By noon, the police were back at his house. Questions layered over questions—same ones, different tones. “When did you last see her?” “Why did you wait to call?” “Were you arguing?” Richard kept repeating the same line: “It was just a prank. A stupid prank.” Each time, it sounded less convincing.
Outside, cameras waited. Reporters shouted his name as he stepped through the station doors, their microphones like bayonets. “Mr. Hale, did you abandon your wife?” “Where is she now?” His PR manager barked for space, hustling him into a car. “Stay calm,” she whispered. “Say nothing.” But silence felt like guilt.