Girl vanished from her bed in 1991 — 9 years later mom plays her old recording toy…and was shocked

This wasn’t her house anymore. Charles deserved privacy. Whatever calls came here were no longer her business.

She gathered her folder and purse, switching off lights as she moved toward the door. The phone stopped ringing. After a pause, the answering machine clicked on.

Charles’ recorded voice said, You’ve reached the Rhodes residence. Please leave a message. A woman’s voice filled the room, warm but concerned.

Charles, this is Mrs. Jansen from group. I need you to call me back as soon as possible. We need to discuss your attendance and participation.

You’ve missed three sessions now. That’s three weeks, Charles. The group is concerned.

Please call me. Elaine froze. Three weeks? But Charles had just told her he was at therapy.

Every Tuesday evening for the past five years, he’d attended his grief counseling group. It was one of the few constants in their lives after Izzy. Mrs. Jansen had been their rock during the worst times.

A trained therapist who specialized in parental loss, she’d started the group specifically for parents of missing children. Elaine had attended for two years before the sessions became too painful. Why would Charles lie about attending? Where had he been going every Tuesday? She wanted to call Mrs. Jansen back, but that would be overstepping.

Whatever was happening with Charles wasn’t her responsibility anymore. Still, concern gnawed at her. They’d promised to remain friends, to support each other even after the divorce.

Elaine locked the front door and walked to her car. The Honda had come with an expensive car phone installed by the previous owner, a luxury she’d kept for emergencies. She picked up the bulky handset and dialed Charles’s number.

The evening air had cooled, bringing the scent of pine and distant rain. Street lights flickered on along the quiet suburban street. This neighborhood had been their dream when they’d bought the house ten years ago.

Safe, family-friendly, good schools. Now it was just another place where Izzy wasn’t. The phone rang in her ear.

Once, twice, three times. She almost hung up. Then Charles answered.

Hello? His voice sounded strained, breathless. Charles, it’s me, Elaine said. I just wanted to check in.

Where are you? Are you at therapy? Silence stretched between them, broken only by static on the car phone line. Charles, she said, can you hear me? Yes, I- Charles stuttered. I mean, no, but I’m on the way there.

His words tumbled out quickly. I went to pick up Matthew. You know he lives quite far from here, but we plan to attend the session together.

I’ll be fifteen minutes late. Why do you ask? Something in his voice didn’t sound right. Elaine had heard Charles lie before.

White lies about surprise parties. Small fibs to spare someone’s feelings. This had the same quality.

Words coming too fast. Explanations too detailed. I didn’t mean to probe, Elaine said carefully.

When I was at your house getting my documents, a call came in. It went to voicemail. Mrs. Jansen.

Ah, yes. Charles laughed, but it sounded forced. I know she doesn’t like it when anyone’s late to group therapy meetings.

I’ve been late to several meetings, so maybe she wanted to talk to me about that. Late was different from absent. Three weeks of missed sessions wasn’t the same as arriving fifteen minutes after start time.

What did she say in the voicemail? Charles asked, his tone too casual. Elaine hesitated. Part of her wanted to confront him directly, but what was the point? They were divorced.

His choices were his own now. Nothing specific, she said. Just wanted you to call back.

It’s not a big deal. Right. Well, I should get going.

Matthew’s waiting. Sure. Drive safe.

You too. Bye, Elaine. The line went dead.

Elaine stared at the phone for a moment before hanging up. In fifteen years of marriage, she’d learned to read Charles’ moods, his tells. He was definitely lying about something.

She started the car and pulled away from the house. Harrison’s hardware was only five minutes away, a family-owned store that had survived the arrival of big-box retailers through excellent service and community loyalty. The bell above the door chimed as she entered.

George Harrison, the owner’s son, looked up from behind the counter and smiled. Elaine, good to see you. How’s everything? Fine, George.

Just need some shims for a wobbly wardrobe. Aisle three, halfway down. He rang up another customer, then called out.

Hey, how’s Charles’ renovation project going? Does he need a hand? I’ve got some free time this weekend. Elaine paused, confused. Renovation? Yeah, the hobby room he’s building.

He was in here last weekend, bought a whole cart full of supplies. I think you must be mistaken, Elaine said slowly. We don’t have any renovation going on.

George frowned, scratching his head. Hmm. I’m pretty sure it was Charles.

He bought plywood sheets, paint, some new tools, said he was finally making that hobby room he’d always talked about. A hobby room? Charles had mentioned wanting one years ago, back when he still did carpentry projects for fun. But after Izzy disappeared, he’d lost interest in his hobbies.

Well, Elaine said, forcing a smile. I’ll ask him about it. Thanks for the information.

No problem. The shims are right where I said. Elaine found what she needed quickly, paid for her purchase, and headed back to her car.

The hardware store bag crinkled as she set it on the passenger seat. A renovation project she knew nothing about. Missed therapy sessions? Lies about where he was tonight…