I know how this looks. A grown man crying on the floor of his bathroom, while eating a pizza—clearly I’ve gone mad. Rest assured, I haven’t. This story actually has a happy ending. It all started in interrogation room 2B.

***

“Has Agent Lear been in contact with you?”

“No, I’ve already—”

“Do you know where she might have gone?”

“No, what’s this abo—”

“Do you have any children, Agent Garret? Family members she might try to contact?”

“No, it’s just the two of us. Listen, can’t you tell me what’s going on? We’re on the same team here, right?”

“Are we, Agent Garret?”

I breathe loudly, thrown by his question. He hands me his card.

“Call me immediately if she reaches out. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you what happens if you don’t.”

I glare at him, then glance at the card—Detective Cavisle, FBI. I leave the small room without another word. Heading to my car, I replay events in my mind, trying to make sense of them.

My wife was working on some big case. I remember she said over dinner last week that some congressman was killed in a car crash. She had sounded worried, and given our line of work, my Marla and I don’t worry easily.

I start the car and flinch—someone’s banging on my passenger window. I lower it.

“Was just passing by and saw you heading out. Figured I’d remind you to give me a call right away if you have any information regarding our investigation. I trust you’ll have a good evening, Agent Garret.”

Detective Cavisle waits until I nod, then walks away. His message is clear. Until the case is resolved, my conversations with anyone—even my toaster or this steering wheel—will not be private. I resign myself to that reality as I begin the long commute home.

I pull into the driveway. Heading inside, I grab the mail and toss it on the kitchen counter. I flip the lights, then check my cell for messages—none—good. She’s too smart for that. After I get changed, I fill a pot to boil. Looks like it’ll be pasta for a while. I throw in the rigatoni and sprinkle in salt before grabbing the envelope on top of the pile.

The car insurance bill is first. And it’s already open. I continue as if nothing happened, remembering I’m likely being monitored, then check my watch. Seven minutes until dinner’s ready. I grab the envelope and walk nonchalantly to the bathroom—the only place I’m fairly certain has no camera.

I gently pull out the contents. There are two signed documents that appear to be photocopies—one with a red number one, the other with a two. I set aside the correspondingly numbered foil packets, like Alka-Seltzer tablets, and pick up the postcard:

_Hi Ron,_

_Hope you’re doing well. This Rainforest is amazing—not a raindrop is out of place. Well, I’m going to continue this escape from reality for as long as I can. Maybe you could come check it out next. We could have a Margarita together._

_Impatiently waiting,_

_Marla_

I stare at it. Rainforest? No, Marla’s not a fan of the outdoors. That’s our private term for ink on a page—the rain being ink, the forest the paper. And it looks like she’s impressed by the quality of the forgery. Hmm.

I take the two sheets of paper. They’re both contracts—both with her signature. I see it instantly. The reason she ran.

The car my wife supposedly bought, then sold—according to these documents—must have been the one used in the hit-and-run that killed the congressman. And although Marla confirmed the signatures are the real deal, she needs a second opinion. Like she missed something or, more likely, ran out of time. And she can’t wait long.

I think for a minute. Then I remember the pasta—damn! I leave everything and run to the kitchen. After a bite of mushy, overcooked salt with pasta—yuck—I clean up, toss the rest, and slowly make my way back to the bathroom.

As I take my seat again on the edge of the tub, an idea hits me. She might not have had time to test _that_.

But—and she must have known this—I’m on forced leave and can’t access any of my testing gear. However, she’s provided a solution—Margarita. No, she’s not asking me to drink the problem away, though a double shot of vodka would help. She means Margerie—her friend from the lab. I’ve never met her, but Marla must have confided in her.

But how do I get this to her? She lives on the FBI campus, and I’d be spotted as soon as… wait, that’s it.

I order a pizza.

Before you judge, it wasn’t for me—although I was hungry. While I wait, I go through the bathroom drawers and find… a makeup pencil. It’ll have to do. I scrawl a quick note, tuck it in the envelope, then repack the original contents. I slip it down the front of my pants so it’s held by my belt and hidden by my polo shirt. Then I walk casually to my bedroom to grab some cash. A lot of it.

When the driver arrives, I run out to meet him.

“Ronald?” says the driver over the sound of the engine. He hands me my order. But I don’t take it.

“Yeah, hey, look. I need your help.” I pull out my wallet, leaning on the passenger window. He looks at me nervously.

“Here’s,” I place the bills in his hand, “five hundred bucks. I need you to deliver this pizza to this address.” I hand him the detective’s card. “Ask for Margerie. Listen, I’m being watched, and they have my wife.” I emphasize this last part—in a way it’s true—then add, “and I need to borrow your phone real quick.”

“Please,” I beg when he still looks unsure. I hand him the envelope. “Put this in the box under the pizza. As soon as you get back, go into my mailbox and you’ll find another five. Look, you know where I live, David. You’re my only hope here,” I plead, using his name for the first time.

He stares at me. For a second I worry he won’t do it. Then he takes his phone, unlocks it, and hands it to me. I quickly fire off a message, delete it, and hand it back.

“Thank you,” I say. Then I stand—and yell at him.

“Take this back! I ordered a plain white pizza and cannot digest the red sauce,” I wink at him. “I’m not paying for this.” I put away my wallet and watch as he slips the envelope under the pizza just as instructed, then drives away.

I stomp back into the house, keeping up the act. I’m sure if Marge tests the samples, she’ll confirm my suspicion. She works late, so it won’t look strange to get a late-night pizza. I’ve done the same for tough cases.

It’s nearly midnight when I get a knock. It’s David. And he’s brought a pizza? I open the door, surprised to see him in the entryway.

“Again, I’m so sorry, sir. Here’s your pizza with no red sauce,” he says quickly, then adds, looking me in the eye, “With extra toppings on the house.”

I look at him for a beat, then take it, silently mouthing “thank you” as I do. He nods, and I close the door.

I take the pizza box into the bathroom, not caring for the moment how that might look. Finding a note under the pizza, I yank it out. Then read it—and start bawling. I read it again, tears falling on a slice as I eat it greedily.

_Hi Ronald,_

_Epic idea with the pizza. Wouldn’t have thought of it. Okay, first, you probably know this, but they think Marlana intentionally cut the brake line of the classic car she’s accused of selling to Senator Adlen, which killed him when he couldn’t stop and drove INTO a drive-thru menu board. I’ll skip the joke about how fast food can kill ya. Anyways, the charges against her are total crap. I mean, c’mon, the car was Colonial White, and she hates bright colors. I mean, you would know. She wouldn’t be caught dead in—scratch that, poor word choice. Like, we know she’s innocent._

_Second, I checked the samples. She was right—that’s her signature. No doubt! The quality of the forgery is, well, amazing. It shows signs of a state actor—it’s seriously that good. Some foreign government clearly wanted this Adlen guy taken off the board._

_Now, I checked out your hunch. You were totally right, and I’m actually surprised the DA missed it. I checked the glycol levels on the purchase contract, and they were diminished, but still had traces, which is consistent with writing within, say, the last seventy-two hours. In the bill of sale, the glycol was completely gone. I know you know what that means. Your wife would have had to buy the car after she sold it, which is like not possible._

_Third, the DA agrees with me. That it’s not a thing. She invalidated both contracts AND agreed to drop all charges. I of course got that in writing. You can thank me later. I don’t know how you got, like, the DA to come see me, but bravo, Ron! Marlana’s lucky to have you._

_And one more thing. She knows EVERYTHING! I was able to contact her using a super secret method she set up before she had to disappear. She’s so amazing._

_Bestest,_

_Marge_

The front door opens.