The words landed like a blow. He wanted to argue, to demand another search, but something inside him recoiled. Deep down, he understood what the detective meant. The thought hollowed him out. Maybe she hadn’t vanished. Maybe she’d escaped him. That made him wonder what sort of a man and husband he had been.
That night, he replayed the sentence over and over. They don’t want to be found. He whispered it until it became a rhythm, a punishment. The house seemed to absorb it, the walls echoing his confession back to him. Each syllable scraped something raw inside his chest.