My name is Duke Roberts, and I was once an ordinary man up until the day my wife disappeared. It was March 11, 2022, only two days after our daughter Elsie’s 18th birthday. All seemed fine that Friday morning.
Felicia wasn’t extra lovey-dovey, nor was she cold. As usual, she made breakfast for the three of us: golden milk pancakes, homemade whipped cream, sliced strawberries, and maple syrup. The temperatures outside had plummeted, so she brewed a hot chocolate.
With tummies full, off Elsie went to school. Off I went to work to repair seven luxury vacuum cleaners. And off Felicia went into the void.
At 4:15 pm that day, Elsie called me frantically, stating that Felicia was nowhere to be found and wanted to know where her mother was.
“Working,” I suggested, while struggling with a tight wire on what seemed a lemon of a vacuum cleaner. It was the fifth time in two months that the owner had an issue with the machine. It wasn’t like other machines, which were loaded with animal fur or foreign coins. The inside was immaculate.
Elsie grunted, “You’re not hearing me, Dad! Mom’s cell phone is here.”
The cell phone. It took a moment to register what that meant. Felicia was always glued to her phone. Now, I had no choice but to walk away from the stupid bright-orange vacuum cleaner and zero in on the call with my daughter.
“Did you check the bathrooms?”
“My god, Dad, I already told you, I checked the entire house. The backyard. The basement. The attic. The garage. And don’t ask, her car is here too. Can you just come home? I don’t know what to do.”
Leaving the repair shop early was a rarity for me. It closed every day at 6:00. By 6:15, I’d shuffle to my car. Take a deep breath before hitting the road.
On March 11, 2022, at 4:30 pm, I found myself sitting behind the wheel, stuck in traffic. Nothing on the radio appealed to me. My playlist needed an update. So I just sat there, staring at the car’s bumper ahead of me.
Traffic finally picked up, but then I saw it: The Stonehedge Diner. Maybe she was hungry and walked here, I thought.
Made a quick U-turn, pulled into the parking lot, and the place, minus the cooks and servers, was empty.
Matt, one of the tattooed servers, knew us by name. He waved me in.
“Cold out there,” he said, offering me a menu.
“I’m here looking for my wife. Have you seen her?”
“Felicia,” Matt shrugged. “Haven’t seen you, Felicia, or your daughter, in about a month. Thought you ditched us for the new diner.”
I chuckled and then stared at the very table where our family was always seated. Felicia was obsessed with the diner’s eggs Benedict. Always overeasy. The hollandaise sauce was made in-house. The blend of the dripping eggs with the hollandaise sauce got Felicia moaning and her eyes rolling. Eventually, Elsie mocked her mother’s demeanor.
“Can I get you anything?” Matt asked.
“Thank you, but I have to find my wife.” We shook hands, and off I was, back in the traffic.
Elsie had torn the house apart. Cushions were off the couches. Blankets ripped off the beds. Garbage can covers feet away from their bases.
“She’s nowhere,” Elsie shouted, pounding her fists into my chest.
“Sweetie, she has to be somewhere. People don’t just disappear.” I hugged Elsie and kissed the top of her head.
Letting go of my daughter meant I had to face the inevitable of thoroughly searching the house before getting the cops involved. Elsie pried herself out of my grip and stormed up into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.
Unlike vacuum cleaners, there’s no manual for how to handle a missing person, especially your beloved wife. So, I calmly walked through every room, including Elsie’s, turning everything upside down.
All of Felicia’s clothing, except for what she wore that morning, was either perfectly hung or folded in the closet. As I stood in the closet, fondling the hem of her gorgeous, bright blue-and-red summer dress, I pictured her stepping outside for a breath of fresh air, only to be beamed up into outer space.
I had no choice but to get the police involved. My finger hovered over the “1”. Just one more digit to go, then our house would be crawling with law enforcement.
Every moment from that point on, for the remainder of my life has been a blur. Sure, there are pointed moments that I can easily recollect. The pain of losing Felicia, to God knows where, played with the molecules in my brain. Therapists call this disassociation.
