Loves Me Not

ONE

AFTER
DETECTIVE BRETT PORTER

Each morning starts the same, although I wish it wouldn't. I wish I could gain some sort of individuality or uniqueness to my mornings, something that would make me stand out from the rest. But unfortunately, I possess no such exceptionality to my mornings. I'm just like most people. I wake up, shower, pour myself a cup of coffee, do the regular morning routine, then head out the door to see what the world is going to test me with each day.

On this particular morning, my phone doesn't wake me at the crack of dawn, so I'm able to get a little extra shut eye. But my definition of 'sleeping in' would be quite different from most. My body wakes me up at about six each morning, so when there's no calls first thing, latest I stay in bed is 6:30.

I head to the station for seven to catch up on some paperwork the chief has me working on. A case from last month is going to court and needs to be finalized here on our end.

Once I finish up with the paperwork, I meet with the team for a 9:00 briefing. Pour another cup of coffee or two, listen to the same old spiel, then decide to join Zoey for a ride over to Wentworth Street to check out a B&E. Zoey Young and I have been friends since she started working as an officer here three years ago. I like her witty sense of humor and stellar intuition. It's as though she can sense it in the air, when something's off, when someone's lying. She likes to bring me along on her calls, and I like to consult her on my cases. We make a great pair. When we're not butting heads, that is. I may be stubborn, but she's ten times worse.

The call comes in at 11:17 a.m. It's the lieutenant, telling me he's got a report for a missing person. Twenty-six year old female, last seen or heard from over twenty-four hours ago. He reads off the address and tells me to head over to the house to speak with the fiancé.

It takes us just over ten minutes to get there. The house is in the south end of Bridgeport, right near the coast. A decent sized home, red brick, double car garage. Steady income, probably Yuppies who have just settled down before deciding to ruin their lives with kids. I knock twice.

A man – who I presume to be the fiancé – opens the door and stares at us.
"Ben Summers?" I ask.
"Yes."
"Detective Brett Porter, Bridgeport PD," I say, flashing my badge. "This is Officer Young." Zoey nods her head.
He stands there momentarily stunned by our presence. Then he says, "Thank you for coming," and opens the door wider. We step inside.
I take a look around the house. Polished living room to my left, spotless dining room to my right. I walk around, observing the place briefly. Then I turn back to him. "Your fiancé... Catalaina Kittridge, correct?"
"Yes."
"When was the last time you heard from her?"
"Wednesday night," he says. "We ate dinner, watched TV, then went to bed. When I woke up the next morning, she was gone. I assumed she got up early to go for a run before work. I got ready, ate breakfast, and there was still no sign of her when I left. Her car was in the driveway, but that could mean anything. She likes to walk everywhere. I figured she was either still out, or had already left for work."
"What does she do?" I interject.
"She's a teacher. At St. Vincent's."
I nod and write this down. Then I look back up at him. "Continue."
"I texted her a few times throughout the day," he starts again. "I think around noon. She never replied. But that's not unusual, because she's busy with the students during the day. I called her when I finished work at five, but it went straight to voicemail, which meant her phone was either switched off or dead. I sent another text when I got home. Still nothing. Her car was still in the same spot. I couldn't tell if it had been used or not. I was coming up with so many possibilities in my head: She had to stay late, she got caught up with something at work, her phone is dead, she's having dinner with coworkers.
"I made dinner by myself, showered, went on my laptop for a while. I glanced up at the clock at one point and it was nine o'clock. That's when I began to worry. So again, I called her cellphone. Voicemail. I sent another text asking where she was. By eleven, I was beginning to panic. Did something happen to her? Is she leaving me?
"I called around to some of her friends, her parents, coworkers. No one knew where she was. Said she hadn't even showed up for work. So that's when I called the police, last night, around 11:30. But they said I'd have to wait twenty-four hours before I could officially file a missing person's report. And so, here we are." He stops talking and stares at me, awaiting my response.
"So this is unusual then," I say. "Your fiancé doesn't normally disappear or run off like this?"
"No," he says adamantly. "Never. She always keeps in touch. We always check in with each other throughout the day either with a phone call or a text message."
"Was she planning on going anywhere recently? A trip, a weekend getaway, anything?"
"No."
"Do you know if she's run into any problems with anyone?" I ask. "Friends, coworkers...?"
"No."
"What about other friends or family members? Could she have gone to stay with someone from out of town?"
He stares at me. "I don't know why she would do that without telling me."
I take in a breath. "And how is your relationship as of late? Any fighting, disagreements... any reason she might spontaneously take off in the middle of the night?"
"No," he says again. "No. I mean, of course we have our problems. Doesn't every couple? But nothing serious. Nothing to constitute running off and leaving me."
"You said yourself a few minutes ago that you were questioning whether she was leaving you. Why?"
He stares at me blankly. "I told you, I was panicking. I didn't know what to think. I hadn't seen her since the night before and had no contact with her all day."
"So your first thought was that she ran off and left you?"
"No!" he says. "I don't know. I don't think she would do that. Nothing bad has happened between us. She'd have no reason to do that."
"What about other stresses in her life?" I ask. "Has she been acting different lately? Anything else that could be bothering her?"
"Something's always bothering her."
"What does that mean?"
He looks like he regrets saying it. "I don't know... she's just... Listen, Detective, Catalaina is a very complicated woman. Enigmatic. Like a puzzle. Not even I can solve her. And half the time, I don't know what's going through her brain. Sometimes I stare at her and find myself thinking: do I even know her at all?
"She gets in these bizarre moods. She's one of the happiest people I've ever met, but at the same time, she's plagued with this perpetual sadness that surrounds her like a bubble. So while some days are good, others are not. And I don't know how to differentiate between the two half the time."
"She's depressed?"
"No. Not depressed. Just... in another world."
I stare at him, perplexed, not understanding his lack of proper terminology.
"I don't know how to describe it," he says.
"So would you say this behaviour of disappearing aligns with that of her out of worldly existence?"
"No."
"You're sure?"
He stares at me. "If I'm sure about one thing, it's this: Catalaina wouldn't just run off. It's not like her. Something has happened to her. Something bad."