He knew that the lethargy he was battling was a learned habit. Until recently, he would have handled a dozen pressing tasks by this time of the morning.

He spit out the toothpaste, adjusted the tap for hot water and lathered his face with shaving cream. He wiped the steam from the mirror and slowly stroked the razor down his face, peeling back the overgrowth.

* * * * *

Christian answered on the first ring..

“Are you up?”

“Yes mother.”

Gabrielle laughed. “You need a mother.”

“Touché.”

“You sound better.”

“I just got out of the shower. I feel better.”

“Good.” He heard his sister sigh. “I had your car picked up – it’s in the garage. There’s mail of yours on the table by the front door.”

“Thanks.”

“There’s some cereal and other stuff in the kitchen. Will you eat?”

“If I do, will you stop babying me?”

“Maybe,” she said, more seriously than he had expected.

“I’ll figure something out.”

“So what’s your plan for today? You have more wallowing to do?”

“I thought I might come in.”

“That would be the best thing you could possibly do. Especially for all the freaks at the office that seem to have nothing better to do than obsess over you.”

“It’s nice to be wanted.”

“Worshipped, you mean?”

“That to.”

“You must be feeling better – the old modesty is back.”

“Even the pope has an ego.”

“All right. Enough already. Manager’s meeting at eleven if you can make it.”

“See you then.”

'And Christian…”

He cut her off. He could tell she was about to get sentimental “I’ll see you later, mother.”

He heard her laughing as he hung up.

*****

Christian grabbed the stack of mail Gabrielle had left for him; a flood of envelopes and a large box.

He sorted the letters - junk, junk, junk, bill, bill, junk. Important stuff went in his back pocket. The junk he tossed into a trash can under the hallway table.

Soon, all that was left was the box. It was addressed to Noel. He opened the front door and sat on the stoop, the box at his side. He touched it gingerly at first, his fingers tracing the contours and textures of the package as if by touching it he was touching her. For a moment, he let his eyes close and breathed deeply, trying to find her among the smell of cardboard and tape and the flowering Oleanders bordering the walk.

The label was handwritten and post-marked Seattle, Washington, the return name and address unfamiliar to him.

He used his ignition key to rip the tape sealing the top of the box.

Inside, he found a suitcase; airline carry-on size. A note on yellow legal pad paper had been taped to the front cover of the suitcase. He carefully unfolded it. The paper was dry to the touch, crisp. A shipping receipt was stapled to the back of it, dated two months prior.

The handwritten note read:

“Dear Ms. Jones:

“My name is Reverend Tucker Huard. I run a small homeless shelter in the Fremont district in downtown Seattle. The people we help are mostly good but sometimes the desperation of their situation brings them to the wrong side of the law. Unfortunately, I fear that you may have fallen victim to such desperation; your suitcase was taken from one of the men in our mission. It appears that it has been rifled and I am sorry if anything is missing.

“The man denies taking the bag himself, saying he found it abandoned at a nearby park. He has repented and accepted Jesus Christ as his savior so, and I hope this is all right with you, I would rather not disclose his name.

“I apologize also because the sending of this package was delayed as we are unfortunately lean on resources. But I felt it important to return the item directly to you and would rather not involve the police.

“I hope that you can find it in your heart to extend the Christian gesture of forgiveness and that you were not severely inconvenienced by this loss.

“Sincerely,

“Rvd. Tucker Huard.

“P.S. Sorry to ask, but, since times are tight, could I please be reimbursed for our shipping expenses? I have attached the receipt. The center, of course, also welcomes and appreciates any charitable donation you would see fit to give. Thanks. T.H.”

Christian flipped the case on its end and found a handwritten tag with her name and their address. He then remembered the bag; he'd bought it for Noel to accompany him on a business trip. The tag had been mounted as a courtesy by the store’s clerk.

But what was one of his wife’s suitcases doing in Seattle two months ago? Noel disappeared in May, almost five months ago.

He unzipped the front flap, pulled everything from the bag and spread it across his sister’s front steps. Inside, he found clothes, new, some with store tags still attached - jeans, a sweatshirt, tee shirts, underwear, socks, a pair of Nike tennis shoes; all Noel’s size. None of it was familiar to him.

He rifled the exterior pockets of the case. Deep in one, he found a cache of paper slips; store receipts and a blue printed card with a bank name, account numbers and a handwritten four-digit number all unfamiliar to him.

He scanned the first of three total receipts. It was from Kohl’s department store. The descriptions of some of the items matched clothes and the shoes he had found in the case.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead and closed his eyes a moment before reading the date on the receipts. August seventeenth.

Noel disappeared May twelfth.

She was out there.

* * * * *