Click Here to read the 2nd half of chapter 4
Mallory
She woke with a start,still on the couch. For a moment, she hoped it had all been a nightmare. But the stillness of the house reminded her of the awfulness of the day.
Twelve hours had passed since the morning tore their world apart. She hadn’t gone upstairs since. Couldn’t.
Outside, one lonely cruiser remained at the curb. The media vans that had swarmed the neighborhood earlier were gone, along with the neighbors who had peeked from behind their curtains.
Her joints ached as she sat up, the imprint of the couch still pressed into her cheek. The house was too quiet, unnaturally so. No sound from upstairs. No dishes clinking. No water running. No low hum of Noah on a call.
A flicker of irritation cut through the fog. Where the hell was he?
She tried to reconstruct the day if it even still was the same day. The morning had unraveled in jagged flashes sirens, police radios, her own voice breaking as she screamed Julia’s name. But Noah had been there. She remembered his hand on her back. The low murmur of his voice. Anna’s arm linked through hers. All of it sharp and blurry at once.
But where was he now?
It was too early for him to be in bed he was never the first to turn in. He’d always joked that he couldn’t fall asleep before she did. So where was he?
She looked around.
Where was her phone?
She needed it. What if Julia called? What if the police had an update?
Her eyes scanned the coffee table. She pushed aside a throw blanket, checked the cushions, opened the drawer by the coffee pot—empty. Her chest tightened.
She moved into the kitchen, bare feet sticking faintly to the tile. The counter was clear. No phone on the charger. Nothing in the coat closet. No familiar buzz under a stack of unopened mail.
The mudroom.
Her bag.
She rushed in. Her work tote sat slouched beside the bench, the zipper half-open like an afterthought. She dumped it out. Papers, gum wrappers, a granola bar crushed beyond saving. Finally—her fingers curled around the cold edge of her phone.
She unlocked it. Three missed calls. None from Julia. None from Noah.
She tapped his name.
It rang twice, then went to voicemail.
She tried again. Straight to voicemail.
She called out, louder this time. “Noah?”
The silence that followed pressed against her skin like a weight.
She walked down the hallway toward the master bedroom, her hand trailing along the wall beneath a series of framed photos. Snapshots of the four of them (vacations, birthdays, candid moments) all smiling, all intact. Her parents had died in a car crash while she was still in college. Noah’s mother had overdosed, and his father had drifted into a new life with a new family, reduced now to a yearly Christmas card.
Looking at the pictures, it hit her: it had always been the four of them. That was the family. Not perfect, but whole. Frame after frame, she saw it, two daughters, two parents. A unit.
And now—
Maybe Noah was in his office, in the soft overstuffed chair he had recently added to the space, emotionally wrecked, asleep with his phone silenced. Maybe he needed space. Maybe he was in the shower in the bathroom attached to the master bedroom.
But the master bedroom and bathroom was empty. The bed was still made. His side was undisturbed. No jeans draped over the chair. No phone on the nightstand.
She turned in a slow circle, taking in the room like it belonged to strangers.
She slowly crossed the hall to his office. The door was half open, as if he’d just stepped out.
She rarely came in here. It wasn’t off-limits, exactly, but it had always felt like his space—cords, monitors, spreadsheets she couldn’t follow. He worked from home now and then, thanks to the flexibility of his job. He’d set up this space to be comfortable, functional. “I think better in joggers,” he used to joke, already pulling on a hoodie before she left for work.
But now, the air inside felt different. Still. Stale.
She stepped in slowly, her bare feet quiet against the hardwood. His laptop was shut. No mug on the desk. No headphones slung over the chair. Nothing to suggest he’d been in here recently.
She turned in a slow circle, about to leave, when something caught her eye—tucked beside the printer, almost hidden behind a stack of manila folders.
A phone.
Not Noah’s.
She picked it up, turning it over in her hand. Black case, no scratches. Powered on but locked. No wallpaper she recognized, just a standard passcode screen staring back at her like a dare.
She tried his birthday. Then Anna’s. Then nothing.
Locked out.
A pulse of unease rose in her chest. Why would he need a second phone? Why hide it?
She stared at it for a moment longer, then set it down exactly where she’d found it.
She left the office, closing the door behind her.
Strange.
She didn’t have the energy to chase it right now. But her mind filed it away like a puzzle piece that didn’t yet have a picture.
Downstairs again, she stood in the center of the living room, holding her phone like it might explain something.
He wouldn’t just leave. Not today. Not without telling her.
Unless.
Her arms folded tightly across her chest. She stared at the door like it might open and reverse all of this.
Unless.
She didn’t let herself finish the thought.
Instead, she crossed the floor in five fast steps and yanked open the front door.
The police cruiser still sat out front. The officer inside stared straight ahead.
But Noah’s car was gone.
She had to go upstairs. She needed to lie down, reset—pull herself together. Anna still needed her. School was around the corner, and with it, Anna’s senior year at Cape Elizabeth High. Preseason soccer starts tomorrow. There were forms to sign. Cleats to find.
Somehow, life was still moving.
Even though her youngest child was missing.
Even though she had seen someone take her baby.
Perfectly Imperfect 