Page 118 of Songs for Libby

No one was waiting to take photos of me. Sean’s decoy had worked.

The moment we pulled away from the curb, I grabbed for my phone again. Sean still didn’t pick up, but this time I left a message.

“Sean, I have a really bad feeling that you’re doing something stupid.” My voice quavered with the strain. “I don’t know why you aren’t answering my calls, but it’s starting to scare me. Please call me back, or text me, or something.” I breathed heavily, trying not to cry. “Please.”

I hung up and slammed the phone down on the seat beside me. Maybe he was just going far, far away with the decoy lady. Maybe he had his phone off so it couldn’t be traced. That sounded stupid, even in my panic. And when I had called, it had rung instead of going straight to voicemail, so it must be on.

I spent the ride home staring out the window, my body locked into one position so that I wouldn’t fly apart. The roiling panic that pounded in my chest and stomach and neck was battled solely by my determination to breathe in and then breathe out and then breathe in again. My head ached. They’d only given me Tylenol since anything stronger wouldn’t be good for my milk supply, so my skull continued to throb, scattering my thoughts and stoking my anger.

We pulled up in front of the house and I tried to get Joanie’s car seat out with stiff fingers.

“Let me,” Nick said. “I’ll take her in. You go ahead.”

I did. I walked carefully to the front door, my neck aching, my head pounding away dully. I walked in the front door to utter quiet. And the first thing that caught my eye was the empty space on the other side of the living room where Sean’s guitar usually sat. It was gone. Even the stand was gone. It shouldn’t have been gone. My fear surged up and I had to admit the obvious. If he’d planned to be away from me for only a little while, he would have written me a note. Or texted me. Or sent a message through Nick. Or at least told his guys to keep me informed. But he hadn’t. He hadn’t.

My breathing was shallow, my steps echoing on the entry floor tiles. They were slow. They were scared. They were heartbroken.

Everything was clean and in its place, just as beautiful as it had always been, but it felt different. It felt wrong. I folded my arms across my chest, trying to hold myself together as I walked on stiff legs to the back door and crossed the lawn to the guest house.

I didn’t knock. I didn’t even bother calling out when I went inside. Because I already knew. Before I saw the empty counters, before I saw the too-clean living area. I knew he wouldn’t be there. Even before I saw the note.

It was a sheet of his notebook paper, the one he used to scribble lyrics. It sat in the middle of the coffee table, centered exactly—the house key I had given him sitting right beside it.

I closed my eyes, tears slipping silently past my lashes and down to my chin. Then I slowly forced one foot in front of the other and circled the couch, sitting down in front of that sheet of paper before picking it up with trembling hands, hoping it would tell me he was coming back. Hoping this note wasn’t what I suspected it was.

A Song for Libbywas scrawled across the top. The words were scribbled, written quickly, maybe even furiously. There were cross-outs and redos. It was a mess, but it was for me.

Because I loved you better

Because I love you more

Because I can’t live up

To all you need me for

Because I couldn’t live

If you were ever gone

I have to leave my Libby

With nothing but a song

Love means more than taking

Devotion can’t ring true

If my own heart aching

Leads to pain for you

I hurt my shining muse

I hurt my brightest star

I hurt my little Joanie

By being in that car