I made up the title almost out of the blue, because this is too small a snippet to deserve a title. It was written for practice and was intended purely as a writing prompt. The ending is rather tight and would require some creativity, so maybe it wasn't much of a prompt. But here it is. 

Title:  Among the Missing: An Inspector Pflemming Mystery
Authors:  Bob Freye

“And you never saw him again?”

Inspector Bryce Pflemming studied her face out of the corner of his eye as he doodled in his little notebook. It was a trick they had taught him at the police school. Rather dishonest behavior, but if the truth be told, he had practiced all sorts of deviousness when interviewing people associated with a case. His most effective methods were little more than justifiable lying.

“No, Inspector,” she gasped, “I never saw him again.”

She clutched the dainty handkerchief, from time to time moving it to her face to dab at her eyes or wipe her cheek. She did not sob, exactly, though her breathing was labored, like a silent weeping. Since he had come to the house, the tears had not stopped. Inspector Pflemming was amazed. She should be quite dehydrated by now.

“You’ll tell me if he tries to get in contact with you.” It was a question, but more of a suggestion, a reminder. He would be surprised if her husband actually called, judging by the feel of this case.

“Well, he has called.”

For a moment, Pflemming forgot about his little notebook and looked up. That had not taken long.

“When?”

“The other day.”

“What did he say?”

“Not much.” She tried to remember the rambling conversation. “He wanted something.”

“Why didn’t you say something about this sooner?” he asked.

“You never asked if he called.”

“Mrs. Maar, you told us that your husband was missing.”

“Yes, and he is, isn’t he? I mean, he isn’t here, is he? Look around." She waved an arm imperiously through the air. "He should be here, but he isn’t.”

“Mrs. Maar, if you know where a person is, he can’t be a missing person.”

“Well, I don’t know that.” She dabbed at her eye. “He didn’t say where he was.”

“Did you ask him?”

She stopped dabbing and looked straight at Pflemming.

“That would be rude.”

The inspector tucked the notebook back into his coat and crossed his arms.

“Mrs. Maar, do you have any idea why your husband left home?”

“No.”

“None at all?”

She turned away from him and walked slowly to the window overlooking the Victorian gardens that she kept impeccably.

“No,” she repeated.

“I don’t believe you.”

When she turned back toward him, he was surprised by the look of conviction on her face.

“I have proof.”

“Of what?” the inspector asked. “Proof of your husband’s disappearance? Proof of the fact that you don’t know why he left?”

“Yes,” she said simply. She walked deliberately to a table set against the wall. There she found a small box. She lifted it carefully and held it out to the inspector. “You wanted proof,” she said, “and I have it.”

It was a case for a pair of eyeglasses. Inspector Pflemming took it from her and opened it. There were no eyeglasses inside. But it was not empty.

“Yes,” the inspector admitted, “you have proof.”