What I do remember on the day the cops arrived was lots of crying. Elsie and I were separated for hours. At one point, the detectives seemed to accuse me of foul play. I got pissed and nearly knocked that detective out. Took some fresh air outside when Matt, the tattooed server at The Stonehedge Diner, sat beside me.
“My cousin A-a-a-arthur is the lead detective on the case,” Matt stammered. The poor man always seemed to stammer when starting a conversation. “He called and asked for a statement. Told him I’d be glad to. Duke, listen. She’ll come back. You two were a power couple. My favorite people to serve.”
He squeezed my arm, but I didn’t know what to say. He then rose and entered my house, calling for his cousin.
This whole law enforcement fiasco seemed to last till midnight, possibly till very early the next morning. Eventually, Arthur sat Elsie and me down. There was a ton of legal mumbo jumbo that I refuse to remember, other than allowing a patrol car to park in front the house every night for a month.
By day 30, it became clear that Felicia wasn’t coming back. Arthur marked this a cold case, but urged me to call him should she reappear or anything else suspicious arise.
Elsie’s high school graduation was approaching. If there was a time in 2022 when I was certain Felicia would return, it would be to witness this. Elsie felt it too. On graduation day, she paced in her cap and gown, chewing on her recently manicured fingernails.
“I’m gonna die if mom shows up,” Elsie whispered in my ear. She kissed me on the cheek and joined her classmates, all of them so giddy. Were they high? Was Elsie high?
I couldn’t think about that as a pain in my side returned at full force. It started a week after Felicia’s disappearance and only seemed to worsen. Elsie urged me to see a doctor, but I kept putting it off, hoping it would improve.
As a family, we never fully discussed Elsie’s plans after high school. In our own private conversations, Felicia and I leaned toward Elsie going to college, but we never broached that topic with her. At least not me.
When Elsie had her friends over, Felicia and I overheard our daughter talking about taking a gap year. “I feel so sheltered,” Elsie said. “Plus, if I went to college, I wouldn’t know what to do. So, maybe I’ll work for a year. Learn about earning money. Get out into the world and then consider college.”
This felt like a strong argument to me, so I never pushed Elsie in any direction. Felicia, however, worried that life would take over. Bills would pile up. Maybe, Elsie would fall in with the wrong crowd, and college would become a distant memory.
A panic came over. My heart throbbed in my chest as the principal named every graduating student in alphabetical order. He was on “F”. There was plenty of time. I stood up and paced anxiously. There were plenty of seats in the back row. Perfect place to scan the crowd, in case Felicia decided to sneak in.
My focus was on every person in the crowd. Maybe Felicia was squeezed in amongst other folks. Could Felicia have gotten confused? Went for a walk on March 11. Walked into the wrong house and then got sucked into that stranger’s world, forgetting all about Elsie and me.
The principal’s voice droned on. It no longer mattered what letter he was on, because somebody in this room had to have seen Felicia that day. Why wasn’t anybody coming forward? A rage stirred in me. If I had a knife on me, I would have slashed everyone’s throat till they uttered the truth about my wife’s whereabouts.
The pain in my side doubled in intensity. I almost shouted so loud that the whole room would have turned their eyes on me. My car was somewhere in that overly stuffed parking lot. Just when I thought the pain had reached its limit, it only escalated. Where was my fucking car?
What were all those white coats staring at me? Why was everything so out of focus? And that damn beeping, turn it off.
I awoke in a hospital room. A middle-aged nurse with wild red hair grabbed my hand and grinned, “Welcome back, Mr. Roberts. How are you feeling?”
“Where’s my daughter?” I mumbled. “Did they call her name yet?”
“Hours ago,” Elsie said. She was somewhere in the room. I tried to turn to see her, but everything ached.
“Careful,” the nurse warned. “We don’t want you passing out again.”
Elsie finally stood from wherever she had been seated, more likely texting her friends or on Reddit. She was still in her cap and gown. Her makeup had smeared from crying.
“Dad, stay strong for me, please.” Elsie leaned in to squeeze my hand.
“Yeah, what is wrong with me?” I asked the nurse, who had one foot out the door.
“We’re still running tests, Mr. Roberts. Once the doctor has figured everything out, he’ll be in here to discuss with you.”
