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  “Yes,” Shane snapped, slightly ashamed at sounding so peevish, but mostly annoyed as he stepped for the door to track Amanda down. “My wife and I are moving to this little town called Eagle Bay because we’re not doing well, and we’re trying the whole ‘change of scenery’ deal so we can maybe save whatever’s left of our marriage, but she stormed off because I said something stupid . . . ”

  almost talked about it

  “ . . . and I don’t have time for . . . ”

  “Find your wife. Do it now. Is she there? Can you see her? Don’t let her wander off, for the love of God. Don’t!”

  Though it irritated him more, something in the woman’s tone unnerved him. He found himself striding toward the door in a quickened pace. “Listen, I know it’s confusing to walk around in here, but c’mon. It’s not like I’m gonna lose her.”

  He stepped out the door, glanced left, down the hall.

  It was empty.

  He saw nothing but the dark intersection ahead.

  He stopped and stared, mouth hanging open. A white noise filled his head, and for several minutes, he couldn’t manage a single thought.

  “Wait. Where’d she go?”

  “Oh God,” the voice whispered over the Nokia. “Oh God, it’s too late. You’ll never find her now, you’ll never . . . ”

  The Nokia hissed and crackled.

  And died in Shane’s hand.

  ***

  Shane stared down the hall of receding recliners, dead cell phone pressed to his ear. For the first time since entering Save-A-Bunch, he became acutely aware of the silence. How it pressed in from all sides, making the air feel heavy.

  “Amanda?”

  His voice echoed harshly against the walls and ceramic tile floor, bouncing back to him. The fluorescent lighting—apparently the same from when the building had been a school—burned a harsh white which somehow didn’t do much to dispel the shadows in the corners and ends of the halls, especially in the intersection ahead.

  With a start, he realized he was still holding the dead Nokia to his ear. He lowered it and started walking toward the intersection, each step a little more urgent, his stride lengthening, pace increasing until he was nearly running, shoes clicking against the tile. In his head, the voice of the woman on the Nokia whispered.

  you’re at Save-A-Bunch?

  Maybe it was an optical illusion produced by the sudden spike of adrenaline, maybe his mind was playing tricks on him, so suddenly consumed with such an unreasoning fear, but he felt as if he was standing still, the intersection ahead moving away from him.

  find your wife

  can you see her?

  don’t let her wander off!

  A small part of Shane felt disgusted as he gave in and broke into a run, but as something icy and fearful crested inside him, he didn’t care. How could this hallway be so long? How could she have gotten down it so quickly? Who the hell was this woman on the phone, and what did she mean?

  don’t let her wander off!

  After what felt like forever—but also, somehow, bare minutes—he reached the intersection. Shane slid to a stop, slipping on the tile. He breathed in deep, fighting the urge to spin around wildly and scream Amanda’s name. Instead he peered ahead, scanning the hallway stretching away from him. Like the bean bag hallway, this one ended in double doors leading outside. Presumably, anyway, because twenty feet into the hall, Shane saw ottomans and foot-stools stacked haphazardly to the ceiling.

  To his left, a hallway led to another left turn. Along this hall (which had no lockers, thank God), were more lamp stands and nightstands, arranged neatly against the walls, and two classroom doors he assumed led to more showrooms.

  To his right, bookshelves ranged the hall, pressed against the lockers.

  thank God

  And this hall ended in an orderly stack of boxed bookshelves reaching to the ceiling.

  Shane stood still and closed his eyes for several seconds, trying to recall their progress to this point. For some reason, instinct told him he’d be wiser trying to retrace his steps to the front lobby rather than following Amanda in the only possible direction she could’ve gone after fleeing that weird room full of baby cribs.

  not that

  don’t think about that

  He tried to remember what they’d seen before the recliners, then had it: Another room full of nightstands. Right where he’d found the old Nokia. But they’d taken several turns between there and the hall of recliners. He opened his eyes, turned and looked down the hall of nightstands. Maybe, because of the nightstands, this hall looped around to where he’d found the Nokia? Or maybe . . .

  His thoughts screeched to a halt.

  There.

