Chapter 12 - THE NIGHT RYAN RAN
Ryan denied leaving the envelope.
His attorney called it fabricated.
Unfortunately for Ryan, the hotel had cameras.
They captured him entering the hallway.
They captured him standing outside Madison’s room.
They captured him placing the envelope on the floor.
His bond was revoked.
But police had to find him first.
By the time officers arrived at his temporary apartment, Ryan was gone.
His phone remained on the kitchen counter.
His passport was missing.
So was $18,000 in cash.
A statewide alert went out.
I learned he had disappeared while sitting in my obstetrician’s office.
My blood pressure shot up.
My doctor looked at Rebecca.
“Whatever is happening, it needs to stop reaching her every hour.”
I almost laughed.
“I agree.”
The baby remained healthy.
That was the only good news.
I was thirty weeks pregnant now.
Every day made her feel more real.
Every day made Ryan feel more dangerous.
Building security doubled the number of guards on my floor.
I temporarily moved into a furnished apartment Rebecca’s firm maintained for visiting partners.
Only five people knew the address.
Brooke called that night.
“I know where he might go.”
“Ryan?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Dad has a cabin near Steamboat Springs.”
“Grant owns another property?”
“Not officially.”
Of course not.
“Who does?”
“A company.”
“Crestmont?”
“No.”
She hesitated.
“Madison.”
I froze.
Madison denied knowing anything about a cabin.
Property records proved the house had been purchased eighteen months earlier under an LLC.
The LLC manager was Madison.
She began crying when investigators showed her.
“I’ve never seen this.”
Her signature had been forged.
Again.
Ryan had apparently been preparing financial shelters using everyone around him.
Brooke.
Madison.
Me.
Maybe even Diane.
Officers reached the cabin shortly before dawn.
Ryan was not there.
But someone had been recently.
Food remained warm in a trash bin.
A fireplace contained fresh ash.
A laptop charger lay on a table.
And outside, tire tracks disappeared toward a county road.
Ryan was moving.
The man I had once trusted enough to sleep beside was now hiding from police somewhere in Colorado.
By morning, local news picked up the story.
TECH EXECUTIVE’S HUSBAND SOUGHT AFTER DOMESTIC ASSAULT INVESTIGATION.
I hated seeing my life turned into a headline.
I hated seeing strangers comment beneath it.
Some believed me.
Some did not.
Some asked why I stayed.
That question hurt more than I expected.
Why did I stay?
Because terrible marriages do not usually begin terribly.
They begin with flowers.
Inside jokes.
Sunday mornings.
Promises.
Then boundaries move one inch at a time.
The first insult becomes stress.
The first broken object becomes an accident.
The first bruise becomes something you somehow caused.
And by the time someone presses a cigarette against your stomach, you have already spent years being trained to doubt your own pain.
I stopped reading comments.
At 2:16 p.m., Detective Morales called.
“We found Ryan’s vehicle.”
“Where?”
“Near the Wyoming border.”
“Is he there?”
“No.”
“What was inside?”
“Clothes.”
“Anything else?”
A pause.
“A handgun case.”
My entire body went cold.
“Empty?”
“Yes.”
Ryan owned a handgun.
He kept it locked.
At least, he used to.
Morales continued.
“We’re increasing protection around you.”
I stared through the apartment window.
“Do you think he’s coming for me?”
“We don’t know.”
That answer meant yes was possible.
Then my temporary phone received a message from an unknown number.
Only five people had the number.
The message contained no words.
Just a photograph.
Me.
May you like
Standing at the window.
Taken from somewhere outside.