In the years that followed, the phrase “we’re still running tests” became every medical professional’s mantra. Nothing was ever figured out. My condition worsened. There were days when I couldn’t walk. Couldn’t see. Had difficulty lifting a simple glass of water. There were weeks when all I could mutter was “hello”.
Working became an impossibility. DMV classified me as legally blind, even though I had no problem reading regular print novels. I was forced out of my home and into a nursing facility with 24/7 assistance. On most days, I was the most competent patient on the ward. However, I’d be a liar if I said their round-the-clock care wasn’t relevant for me.
My physical decline weighed heavily on Elsie. She stopped wearing makeup, which was odd for her. Her social life took a heavy hit, as most of her friends had traveled before starting college. She’d visit me with her shoulders hunched.
Finally, I said to her, “Move to Austin, sweetie. I know how badly you want to go there.”
“What about the house?” Elsie scraped away whatever grime had been trapped under her left pointer fingernail with the edge of her right thumb.
“I don’t know,” I grumbled. “We’ll rent it. Airbnb?”
That’s exactly what we did. Elsie put all the family albums, pictures, clothing, and other miscellaneous junk in a storage unit. Within a few months, the house was rented to a nice young family, according to Elsie.
She found a job working as an office assistant at a record company. Got a bunch of roommates, all of whom worked in the music industry. Elsie had quite the expansive social for only being there for a few short months. That only escalated over the years she had lived there.
Despite her busy schedule, Elsie called me daily. At the end of every call, she’d ask, “You sure you don’t want me to come up there?” Dallas was only three hours from Austin. Yes, I always loved seeing Elsie, but what joy could I have offered her from a nursing facility? I always declined a visit, unless she insisted.
We’d get together on our birthdays, major holidays, and on a few random occasions. Mostly, she lived her life in Austin, doing her thing.
I wish there were a part of this story where my health improved. Where I had hopped in my old car and paid Elsie regular visits. Maybe I started a low-key vacuum cleaner repair business. Hired a bunch of folks to run the joint. Occasionally, I’d join Elsie on a weekend outing with her friends. Felicia would suddenly reappear, and we’d all be a happy family in Austin.
That isn’t what took place. My health either stayed the same or worsened, depending on the day. The only vehicles I got to see were ambulances for these too regular moments when my health took a turn.
Several months ago, I received what seemed like a mildly disturbing call from Elsie. Looking back, I should have pressed further into the details, but I was in agony, having returned only hours ago from the hospital.
Elsie sounded out of breath, like she had just run up the staircase of The Reunion Tower. “Dad, did I tell you about this date I went on a few weeks ago?”
“Remind me, my memory’s been foggy, as you know,” I said, laughing, hoping this conversation was going somewhere pleasant.
“His name is Trevor,” Elsie said, sighing. “We met on one of the dating apps. Not gonna lie, his pics are amazing, but in person, he was very weird. He took me to a cute lobster restaurant. The conversation was awkward. Anyway, I told him at the end of dinner that, although he’s very good-looking, I don’t see us going anywhere. I wished him luck, and we went our own separate ways.”
“I’m proud of you, honey.”
“No,” she interrupted me. “This is where it gets weird, Dad. I never saw Trevor before this date. Not once. Trust me, I would have remembered him. Austin is pretty spread out. Now, all of a sudden, weeks later, I’ve been seeing him everywhere. I see him when I’m out with friends, on the way to the gym. He even showed up at my work, claiming he’s got business there. I just saw him again, just a few minutes ago, on the way home.”
“Does he seem threatening?” I asked. By now, the meds I got at the hospital were wearing off. This horrific throbbing sensation started up on the sole of my right foot. Whatever that was, needed to simmer down; my daughter was on the phone.
“He seems perfectly normal,” Elsie said. “More normal than he was on the date. Always cracking a joke about how I’m stalking him. There’s a part of me that’s more attracted to him, but I still feel like something is off. What do you think’s going on, Dad?”
That pain wasn’t going anywhere except up my leg. I tried my hardest to push the pause button, but such a thing doesn’t exist in bodily pain, other than medication. Or amputation.