  Something lying on the floor, in the doorway of the first classroom/showroom. A red strap to a purse.

  Amanda’s purse?

  a trap

  The thought surfaced from nowhere, a free-floating idea which popped when it hit the surface of his brain.

  It was a trap. A more insidious version of the string-yanked dollar, or a Venus fly-trap, or an angler fish . . .

  Venus fly-trap

  angler fish

  The last two metaphors stuck for some reason. A completely random memory came to him, of watching an Animal Planet documentary while making dinner (Amanda was sleeping off her pain and guilt, back in those dark and terrible days right after it happened), a documentary about animals and plants which used various tricks to lure prey. It was a ridiculous notion. This was a used furniture store in an old high school building, nothing more.

  really?

  where are the employees? sales people? stockers? other customers?

  you’re in Save-A-Bunch?

  find your wife

  don’t let her wander off!

  He stood, transfixed, staring at the red strap, thoughts and memories of the documentary on angler fish and Venus flytraps luring hapless victims into carnivorous, snapping jaws and Amanda muttering no, no, no.

  Of their own volition, Shane’s feet shuffled forward, dragging his legs after him. He lurched, marionette-like, down the hall lined with lamp stands to the first classroom/showroom door. When he reached it, he turned and bent awkwardly.

  A red leather purse.

  Amanda’s, he felt sure.

  He reached trembling hands down and picked it up. It felt too light. Empty. Fearfully—not sure he wanted to—he opened the purse’s main compartment. Nothing but emptiness yawned. Feeling panic stir in his guts, spreading icy, breathless tendrils out into his chest, Shane unzipped and unsnapped all the smaller compartments, rifling through them with shaking fingers, searching for a dollar, a paperclip, a scrap of paper, hell, one of her Tampons, anything which might indicate the purse belonged to her.

  But he found nothing.

  With an explosive sigh, Shane turned the bag over in his hands and shook it. Maybe it wasn’t Amanda’s purse after all. He remembered her saying the gym had been full of clothes, shoes, and accessories, with probably a whole bin of purses, so maybe some other customer picked this one up, then dropped it by accident.

  what customers?

  He couldn’t remember seeing any.

  The Nokia vibrated again.

  In a daze, Shane answered. “Hello? What the hell is going on? Who is this?”

  “Did you find your wife?”

  “No.” Shane held up the empty red leather purse which could be Amanda’s or simply one a customer had dropped by accident. “I might’ve found her purse. I mean, I think it’s her purse, but it’s empty.” He turned the purse over and shook it out again halfheartedly, thinking maybe keys would fall out, or something.

  “I found Mike’s wallet,” the woman on the Nokia said. “I found his wallet, but it was empty. No driver’s license, credit cards, social security card. Nothing.”

  “And this was his phone?”

  “It’s his number I’m calling. Is it a gray Nokia? Light green screen, black numbers?”

  Shane, still starin
g into the empty purse, nodded slowly. “That’s the one. A little outdated. No offense.”

  “Well, it’s what he wanted, and . . . ”

  clink

  And Shane wasn’t listening anymore, the woman’s voice fading as he glanced to the floor and saw what lay at his feet, what had finally fallen out of the purse. Seeing it tightened his chest, because it confirmed, for him, anyway, this was Amanda’s purse, and not one from a half-off bin.

  Amanda’s asthma inhaler.

  Lying at his feet.

  He squatted, reached down and picked it up with weak fingers. The Nokia had fallen silent. He kept it pressed against his ear anyway, but the hand holding the Nokia might as well not be attached, because his entire being was focused on the inhaler he turned over in his fingers.

  Amanda’s asthma had gotten worse since it happened. The stress, the guilt, the self-loathing, the low-level tension which had festered between them. All factors, Shane figured. However, he’d wondered increasingly over the past few months if Amanda’s asthma was, in some weird way, self-inflicted. Maybe she was somehow making her asthma worse, because she felt deserving of it. Her reaction to the room full of crib’s seemed to be evidence of that.

  Shane slowly stood; his knees sore and achy, as if he’d aged ten years. The longer he stared at the inhaler in his hand, the sicker he became. Lightheaded, and woozy.

