal onslaught being forced upon me with such conviction.

She sets Lilly straight down on the hard, brittle road – a little girl who can scarcely speak nor stand, and looks at me with her soul. Her eyes are pouring with emotion. The anger, the betrayal, the sadness, the loneliness, the mistrust, the deceit, the loss of love – all of it there for me to witness, finally and truly for the first time.

Lilly begins to cry. She is terrified.

“Anthony, you liar and cheater!! What have you brought her into?! Candace doesn’t deserve this! I didn’t deserve this!”

She is sobbing into her hands. I am at a complete loss for words. I collapse to the ground, my body a tired pathetic heap of nerves. I reach for my wailing daughter and bring her close to my chest, clutching her tightly for several minutes. When Lilly finally settles, I turn to face Laura. I feel my own tears stinging the corners of my eyes. I realize that I, too, am struggling to hold back a surging river of emotion. I want to break down right here, right now and proclaim my love for her, express my sincere regret, but now is definitely not the time.

I stand up, my nerves calming slowly and steadily. “I understand your hurt and pain, but I have an obligation to find Candace, the mother of my daughter, whether she and I love each other, or not. We can talk about this later, Laura. Please forgive me for the time being, and get the kids somewhere safe.”

With the car seat in place, I turn toward the house. I make a plan to scour every inch of the property, determined to find any type of clue.

Laura seems to understand my plan. She looks at the house, then back to me, her chin nodding in recognition. She is clearly upset and overwhelmed, as she should be, but I get a sense that she finally understands that perhaps, I’m not necessarily the bad guy here, at least not this time.

I make my way over to the house slowly, scanning the lawn scrupulously. At this point, I couldn’t give a fuck what the neighbors think. I feel their stares on the back of my neck, like hungry beggars, craving for drama, for gruesome vicarious bloodshed.

I notice nothing out of the ordinary, thus far. I enter the house and crouch down to take a good look at the door. The supposed blood smear has turned a darker shade of brown since yesterday — evidence that it is in fact, blood. I study it, trying to imagine plausible scenarios to explain what happened. The fact it was here before Candace’s disappearance is causing me to feel even more unsettled. I creep through the house, scanning each room one by one, my eyes brushing over every surface, over every wall and floor space.

When I reach the kitchen, I notice the alcohol for the first time; it’s an empty bottle of cheap gin, a bottle I definitely do not recognize. It sits oddly out of place. The cap is removed, and an empty glass sits right beside it. 

“She doesn’t drink that crap!” I proclaim out loud. “She drinks vodka. Always has, always will. She buys the stuff from Costco.” 

I circle the kitchen, but find nothing else out of place. My hand comes up to my chin. I stroke my short stubble beard, the beard I had not intentionally procured, and try to think it through. 

It seems strange that whoever broke in would have had time to pour themselves a drink or two, or three. A drink they probably brought with them, nonetheless. 

Could Candace be drinking gin now?

I can’t seem to wrap my head around anything concrete. I head upstairs to study the master bedroom once again, this time in the light of day. It definitely looks different.

All of the bedding is gone. The strewn clothing that adorned the bed and floor is gone. Just about everything is gone, besides the furniture.

I don’t know whether to be shocked or relieved. 

Perhaps the authorities are testing for fingerprints or bodily fluids?

I crouch down to assess the four inch gap under the bed. I use the flashlight on my phone to illuminate the space. Nothing looms under there, besides the dust bunnies we’ve neglected to vacuum for at least a month or two.

Wait…I check again after my brain processes the flash of pale yellow in the top right-hand corner, laying next to the bedpost. It appears to be a wadded up sticky note. It could be easily mistaken for a candy wrapper. I rush around the bed to the other side to retrieve it. Before I can open the crumpled note to read the message inside, I hear thudding footsteps approaching.

A walkie talkie beeps, followed by a man’s voice. “Sure, Chief. I’ll get on that.”

Shit! It’s the cops! 

I stuff the wad into my pocket, my demeanor morphing into that of a frantic maniac when I realize I shouldn't even be here, in my own house. I dart to find a hiding place between my shirts hanging in the walk-in closet. I should have turned off the bedroom light, though. They’ll know someone’s been snooping.

“Anyone in here?” The officer is standing right beside me inside the closet, literally inches from my childish hiding place. I think I remember his name from last night. Was it Michael? Or Mitchel, maybe?

“Mis-ter Haaayes.” He noticed me almost immediately. He looks me up and down, a frown adorning his bushy eyebrows. “Some reason why you’re sneaking around here late at night?”

I glance at my phone. It’s only 3pm. “Sir, this is my house.”

“True, but I do remember telling you to stay away for now. This is a crime scene, after all. You can get arrested for tampering with evidence. You don’t wanna make nobody suspicious now, do you?”

I reach behind me to feel the sticky note crumpled into a ball. Its jagged edges are pricking my butt cheek inside the ultra tight back pocket.

 Laura and these fucking jeans…

“Now, you got somewhere to go, don’t you?” He waits for me to respond, but I don’t. “Mister Hayes, is there something you wanna tell me?”

Officer Mitchel, or whatever his name is, is an African-American man. He takes pride in his work, and he isn’t the type to take any nonsense. That part is obvious. 

“You weren’t tampering with any evidence now, were you?”

I gulp, maybe a little too audibly. Is he on to me?

He narrows his eyes at me as I finally stand up, slowly. I decided to change my tone. “You know what? I was just grabbing some clothes and a toothbrush. I’ll get out of your hair, I promise!” 

I realize he doesn’t have any hair as those words escape my lips, and I’m reminded of the jack-ass I can truly come off as.

I rip a handful of random tee-shirts off of hangers, a pair of carpenter pants, some socks, and my toothbrush. I turn to look at ‘Officer Mitchel’ one last time before heading out. He is still standing patiently in the closet, as if trying to figure out what my deal is — both my motives and my choice of dress attire at this point.

“Lock my front door this time!” I yell up the stairs to him when I reach the bottom, suddenly acknowledging the disrespect and mistreatment I am feeling from law enforcement. “Let me know if you learn anything!”

Learn anything? I shouldn’t have said that. That could have been taken the wrong way.

I’m sure it’s a given they will contact me if they discover any new evidence. That was the thing though…would they? I’m beginning to feel mistrust over the whole operation. I make a desperate plea to the universe, my mind sick with worry. 

Candace, just come home.