“Honey,” I growled. “When I was a little boy, I had no idea what the inside of a vacuum cleaner looked like. There are so many parts inside that machine, I can’t even name them all. I can start to, but you’d get bored.”
“True,” she said, giggling.
“After my first time learning about what makes a vacuum cleaner work, all of a sudden, I’d see those parts everywhere. Not in restaurants or cab rides, but in these random places, all over the place. Maybe that’s what’s going on with you and this Trevor guy.”
“Yeah, but I thought he said he lived on the other side of Austin,” Elsie said. “Maybe I misheard him?”
“I don’t know, honey. All I know is that if I don’t call in a nurse, I’m gonna go back to the hospital.”
The next time I remember hearing from Elsie, she was frantic. Earlier that day, she was pulled into Human Resources and laid off. The company claimed to have been downsizing and had to let her and a few others go.
“It’s time for me to leave Austin. I’ve had enough.”
“Oh, honey,” I said, pacing. It was one of my better days, physically speaking. “What about your friends and roommates?”
“What roommates? Dad, I’ve been living alone for a year now. The lease is ending in a few weeks. And my friends, ugh. They’re not the greatest. I think I’m just gonna move back to the house, Dad.”
“What about the tenants?”
“Oh my God,” Elsie said while laughing. I could tell she was getting quite annoyed. “The tenants bought a house in New York, a year and a half ago. Since I was in Austin, it made no sense for me to bring in new tenants. Especially with my job. We talked about all of this at great length.”
She was right. I hated talking logistics with my daughter, especially about my home. That was something saved for Felicia and me.
After that, our calls were short. So many arrangements to move home from Austin to Dallas. Things were looking up. I’d have my daughter back. My health seemed to stabilize for weeks. I considered getting a ride to Austin to help Elsie. Kept that to myself, thank goodness, as a cold took over. Then a random itchiness that made it hard to breathe.
I slept for days, only waking up to have my daily talks with Elsie. She was in a conundrum. She had put in a change-of-address to Dallas. Her employer had mailed a check to Elsie’s Austin apartment, and she needed those funds to make the move. Somewhere along the way, her check got lost in the mail.
“They don’t do direct deposit at your old job?” I asked.
“Direct deposit?” Elsie said, while cracking up. She must have dropped the phone in between her couch cushions, as everything got muted and muffled for a bit. “Dad, let me tell you, I am glad they laid me off. They are so outdated. Everything I know about the workplace in the 1980s is how that company runs things. So now, I have to wait for a new check to be issued in California! But because I put the change of address in, they can’t mail it to my Austin address. It has to come to the office, and then I have to pick it up on whatever day it arrives. This is so fucking convoluted.”
The calls from Elsie became shorter and shorter as she prepared to make her way to Dallas. There was so much to do, between packing, ending her gym membership, saying goodbye to her favorite staff at coffee shops and restaurants. And there was Trevor. Showing up everywhere.
“Trevor’s back to his creepy self,” Elsie said. “He no longer smiles or jokes around when we run into one another. He stands in the corner with a snarl on his face. He scares me.”
My heart pounded in my chest. “I don’t like this. Elsie, honey, you’ve got to get home now.”
“I’m trying, Dad! The apartment is all packed, minus a few things. There was one check that should have arrived last week, but it’s apparently lost in the mail. So a new check should be arriving if not today, then tomorrow.”
The check did not arrive that day or the next. Elsie’s former employer made these grand overtures about overnighting the check, but that failed to occur.
On my final call with her on Monday, February 16th, 2026, at 11:15 am, Elsie promised that if the check didn’t arrive later that day, she’d sell as many of her belongings on Facebook Marketplace. Whatever didn’t sell, she’d leave in the apartment, possibly forfeiting the entirety of her security deposit.
“That could take days to sell, honey.”
“Not if I sell everything for $10 or less,” Elsie
said while giggling. “I’m coming home with or without that check, Dad. It would be nice to have money in my pocket when I get there.”
