Chapter Eleven

Peter Carillo

Peter Carillo would have been home hours ago except for the fatal wreck on the 303 where he was assigned to divert traffic until someone relieved him.

Annie wasn't returning his calls or text messages. He was livid. She damn well knew to respond to him when he tried to reach her. He wanted to know where she went this morning. The garage door opened at seven thirty-two in the morning and she had returned at eight-o-eight. Where was she for thirty-six minutes? He checked his Ring camera; no one had come to the door, but it only showed him the front door and street. Their garage was on the side of the house.

He ordered a camera for the garage door from his phone. It would be delivered tomorrow morning. He had Mondays and Tuesdays off and would install it immediately because this deception was unacceptable.

She could have run to the grocery store. When he checked her location at 8:30 a.m., she was home. And she hadn't left again all day. But not answering her phone?

He had a bad feeling that something was up. Annie had been acting...off. There was no other way he could explain it. She hadn't complained about anything for weeks. That was unlike her. As if she felt guilty about something she'd done. In fact, she hadn't even complained about morning sex in weeks.

Peter loved morning sex. There was nothing better than waking up with a hard-on and sliding it into his wife. She used to complain that she wasn't ready, that it hurt, that he came too fast—that earned her a slap. But it wasn't fun for either of them if she was dry, so he bought a tub of lubricant. His favorite thing first thing in the morning was waking Annie by sliding two lubed fingers deep inside her, prepping her for him, then pushing his hard cock into her while she was still half asleep. Half the time he came on the first or second thrust, so he would stay on top of her until he grew hard again, and they would make love. That second time, she was always into it. Peter recognized that women needed more attention to achieve orgasm, and he was willing to give that to her.

She tried to fake it once. He could tell; she made all the right sounds and motions, but it was too quick, too loud, very unlike her. He knew her body well; he knew the quiver she had when she was close. He'd told her if she faked it, that meant he wasn't doing his job. He would rather her not orgasm than pretend, which was insulting and humiliating, as if she were a prostitute. She apologized sufficiently and said she had just wanted to make him happy.

He hated his fucking job. He had applied to Phoenix PD years ago, but they'd had a hiring freeze and the only law enforcement position he could get was in DPS. Being a state trooper was boring, and every other cop out there treated them like shit. The one thing that got him through the day was sex in the morning, and he would not be denied that pleasure because it was inconvenient or uncomfortable for Annie. He provided for the family; she would provide for him.

Had she been flirting again? Last time he caught her flirting with a waiter, he'd made it clear that such behavior was unacceptable. Or maybe... Oh, God... Was she having an affair? Was she screwing someone behind his back? If she spread her legs for another man, he would kill her.

No, he couldn't kill her. He loved Annie. He'd fallen in love with her the minute he saw her working at Starbucks when he came in one morning before his shift. She'd been nineteen, a part-time student, sweet, beautiful. He had treated her like the angel she was, courted her, proposed six months later. She had given him two beautiful, perfect children. She kept an immaculate house. She was pretty and compliant and a perfect hostess. He wouldn't kill her.

But he could make her wish she were dead.

She was already going to be in serious trouble for avoiding his calls.

As he pulled up to the house, he considered the last time she avoided his calls. She had broken the heirloom vase that his mother had given them for their wedding and knew he'd be upset. She claimed it was an accident, but he doubted that. She had been angry with him because he told her no more book club. The women were trash, mostly divorced single moms who probably made her feel like she'd be happier if she left him.

He made sure she understood that if she ever left him, he would make sure she never saw the children again.

Her car was in its slot in the garage and he breathed easier. Okay, she was home. Probably punishing him because he'd made her give him head this morning. Annie knew he expected her to be in bed when he woke up on work days. If the baby woke up, she knew to be back in bed before his alarm went off. Annie damn well knew that he was happier after sex, and having to search for her in the house—she'd been in the kitchen claiming she couldn't sleep and wanted to bake muffins—had irritated him. So he made her get down on her knees on the tile floor and use her mouth until he came, and he made her swallow because he knew she hated it. Then he grabbed her by the arm and hauled her upstairs, threw her face first onto the bed, and took her from behind. "If you're going to act like a bitch, I'll treat you like a bitch."

Well, if this petty ignoring him is how she reacted, she'd be on her knees servicing him until she learned.

With a spring to his step—because remembering this morning made him horny for his wife—he walked inside through the kitchen door. "I'm home!" he called out. His favorite part of coming home was when PJ ran to him with a big "Daaaaddddyyyy!"

Silence.

"Annie?" he called.

He didn't smell dinner cooking. He didn't hear the children playing. Just...silence.

For the first time, he thought that something was wrong. That Annie was hurt, that the kids were hurt. His heart raced as he ran through the house, up the stairs, looked in the kids' rooms, the master bedroom, the bathrooms.

No one was home.

Her car was here, but she wasn't.

For a second, he thought maybe they were at the park.

He picked up her phone that was charging on the nightstand.

27 unread text messages from his number.

8 missed calls from his number.

2 voice mails.

One unread text message from a familiar number. Why wasn't Natalie Nichols's name in Annie's contacts?

Why wasn't his name showing on the screen?

He slid open the phone and expected to type in her passcode, but there was no passcode. His heart beat hard against his chest as he read the message from Natalie.

Missed you at the craft fair today! We sold all of our flavored oils and nearly all the garlic vinegar. Brian is super happy my idea for a second income didn't make us broke! LOL. Call me.

Brian Nichols and Peter had been troopers together for eight years, went through the academy together, became friends. Brian had been his best man five years ago, and last year married Natalie. Peter didn't particularly like the woman—too independent and too bossy—but Brian was a friend, so Peter allowed Annie to socialize with them.

Clearly, Annie was planning to go to the craft fair—though she hadn't told him about it.

But she didn't go, and her car was here, yet she and the kids were gone.

He looked around the bedroom and then he saw it. Annie's wedding ring, on the dresser, next to her jewelry box. He stared and, as if in a trance, walked over and picked it up. He didn't know how long he stood there staring at the golden circle, their names and wedding date engraved inside the band.

Annie, what have you done?

He put the ring down where he'd found it and went back downstairs. Checked the garage. The stroller was still there—she hadn't taken them to the park down the street. Her luggage was still there.

Where the fuck was his family?

Annie was going to pay for this. For making him scared. For making him angry. For leaving her ring behind.

He went back inside and almost called Brian—maybe Natalie came over and took Annie and the kids to her place—when he saw an envelope clipped to the refrigerator. His name written in Annie's perfect penmanship.

He grabbed it, ripped it open.

Peter:

You hurt me one time too many. I've left with the children. You will never see us again.

Annie

On the verge of hyperventilating, he pulled her phone from his pocket and looked through it, hoping to find answers as to where she was. There was nothing. She'd restored it to factory settings and only the messages that came in after eight-o-six this morning were on the phone. Every app she'd had was gone—her email, Facebook, photos, all gone.

He would find her. She couldn't hide from him.

She had taken his kids. She couldn't do that.

His wife. His kids. His life.

"Fucking bitch!"

Peter would find her, take his kids back, and then he would kill her.

But he had to think, be smart about it. Someone must have helped Annie. She didn't have the money, the brains, or the courage to do something so despicable.

Find that person, and he would find Annie.