The Dog Wife

Day 90 of my wife's disappearance.

I visited the police station almost daily for updates.

Each time, they just shook their heads.

I was on the verge of breaking down.

Hundreds of thousands of people go missing nationwide every year.

Maybe I already knew she wouldn't be found.

But I refused to accept that a living person could be so hard to locate.

Just after leaving the station, heading home, I passed a secondhand shop.

An item inside made me stop abruptly.

A pair of high heels, polished to a shine.

The soles showed signs of repair.

I recognized them immediately—they were my wife's!

I took the heels down.

Holding them in my hands, I saw where I'd once glued the heel back on.

My emotions surged violently.

"Looking for heels, young man? These are better than department store quality."

"Cheaper too. Great for gifting to a girlfriend or wife."

A portly shopkeeper emerged from behind the counter, smiling at me.

"Where did these come from? How much?"

I steadied myself, offering him a cigarette.

"You're my first customer today. I'll give you a deal—$400."

"Retail would be seven or eight hundred. A friend sold them to me—never worn. You're getting a steal."

The shopkeeper took the cigarette, still smiling as he lit it.

"Have you seen this woman?"

I showed him my wife's photo on my phone.

His enthusiasm vanished instantly.

He glanced dismissively at the picture, smoothly taking the heels from my hands.

"Haven't seen her. Are you shopping or investigating? Wrong place for investigations..."

"These are my wife's shoes. She's been missing for three months."

"Please give me your friend's address. I need to check."

I cut him off, flicking my cigarette butt outside.

I placed a thousand dollars on the counter, pinning down the heels.

My gaze was earnest.

He seemed momentarily stunned, eyeing me before his smile returned.

"Young man, that's proprietary information."

I understood. I pulled out another five hundred, adding it to the pile.

This time, I caught the gleam in his eyes.

Fifteen hundred dollars—in our area, his shop would need over a week to make that much.

"Tsk, what a situation. Must be rough, losing your wife."

"But my friend's... eccentric. Doesn't usually see people."

"You might not get anywhere going alone. Want me to help? Arrange a meeting?"

"Though dinner and drinks would cost you..."

Before he finished, I yanked down the rolling security gate.

I snatched a machete from nearby, slamming it onto the money.

Grabbing his collar, I glared at him viciously.