If I could freeze time, it would have been the very second before she hung up. I would have said, “Fuck the money, Elsie. Get here now. You’re not safe in Austin.” But those words were nowhere in my brain at the time. All I know is that something terrible was brewing, and there was nothing I could do or say to prevent it.
Tuesday, February 17, 2026: No call from Elsie. Same with February 18. And the 19th. As well as the 20th.
I must have dialed her a hundred times a day that week. Whatever made me bedridden these last few years, suddenly vanished. Something awful happened, and I had to get to Austin.
Despite all my pleading with every nurse, not one would drive me down there. A resident’s kind daughter, Grace, heard my dilemma and agreed to take me.
The last time I was in Austin was on my honeymoon. Felicia and I barhopped. Smoked tons of pot. Attended multiple concerts a night. Just when I thought my love for Felicia had reached its pinnacle on our wedding day, that honeymoon took everything to a whole new level.
There I was, twenty-five years later, sitting in Grace’s car, doing everything in my power not to scream at the top of my lungs, while she fired off question after question, leaving no room for thought. Then a drowsiness kicked in.
“I’m gonna get rest,” I said, my eyes already closed.
“Go right ahead,” Grace said, turning on some music. It was too irritating to sleep. The musician’s voice sounded overpolished. Her lyrics were impossible to decipher. On every track, the drum beat had so much bass, it made my heart rattle. The war between overtalking and listening to this nonsense was real. But it was a free ride to a place I wish never had existed.
We were blocks away from Elsie’s apartment. A sudden burst of anger and nausea rose out of me. I smacked the “Off” button to the music and said, “Pull the fuck over”.
“It’s only a few minutes…”Grace said, clearly disturbed.
“Do you want me to puke all over your car or are you gonna pull the fuck over so I can…” That was all I could say before several ounces of the most acidic brown-and-yellow liquid rushed out of my mouth.
Grace slammed on the brakes, causing the cars behind her to blare their horns. Using one hand, I held back more vomit from leaking all over her car. With the other, I opened the door and fell to my knees on the pavement, releasing the rest of the bile.
My only focus was clearing the junk out of my system. In all my years under medical care, I never vomited. Sure, there were moments of nausea, but that would quickly dissipate.
At some point, I heard Grace asking me if I was okay. But eventually, I tuned her out. There was a larger, sharper sound. It was close. Too close. It seemed to scream my name. Not for me, but…for someone else. For Elsie.
There were sirens. All concentrated in one area: the direction of Elsie’s apartment. Granted, I had never been there, but I sure as heck know how to read a map.
I used the open car door to stand. Bile clung to my knees, its thinner elements slowly dripping down my leg as I limped toward Elsie’s apartment. My pace hastened.
A half block ahead, there were fire trucks, police cars, and one ambulance. The emergency crew milled about, shaking their heads, moving in slow motion.
“Elsie,” I screamed, pushing past the police tape. Hands reached out to grab me, but I knocked them away.
“Sir, this is a crime scene, you can’t be here,” someone said.
“I’ll leave once I find my daughter, Elsie,” I yelled back. “Has anyone seen her?” I must have screamed her name a dozen times before a hand touched my shoulder.
“Please, God, let this be her,” I thought. The hand felt too big. Elsie’s hand was soft and warm. This hand felt cold and brittle.
“Mr. Roberts,” it was the voice of a woman whose hand touched my back.
How did she know my name? I wasn’t famous. Just a sick man who worked in the vacuum cleaner repair industry for far too long. Were they a former client who moved to Austin? Or possibly it was my daughter’s friend who had seen multiple pictures of me on her phone?
No, the woman was too old to be my daughter’s friend. Her hair was pulled back in a bun. She wore a dark suit. FBI?
“I’m Detective Patrice from the Austin Police Department.”
The detective pulled me aside into a decked-out police van where there was a group of officers. Some were filling out papers. Others stood in the back, listening in as Detective Patrice spoke. Her words were a garbled mess.
My focus was on all the gadgets everywhere. Altogether, it must have cost $100,000 or more. Everything was so shiny and sparkly. There was one silver lever in the center. That must have been the switch to turn on the siren.
