Dead Letters(92)

“She’s really been planning this,” Wyatt finally says. “She’s known for a long time that she was going to do this.”

“?’Fraid so,” I respond. I feel bad, I really do. But also a little vindicated. Victorious.

“Would she have had to go all the way to France to do this, though?” Wyatt asks, still skeptical.

“She could probably have found some dodgy tech store in New York who could do it for her, I guess,” I admit. “But I think she did it to be elaborate. It gave her a reason to travel to Paris, to insert herself into my new life.” The more I think about it, the more I’m certain that I’ve found U.

“Where do you think she is now?” Wyatt muses, rifling through the sheaves of paper. “I mean, she has to be laying low somewhere.”

“I still think she’s in Paris.” It’s the only place that makes sense. She planned this whole elaborate game to escape, to get away from Silenus, our parents. And she set it all up for me. Not for Wyatt or for the cop she was fucking. This is about the two of us and always has been. I’m certain that it circles back around to me; she would repeat my escape, to the same place. “Maybe she just wasn’t home when Nico went up to my place,” I suggest. “I’ll ask him to keep checking back, hang out in the café across the street to watch my door for a bit.” I open up my phone and text Nico briefly, letting the guilt bubble up for a minute or two while I carefully phrase my request. He’ll do it, and he won’t ask questions. I wonder if that flexibility is part of what made me fall in love with him to begin with.

But I know she’s not at the apartment. Not just because my keys are where I left them, and not just because Nico didn’t find her there. Wyatt’s hands are plunged into the stack of papers, submerged up to the wrists, and he wiggles his fingers as though they’re underwater. He is immersed in Zelda’s paper trail. I carefully spread out the papers in Zelda’s drawer and slide it firmly shut, forcing Wyatt to remove his hands. I hope he has not memorized the name of Zelda’s hotel in Paris. When I find her, I want to do it by myself. This is not a team effort. An ungenerous part of me knows that Wyatt won’t suspect me of withholding my hypotheses from him. He couldn’t even bring himself to scrutinize Zelda, and he knew what she was like. He thinks I would never lie. Not to him.

“How about a mimosa?” I say brightly, knowing that the prospect of sitting on the deck and getting drunk with me and both of my parents while we plan a funeral will be an adequate deterrent. He grimaces but looks momentarily like he will accept. Shit: He’s trying to be supportive. I feel a wave of fondness toward him for his self-sacrifice, but I need him to go home for a spell. “Oh, damn,” I say, “I’m a ninny. Of course you don’t want to hang out with Marlon and Nadine. And Opal. You’re totally off the hook,” I add with a shake of my head.

“No, no, I’d love—”

“Yeah, yeah. Sure you would.” I wave him off. “It’s okay. I should sit with them and take care of some odds and ends anyway. I’ll call you later today?”

Wyatt looks both relieved and distressed. I’ve managed both to dismiss him and to make him feel guilty for abandoning me during such a traumatic time.

“If you’re sure that’s okay…”

“I think I can manage.” I wink, guiding him out of Zelda’s room. As we walk by the library, whose sliding doors lead out to the balcony, I hold up one finger, signifying “one minute” to Marlon as he looks over at me, and follow Wyatt down the stairs. I walk him to the front door and pause on the threshold, leaning out onto the steps to plant a kiss firmly on his mouth, taking him by surprise. “Thank you. For last night. For everything.”

“Oh, Ava. Of course. You know I—” He cuts himself off. “I’m here for you,” he concludes.

“I know.” He kisses my forehead and wanders back to his truck, waving to me before hoisting himself up into the cab. I wave back and shut the door.

I bound up the stairs and out onto the balcony, where Marlon is on the phone. It sounds like he’s talking to a catering company. We aren’t surrounded by the sort of people who will inundate us with casseroles to serve at a memorial service. Just Betsy, and more tuna. He’s smart to plan a full table lavishly prepared by strangers. It will make us seem less lonely. I grab his mostly untouched mimosa and bob my head in thanks.

“Ava, we could use help getting in touch with some of Zelda’s friends. I’ve been trying to make a list with this Facebook thing.” Opal frowns at the screen of the iPad, which is now in her lap. I see that she has written out by hand a long list of everyone on Zelda’s friends list.

“Don’t worry about it, Grandma,” I suggest flippantly. “Dad’s going to make an event.”

“Make an event? What does that mean?”

“That Zelda’s whole list of people will get invited,” I explain. “Dad will make a Facebook event for the service.”

“But we don’t know their phone numbers. How will we let them know about the event?”

I try not to laugh at the genuine confusion in Opal’s voice. “Just don’t worry about it, Grandma.” I pause. “I wonder how it works with Facebook. Do we contact admin to get Zelda’s status changed to dead?” I’ll try to remember to research that later. Zelda will get a kick out of it. Opal looks pained.