I was two days away from marrying the most thoughtful man I had ever known when a dusty pink backpack exposed everything he had been hiding.
“Mara?” Colin called through the bathroom door. “Who are you talking to?”
I sat on the closed toilet lid with one hand pressed over my mouth and my phone against my ear.
The emergency dispatcher spoke calmly.
“Stay behind the locked door. Officers are on the way. Do not confront him.”
The handle moved.
“Why did you lock the door?”
I looked at the prescription bottle in my lap.
It belonged to Colin’s elderly aunt, Judith.
So did the phone, driver’s license, credit cards, and signed checks I had just found hidden behind the couch in Colin’s childhood bedroom.
Judith had been missing for nearly seven hours.
Colin was the last person known to have seen her.
“Mara, open the door.”
“I’m dealing with a wedding problem,” I called.
“Then why are you hiding in the bathroom?”
Two days earlier, I would have laughed and let him in.
Two days earlier, I still believed there was nothing about Colin I needed to fear.
I met Colin Reeves after several months of terrible online dates.
Most of the men I met either talked over me or seemed more interested in my photographs than my personality.
Colin was different.
His first message asked which book I wished I could read again for the first time.
Our first date lasted almost four hours. He asked about my work, my childhood, and the small scar under my chin. More importantly, he listened.
A month later, he found an old copy of the book my father used to read to me.
“You remembered?” I asked.
Colin smiled.
“I remember the things that matter to you.”
No one had ever made me feel so seen.
He remembered how I took my coffee, which anniversary was difficult for me, and which songs reminded me of my father. When I was sick, he left soup outside my apartment because he knew I hated being fussed over.
A year later, he proposed beside the lake where my father had taught me to fish.
I said yes before he finished asking.
At our engagement dinner, I met his aunt Judith.
She was in her early seventies and had been widowed the previous year. She lived in a retirement residence that provided meals and medication reminders, but she still handled her own finances.
Halfway through dinner, Judith searched the pockets of her cardigan.
“My glasses are missing.”
Colin’s mother, Elaine, sighed.
“You probably left them in your room.”
“I know I brought them.”
Colin reached into Judith’s open handbag and pulled out the glasses.
“Here they are.”
Judith gave a nervous laugh.
Colin rested a hand on her shoulder.
“This is why Aunt Judith needs me.”
Elaine smiled proudly.
“He keeps her organized.”
Judith smiled too, but her fingers tightened around the glasses.
Later, near the coat rack, she touched my arm.
“Did Colin mention the bank forms?”
“What bank forms?”
Before she could answer, Colin appeared beside us.
“Don’t let her worry you,” he said lightly. “She gets anxious about money.”
Judith stepped back.
“I only wanted to ask her something.”
Colin kissed her cheek.
“And now you have.”
In the car, I asked what she had meant.
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