“When Elsie was about five,” I said, clearly interrupting the detective. “She used to love sirens. She’d rush to the window whenever a firetruck, police car, or ambulance drove past. It was some obsession that frankly, my wife and I never comprehended.”
“That’s a sweet story, Mr. Roberts,” Detective Patrice said, patting my right hand. “Again, I’m sorry for your loss. Going back to the suspect, Trevor Rice, have you ever met him?”
“My loss? You mean Felicia? It’s been about four years.”
Detective Patrice asked the other officers to clear the van. It was bigger than expected. Before leaving, one of them turned on a camera. I could see myself on the screen. Unlikely this was being televised. I waved just to assure this was a live feed. It was.
“This is a lot, Mr. Roberts. I really understand how difficult this must be for you.”
“I’m sorry, you said the name Trevor Rice. Isn’t that the man who dated Elsie once? What about that creep?”
When someone drops an emotional weight upon you, especially if you’re prone to memory issues from the get-go, how can one lay out the specific details uttered? Despite having read the coroner’s report five hundred times, I still cannot quote it verbatim. Do you blame me?
My editorial about what happened is as follows:
- My dearest only child, Elsie, was excited about her new life in Austin. Made friends. Went on a couple of dates and then met the wrong man, Trevor Rice.
- Inheriting her parents’ bad luck with prosperity, Elsie found a job that paid the mere essentials but not much more. When she lost her job and was ready to return to her hometown in Dallas, she had to wait for that last paycheck to be mailed, as she always did. This time was different, she thought, because she had put a change of address in, which led her to believe that the carriers became confused.
- There was also a new policy at USPS, which became very unclear to most postal workers. The clerk who collected her change of address told her she’d have to wait at the Austin address until a particular change of address card came through. That could be anywhere between 10 and 14 business days.
- In her “waiting” period for a card that would never have been sent along with the reissued check, Elsie continuously ran into Trevor, the creep who failed to accept that, despite his good looks, he wasn’t a proper match for my daughter. No fault of Elsie, as the man stalked her. My daughter knew this, wanted out, didn’t have the financial means to get out, was ready to sell as many of her belongings to get out, yet never made it.
- On Tuesday, February 17, 2026, Elsie received an unwelcome guest: Trevor Rice. He burst through the door. Gagged her so she couldn’t scream. Raped her multiple times throughout his near week-long terror.
- At some point during Trevor’s unwelcome stay, Elsie attempted to flee. There are bite marks on that creep’s arm that prove she put up a fight. Something clearly more sinister than Trevor’s previous behaviors must have kicked in. He grabbed a tape gun, possibly the nearest object to him, and smacked my daughter over the head really hard. Once she released her grip, he kept going. Her chest. Then her stomach. The thighs. Her kneecap. Trevor then flipped her over and hit every part of her spine with that damned tape gun.
- Trevor fled the scene of the crime with blood dripping down his clothing. He made it only a half block when a police officer noticed him. A whole squad was called. They threw Trevor into the back of a car. Interrogated. He said nothing, but only trembled. They then searched his body, where they found the original check sent to Elsie, weeks earlier.
It’s been two months since Elsie’s murder. The nursing home completely discharged me as my health took a sudden turnaround. I’m back at the old home where the giggles of Felicia and Elsie used to echo through the hallways.
Returning to work as a luxury vacuum cleaner repairman made no sense. That was my old identity. I got a small side hustle doing small repairs in people’s homes. Whether it’s hanging a blackout curtain or installing a new electrical outlet, it’s all the same to me. As long as I get enough food to finish writing this miserable story.
If there’s a story I’d rather tell, it’s the one where my health takes a sudden turn for the worse. Felicia and Elsie would be with me as I take my last breath. Then, hovering over their bodies, I watch them mourn, find happiness again. One night, as a 99-year-old woman, Felicia goes to sleep and takes her last breath mid-sleep. Elsie would have met a wonderful man. They’d have kids. She’d watch her grandkids grow old. Just the typical story of an average family.
Yet here I am, plopping words on the page in between repairs and the court case against Trevor Rice. Maybe I’ll get lucky, and the very second I hit publish, that’ll be the end of me. It isn’t like I have anything else to lose.