"She must have come down for breakfast."
"We don't serve breakfast, sir."
I stood there barefoot in yesterday's dress pants, my shirt wrinkled, my heart starting to pound.
By noon, her parents were calling hospitals. By evening, police officers were standing in our honeymoon suite, asking me questions that felt insulting only because I was terrified.
"Did you two argue last night?"
"No."
"Any history of depression?"
"No."
"Could she have wanted to leave?"
"No," I snapped. "She married me yesterday."
Nina's mother, Aileen, sobbed into a tissue until her husband, Frank, had to guide her into a chair. Her friends had not heard from her. Her parents had no idea where she was. Her purse was still in the room. Her phone was still there. Her wedding ring was not.
The police searched for months.
They checked traffic cameras, hospitals, bus stations, airports, and empty roads. Volunteers walked fields with flashlights. Flyers with Nina's smiling face appeared in grocery stores, laundromats, churches, and gas stations.