  He closed his eyes.

  Dropped the purse on the floor. Squeezed the inhaler once, then stuck it into his pocket. Amanda would need it when he found her.

  When he found her.

  Shane breathed in deeply and opened his eyes, for the first time seeing the classroom/showroom’s contents.

  Baby blankets.

  Baby pillows.

  Piled and folded on rows of tables. Pillows of all shapes and sizes, blankets of all colors and materials, linen to fuzzy. Baby blankets, at a used furniture store.

  Rows of cribs.

  The inhaler.

  Piles of baby blankets and pillows. All different colors and kinds. Oddly enough, they looked like Benjamin’s.

  Shane turned slowly away from the mounds of pillows and blankets which reminded him of the ones his dead son had slept with, and walked out of the classroom, into the hall. Again, the heavy oppressive silence pressed down upon him.

  He stood, motionless. Feeling nothing at all.

  The Nokia vibrated.

  He pressed answer and said in a dull monotone which sounded lifeless in his ears, “What is this, lady?”

  “I don’t know. My husband—Mike—and I wandered off from each other hours ago. We were fighting. We’ve had troubles. Well, honestly, we’re on the verge of divorce. Anyway, we were traveling through the Adirondacks and stopped at a diner in this little town called Clifton Heights.”

  “The Skylark,” Shane murmured.

  “Yes! While we were there, we overheard someone talking about this unbelievable used and antique furniture store. We were trying to get away—trying to distance ourselves from what was dividing us—so we figured because we had a few hours left before closing, we should visit this furniture store.”

  Shane blinked. Something the woman said stirred the mental fog clouding his mind, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. “Where is everyone? I mean, we didn’t see anyone in the lobby and I figured the folks at the front desk where busy in the office. We didn’t think twice about it.”

  “I know! There’s no one here! I mean, I know it’s Friday, but when we called the front office from The Skylark, they said . . . ”

  Realization struck him. “I’m stupid,” he whispered, “stupid, stupid, stupid.” Digging his hand into his coat pocket and pulling out his iPhone, he said to the woman, “The number. To the store. Do you have it on your phone? I can call the office, the front desk, tell them I’m lost, you’re lost, that I’m searching for Amanda and you can’t find your husband.”

  “Yes. Let me check. 315-222-5555.”

  “Okay.” Shane slid his thumb across the iPhone’s screen, unlocking it. He tapped the phone app and started dialing. “Okay, hold on. I’m calling the store, the lobby, the main desk, whatever. Where are you? What, uh, stuff is on display?”

  “I’m near the auditorium. Or, at least, I think so,” she whispered, sounding frightened.

  “I think we passed it right after the lobby.”

  “No.” Her voice a low, harsh rasp. “I already checked both ends of the hall outside it. It just leads to more and more halls.”

  “Okay, hang tight. I’ll tell them you’re by the auditorium,” Shane reassured, purposefully not thinking about those blankets and pillows which all looked like Benjamin’s, Amanda’s purse, and the inhaler which fell out of it.

  The number Shane had dialed started ringing. “It’s ringing,” he again reassured the woman on the Nokia, who had started to cry softly, sounding ready to break apart, “it’s ringing right now.”

  The Nokia fell dead and silent, cutting off the woman mid-sob.

  “Damn it,” Shane whispered, but right then he heard someone pick up on his phone and say cheerily, “Hello, you’ve reached Save-A-Bunch, the biggest, most comprehensive used and antique furniture warehouse in Webb County!”

  “Hello! Hey, listen—thank God. This is going to sound crazy, but my wife got upset at me and sorta stormed off and now I can’t find her, she won’t answer her phone, and this place is kinda crazy, y’know? I’m sorta lost. Kind of embarrassed to admit it but these hallways go on forever, and there’s this lady who . . . ”

  “ . . . hours of operation are Monday through Friday, eight AM to ten PM, Saturday and Sunday . . . ”

  Shane trailed off as the recorded voice droned on about the weekend hours, weekly deliveries to the store, special layaway deals, and using the website for its 3D virtual tour, including a full rendering of their weekly specials. Finally, the spiel ended, inviting him to leave a message at the sound of the beep, and someone would return his call as soon as possible.

