Little Girl Gone: The can’t-put-it-down psychological thriller. Alexandra Burt

you call. I’ve been working my entire career for this job and you …’ He paused, deflated. ‘It stops tonight. Tomorrow you’re going to see a doctor.’

      When I arrived at the clinic, I was late. Jack was waiting by the door, looking impeccable in his suit, dark gray, Hugo Boss – his favorite – stylish and simple, he wore it, as usual, with a white shirt and a gray tie.

      When he spotted me, he looked tired. And irritated. I could tell by the way he raised an eyebrow as I walked up. His forehead was deeply wrinkled, furrows I hadn’t noticed before.

      ‘Sorry I’m late.’ I raised my face and he lightly brushed his lips across my cheek. I felt guilty. After all, Jack’s time was precious.

      Jack was all business during our appointment. His lint-free suit, his starched shirt, all signs that he’d made a success of his life. He told the doctor how I was obsessing over ‘minute details’ and how I didn’t want to ‘accept colic as a diagnosis’ and how he’d been able to ‘hold things together’ all by himself.

      I watched him steal a glance at me while he spoke, probably wondering how we arrived at this implausible moment when all he’d ever done was ‘provide and support.’ He was the perfect husband and father yet here I was, frazzled and sunken in.

      At the end of our appointment I realized the doctor wasn’t a psychiatrist or therapist, just a family practitioner. Because specialists cost money, and Dr Wells is capable of prescribing an antidepressant.

      Dr Wells took one look at me, got out his prescription pad and scribbled on it. ‘If nothing’s happening we’ll just adjust the dosage.’ Then he told me to come back after a month so I could tell him all about the improvement. ‘Once the baby sleeps through the night, life will be different. Some new mothers need adjusting. Give it some time.’

       You poor sap, a bit of time and a good night’s sleep is what I need?

      ‘Right,’ I said, smiled, and cradled my purse. It was heavy. Inside was Jack’s gun, vibrating joyously.

      On our way home, in the car, Jack seemed appeased. In his world you solved a problem by coming up with a remedy and the fact that the bottle of pills in my purse would make everything okay was just the way he knew the world to be. An orange bottle with three refills and his life was back to normal.

      ‘Tell me you’re going to be okay.’ His voice was soft, fragile almost.

      He sounded caring but I knew Jack, he never remained concerned for long. He was pragmatic to a fault and this was all alien to him.

      ‘Please take the medication and just get on with it.’

      ‘It?’ That’s more like him. Just get on with it.

      ‘Life, get on with life. Take the baby out, meet other moms in parks, I don’t know, whatever moms do.’

      I was tired of him selling me his logic like a snake oil salesman offering a cure for ulcers. It was laughable. Mingle with other moms and a pill a day will take my sorrows away.

      ‘It’s not complicated if you really think about it.’ He put his arm around me, pulling me towards him. ‘You overanalyze everything, that’s what your problem is. It’s not about being perfect. It’s about changing a diaper, warming up a bottle.’

      His embrace felt staged. I looked out the car window, focusing on a tree almost as tall as the building behind it. I wondered if the roots of a tree were really as deep as a tree was high. It seemed impossible almost, a secret part of the city, invisible to its inhabitants. Once you knew it was there, it seemed terrifying.

      The pills gave me strange dreams. I hardly slept at all and I was so tired I couldn’t care less about anything else but pretending to be okay. When I told Jack I wanted to stop the medication, he frowned.

      ‘But they make my hair fall out,’ I complained.

      He glanced at my hairline. Are you sure? his eyes seemed to say as if I was attempting to fit a round shape in a square hole.

      ‘Those are not side effects according to this,’ Jack said and flipped over the medication flier. ‘Dry mouth, skin rash, nausea, vomiting, and shallow breathing. Hair loss is not one of them. Maybe you should take some vitamins.’

      ‘What about numb hands and feet?’

      ‘Go to a gym, one that has childcare. Maybe you’re not moving enough.’

      What about the fact that I’m just pretending to be okay? I wanted to ask. What about being a con? Is that a side effect?

      Other than that I just cared less. Cared less about not caring, my body in the grasp of nausea and dizziness from the pills. Mia and I muddled through. There were days I felt better followed by days that were worse. Everything seemed lulled and life had lost its edge. Mia grew and gained weight, yet the crying never stopped.

      Jack seemed to be in a better mood and I continued the medication. About a month or so later, Jack came home early from work. He was cheery and handed me a box of Chinese takeout.

      ‘Your favorite,’ he said.

      ‘I think you’ve been doing a lot better,’ he said. ‘Don’t you think so,’ he asked, but didn’t wait for my response. He spoke of money and our credit, and that the high mortgage payments of the brownstone weren’t going away anytime soon. And no one really knew how long it’d take to find a buyer with the market the way it was. He couldn’t be in that amount of debt and have a possible foreclosure hanging over his head and expect to get a DA job. But that he’d come up with a plan.

      ‘A plan,’ I said, ‘what kind of plan?’

      ‘We’ve run out of options. I had to make a decision.’ His words flew by, hardly reached me. ‘Here’s the deal,’ he said, ‘the economy is in a shambles, huge salaries for associates at big law firms are no longer, but there’s money to be made in foreign exchange deals, equity and debt. There’s a company in Chicago.’

      ‘We’re moving?’ I asked.

      ‘Kind of. The brownstone is part of my plan. Renters won’t put up with the noise of the construction. With the money I make in Chicago we can pay the mortgage, finish the renovations and in a year at the most we’ll be able to either sell it or rent it out.’

      There was so much energy in his voice. Plans were his thing. The coordinated and organized formation of solutions. I had also been part of the plan once, before I changed. Now it was all about getting out of debt and everything else would just fall into place. I had my pills and I was getting on with it. He looked at me with his eyes blazing as if he’d just solved all our problems. He was smart, I knew that, I loved that about him, but he was also shrewd. Driven. He was hardwired to get what he wanted, and whatever Jack wanted, Jack was going to get.

      ‘I’ve accepted a job with Walter Ashcroft, a legal staffing firm in Chicago,’ he said. ‘I’ll be moving to Chicago. And I’ve arranged for you to stay in the brownstone in Brooklyn.’

      Jack wasn’t a bad man. I was neither seeing him with rose-colored glasses nor was I overly critical. We used to be gentle with each other. We both had good intentions. We had hope, no, more than hope, faith even. Tender moments when unpacking groceries, putting up the Christmas tree, spending a Sunday afternoon on a blanket in the park. And now he was moving me into a brownstone in Brooklyn, one that was, according to him, under renovation but quite habitable. I needed him to be there but I didn’t know how to ask for that.

      Two months later I was in my car on the way to North Dandry while Jack was at the airport waiting for his flight to Chicago.

      ‘I can’t say I like it but I don’t see any other way right now,’ he said when I called him from the car on my way to the brownstone. ‘The project manager is living in the upper apartment while he’s supervising the construction on the other two units. His name is Lieberman. If you need anything and I’m not available, call him. You won’t have to lift a finger. The movers