Reaping of the Wives

FIND IT

Mr. Matthews scrambled to find the remote to the television the moment his daughter's face flashed across the screen. Even though it gutted his wife, he couldn't help but to watch every news clip, read every article, and listen to every radio station or podcast that spoke about Grace. He lowered the volume and listened intently to the latest developments, secretly hoping someone got an inside scoop that could divulge details the police hadn't shared with him.

A well dressed reporter sported a serious face as she spoke.

"It's been three months since Washington native, Grace Matthews was reported missing. Having seemingly vanished without a trace, detectives are still hard at work canvassing the route the 18 year old woman would have taken on her travels from her hometown of Brinnon to Clearlake, California."

Photo after photo of Grace accompanied the news message. The woman's voice began to fade into an incoherent hum and the screen blurred as tears welled up in the man's eyes. Images of her as a little girl at her first dance recital, her adorned in a crystal covered tiara on her sweet sixteenth birthday, and her beautiful face smiling in her high school graduation photo displayed to the world his missing child. His only daughter. His youngest. His baby girl.

A cracking sound accompanied by a sharp pain in Mr. Matthews' hand stopped him from falling any further into the depths of his grief. He looked down to see the remote had cracked in his grip and a piece of the now broken plastic battery cover bit into his flesh. Dropping the remote, a single droplet of blood rose to the surface and he was able to avert his attention to a different damaged part of himself.

He manually shut the television off with a thrust of his finger and headed to the bathroom where he rummaged through the linen closet in search of a bandage. His hands moved items around, but his eyes were unseeing. Grace's smile was the only thing swimming in his vision.

"What are you looking for, Nicky?" Mrs. Matthews asked softly, reaching with one hand to still both of his. The other wiped a tear from his unshaven cheek.

"Bandage," he gruffly stated while holding up the injured appendage. "We're gonna need a new remote."

The woman's eyes softened as she picked up a box mere inches away from his roaming hands. "Here sweetheart, let me fix you up."

Mr. Matthews gave a silent nod and allowed her to clean and cover the little hole, all the while wishing it were that easy for the ones gaping within both of their chests. Once finished, he followed her out to the kitchen.

Where every family dinner used to take place, stacks of papers littered the surface. To the untrained eye it was chaos, but to them, it was strategic. Each pile was of greatest importance. There was a pile for every possible lead, one for every locally known criminal whose signature could align with Grace's disappearance. There was a long list of psychic mediums and their contact information. A pile of information given directly to them by the detectives working her case. And on the end, where his tired eyes lingered, was a fresh stack of Missing Person flyers to hang up on every telephone pole and within every store window they were allowed to post it in.

Mr. Matthews moved to the pot of coffee freshly brewed by the Misses. As he poured himself a mug full, he watched as his beloved set about fixing them breakfast. Her movements looked smooth and deliberate, but he could tell she was simply going through the motions and her mind was elsewhere. If the dark circles under her eyes weren't enough of an indication that she still wasn't sleeping through the night, the dullness to her once bright green eyes certainly was. He wanted to broach the topic of therapy and medications, but he couldn't bring himself to offer her advice that he himself couldn't follow through with. They both wanted to have their wits about them should the need arise; though as sleep deprived as they were, he wondered if there was even a fully functioning wit to be found between them.