  BEEP.

  A hissing silence.

  “Uhm.” Shane cleared his throat. “Yes. Uh. Anyone there? I . . . I need some help. I need . . . need . . . ”

  Hiss.

  click

  A dial tone in his ear.

  Shane hung up. Dialed 911. Listened to two rings, then a harsh tone, a click, and the same dial tone, repeating in a numbing metronome.

  Slowly, as if moving in a dream, Shane dialed Amanda’s number again, figuring he’d get the same two-ring disconnect.

  It rang.

  Over and over.

  Shane sucked in a deep breath, not expecting Amanda to answer, but hoping, willing it to happen.

  He heard a soft warble. Muffled, but Shane heard it: Amanda’s phone ringing somewhere nearby.

  Frantic energy pulsed through him. Shane darted out of the classroom and into the hall. He stopped, listening. It wasn’t ringing from the way he’d come.

  He turned right and listened. Took a few steps in that direction, which confirmed it. He could hear Amanda’s phone ringing down the hall, somewhere around the blind turn to the left.

  Shane ran that way, heart pounding in his chest. Amanda’s phone kept ringing, which of course didn’t make sense because it should’ve gone to voicemail by now, but he didn’t care, didn’t think about it. He registered the other classrooms in his peripheral vision as he passed. Shapes flickered, shadows, maybe, but he didn’t stop . . .

  because something was in those rooms

  and wanted him to come in

  . . . and he ran past them. He reached the end of the corridor and skidded around the corner, shoes sliding on the unusually slick cement tile floor, and he nearly careened into the opposite wall. He caught himself in time.

  The ringing stopped.

  His iPhone clicked over to hissing, then the same dial tone clanged in his ear.

  He stood, panting, staring down an empty hall lined on both sides with freshly-painted, blood-red lockers as far as he could see. His eyes s
kittered over them initially, peering at the hall’s distant end. He thought he saw double doors with push-bars, like the kind on gymnasiums or auditoriums, where the woman said she was. They were open. The gym or the auditorium. He thought for sure one of them was near the front lobby, and the woman on the Nokia said she was near the auditorium.

  He had to get past the lockers, first. Two rows of lockers, with nothing holding them closed.

  Even though her phone was no longer ringing, he could’ve sworn he’d heard Amanda’s phone ringing somewhere down this hall. Sounding muffled. As if coming from inside something, from behind a door. A locker door.

  Amanda’s phone, ringing from inside a locker. The thought chilled him.

  The Nokia vibrated in his hand.

  He answered it and without preamble muttered, “I think it’s in a locker.”

  “What? Were you able to get the store office? Did anyone answer?”

  “I think it’s in a locker,” he repeated, completely ignoring her, “it’s in one of these lockers, I think.”

  “What? I don’t understand.”

  “Amanda’s phone. It’s not ringing anymore. It cut off soon as I rounded the corner, but I think maybe it was ringing in one of these lockers in this hall leading to the gymnasium or auditorium or whatever. In one of these lockers, where I found your husband’s phone.”

  “What?”

  “Y’know. Your husband’s old Nokia Tracphone. Thing is heavy as a brick. Could knock someone out with one of these. And there’s no internet on these damn things, if I remember right. Thing’s gotta be at least seven or eight years old, maybe ten.”

  “But he bought it last week.”

  “It looks brand-new, out of the box yesterday. How do you explain that, Ma’am? How?”

  “I-I don’t know.”

  “You said something I didn’t understand, but I didn’t think about it much. Something about you deciding to come to Save-a-Bunch, even though it had ‘gotten late’. What time did you come to Save-A-Bunch?”

  The woman paused, and when she spoke, she sounded confused he’d ask such a question, as if the answer was completely obvious. “It’s Friday night. We were having a late dinner at The Skylark, and we decided to come out here anyway. It’s Friday night, right before closing. I figured that’s why there weren’t any other customers around, being so close to closing.”