Eleven Hours by Paullina Simons Page B

Freshens Yogurt counter. She smiled. “Can I help you?”
    â€œI hope so,” said Rich intensely. “I hope so. My wife—” He stammered. “My wife was here earlier today.” He thrust the bag at her. She moved away. “My wife was here and bought these two pretzels.”
    â€œWait, hold on, hold on, sir,” said the girl. “I just came on. I don’t know anything.”
    â€œWho worked before you?”
    â€œAlex. He just left.” Rich’s face must have implied urgency, because she said, “Wait, maybe he’s still in the back changing. Hold on.”
    She came back a few minutes later with Alex.
    â€œIt’s your lucky day,” said Alex.
    â€œSomehow I doubt it,” said Rich. “Unless you want to redefine the nature of my luck.” He thrust the bag with the receipt and the pretzels at Alex. “My wife was here earlier. She bought these here.”
    Glancing at the receipt, Alex said, almost defensively, “Is something wrong with them?”
    â€œNo, but something could be wrong with my wife,” said Rich. “She’s disappeared.”
    Alex smirked a little. “Do you think it had something to do with the pretzels?”
    The counter rattled when Rich slammed down his fist. “You think that’s funny? Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. Let me explain. My wife, nine months pregnant, was here earlier today shopping. At twelve twenty-five she bought these from you. At twelve-thirty she called me and asked if she could meet me for lunch earlier than planned. At one o’clock she didn’t show up, and no one’s heard from her since. So now, tell me what part of that you find funny, so we can laugh together.”
    Paling, Alex said, “Hey, look, I’m sorry, I didn’t do anything. What did your wife look like?”
    â€œPregnant. Extremely, inordinately, unbelievably pregnant. How many pregnant women did you serve today?”
    â€œWell, one that I remember,” said Alex grumpily. “But you know, the counter is high—I don’t look over and check out my customers’ stomachs.”
    Rich reached over and grabbed Alex by the shoulders, shaking him. “God, help me. Please,” he whispered. “My wife is missing.”
    Immediately he let go; Alex looked noticeably upset. Rubbing his arms, the teenager said, “Look, I don’t know anything. I just saw one pregnant woman here, long dark hair, carrying a lot of bags.”
    Rich brightened. “Yes?” he said. “That sounds like my wife. What was she wearing?”
    â€œI don’t know—oh, wait. A yellow dress.”
    Rich nodded. “That’s my wife.” Did that make him feel better? If it did, it didn’t make him feel better for long.
    â€œYeah?” Alex said. “That’s all I can tell you. She bought a couple of pretzels, I think. Paid. Left, carrying all her bags. A guy who was here buying a pretzel for himself caught up to her and asked her if she needed some help with the bags—”
    Rich asked in a small, stricken voice, “What guy?”
    â€œI don’t know. Some guy. I’d never seen him before.”
    â€œNo, of course not. Did my wife seem to know him?”
    â€œNo. He seemed nice, though. Kept asking her questions about the pregnancy, you know, when she was due, that sort of thing.”
    Rich stepped back from the counter. “This guy, what did he look like?”
    â€œI don’t know,” said Alex. “I didn’t pay attention.”
    â€œPlease try to remember.”
    â€œI really don’t know. Maybe your age.” Alex looked Rich over. “How old are you?”
    â€œThirty-four.”
    â€œNo. I don’t know. He was older than me, that’s all I know.”
    â€œBeard? Mustache?”
    â€œNo, clean-cut. Short hair. Taller than me.”
    â€œTaller than me? ” asked Rich.
    â€œHow