Dead Letters(87)

I reach for my rumpled dress, which Wyatt has hung over the rail of the bed; I smile at the small, thoughtful gesture. Humming softly, I make the bed, fluff the pillows, open the window to let in some fresh air, and head downstairs.

Dora and Steve are sitting at the kitchen table, and Wyatt is pouring coffee at the kitchen counter. “Muffin?” he says around a mouthful of something, crossing the kitchen to hand me a mug.

“Yes yes yes.” I nod. “Morning, Dora, Steve.”

Steve smiles at me from behind a newspaper, and Dora waves absently, not looking up from her book. Cool indifference is much better than the scrutiny I’m used to receiving from them, and I smirk at Wyatt. He hands me a blueberry muffin still warm from the oven.

“Come see the new deck. It wasn’t here the last time you were.” He gestures toward the glass door.

“If you’re quiet, maybe you’ll see a hummingbird,” Steve suggests. “Since I installed the feeder, they come almost every day. Funny little things.”

It’s a bright day, and the lawn smells clean, freshly mowed. A huge bush of red flowers is in full bloom just off the side of the new deck, scented like expensive cocktails.

“Nice,” I say, checking out the new surface in the backyard. Shaded by a big maple and looking out on the pine grove, the deck is indeed very relaxing. I sink into one of the Adirondack chairs and sip my coffee happily. It is nice to pretend that things are normal, that we’re just having a lazy breakfast at his parents’ house, that the last five or so years haven’t actually taken place, that Zelda isn’t…Zelda.

“So, about yesterday,” Wyatt says, as though wishing to dispel the quiet easiness of the day. I stare pointedly at the trees, scanning for hummingbirds, even though I know that you usually hear them before you see them. “What happened at the police station? Was it just shock that made you laugh like that?”

“I’m sure that was a factor. But it was more…of a realization. A little epiphany.” Wyatt waits patiently for me to go on. “That she’s going to go through with this. That she’s serious.”

“About?”

“She’s going whole hog. She’s faking her own death, not just playing around, getting everyone riled up. The coroner, Dr. Whitcross? That’s the doctor she’s been bangin’ for the last few months. That’s how she’s dealing with the dental records and the death certificate.”

“You think she bribed him?”

“My guess would be blackmail, frankly. The guy is probably married. She takes a couple pictures of him doing lines off her and her twenty-something-year-old girlfriend, and that takes care of the medical evidence. The life insurance money comes through, the debt mostly goes away, and voilà!” I snap my fingers in illustration. “She gets a clean start.”

Wyatt weighs what I’ve just suggested, staring mutely at the flowers and mulling it over.

“Where is she going to go? She won’t have an identity. She’ll have to live in the woods or something,” he says after a pause, baffled.

“Or I will.”

“Wait, what?” Wyatt pauses thoughtfully. “What do you mean?”

“I think Zelda is heading to the City of Light. Paris.”

Wyatt’s eyebrows shoot up. “Shit. You think she would?”

“Yeah, I kinda do. She could just take my passport and go. I’d be stuck here, unless I reported it stolen, got a new one. And by then she could have already disappeared into Europe, with a head start. I think she might already be there. My boyfriend”—we both flinch at the word—“is convinced he saw me at my favorite café. When he went to go talk to me, I apparently got up and took off before he could say anything. I have a hunch she’s already taken my passport and left.”

Wyatt looks ashen. “Have you checked?”

“Not yet. That’s next.”

“Jesus. But why? Because of the debt?”

“That. And maybe health insurance. She’s convinced she’s got what Mom does, and here in America she’s stuck on Medicaid, which will hardly cover a thing. Not ideal for a lengthy, degenerative illness. She figures if she gets to France, or anywhere with socialized medicine, she’ll be fine. She can buy a forged passport to replace mine, and she’ll be set.”

“What about money?”

“That’s trickier. She has to wait for the insurance to clear. I think she’ll come clean with me then, and she’ll ask me for the money. Probably split it with me.”

“Why would you give it to her, after she’s stolen your identity and fled the country?”

“I’m not sure, but I am a little concerned,” I say. “She’ll want to have leverage, in case she can’t just talk me into it. Probably debt in my name, credit cards from a French bank or something. At least that’s what I’d do. Though being Zelda, she’ll probably think up something even more compelling. A terrifying thought.” I shrug. I’ve been going over it in my mind, trying to get one step ahead of her, thinking of what the rest of the letters might be. I feel pretty sure I’ll figure it out only when she wants me to, but I’d be a fool not to try to protect myself.

“And you came up with this hypothesis last night?”

“When I heard that Whitcross was the coroner. It clicked. Up until these dental records, I was sure it was going to be one of her games. That she’d pop up after a week with a ‘Surprise!’ Laughing at her own cleverness.” I shake my head. “But now she’s committed. She’s legally dead, and if the truth about who’s in that fire ever surfaces, she’ll probably be wanted for murder too.”