The Marriage Lie(36)

Dave frowns. “What’s wrong?”

But wait. Why would someone at the Family Assistance Center be telling me this? Aren’t they supposed to be protecting the interests of Liberty Air?

“Who are you again?”

“My name is Leslie Thomas.”

“And you’re calling from the FAC?”

“That’s correct.”

“Then why are you questioning me like a journalist?”

Silence. I hear her gearing up for another pitch, but it’s too late. I already have her number.

“Because you are a journalist,” I say in an angry hiss. “Which means you’re also a liar.”

I punch End on my screen and begin filling Dave in, but almost immediately, my phone rings again and from the same number. “Do you know how to block this person?”

Dave takes the phone from my fingers. He’s fiddling with the screen when it lights up with a text. I lean across the middle console and frown at the message on my screen.

Go home, Iris.

“Who sent that?” I say.

Dave tries to pull up the number, but it’s blocked. His thumbs type out a quick reply.

Who is this?

He hits Send, and we watch my screen for a reply, waking it up with a fingertip whenever it starts to fade to black.

“Why would somebody be telling you to go home?” Dave says.

“I don’t know.”

“Who else knows you’re here?”

“Our parents and James, full stop. I haven’t talked to any of my girlfriends since the memorial, and I didn’t tell Ted or anyone at school I was leaving, only that I was taking a week or two off.”

Dave thinks for a moment. “Well, if it’s somebody back in Atlanta, wouldn’t they have said come home instead?”

I nod, right as another text pings my phone.

Someone who knows what you’re looking for, and it’s not in Seattle.





14

Across the lake in Bellevue, Dave and I begin at a Best Buy, our best shot of tracing the blocked number on my phone. After that second text came in—Someone who knows what you’re looking for, and it’s not in Seattle—the errand shimmied up to top priority. Neither of us misses the irony. If Will were here, he’d unearth the number in thirty seconds flat.

The kid behind the Geek Squad counter looks to be about twenty or so, the type of guy who Will always claimed gave techies a bad name. Greasy hair. Pimply face. Bushy eyebrows and a prominent overbite. Behind his Coke-bottle glasses, his eyes go comically wide.

“You’re asking me to hack another person’s phone number?” the geek says, shaking his head. “I can’t do that.”

“Can’t—” Dave gives him a charming smile “—or won’t?”

“Irrelevant. I’m only allowed to repair and install.”

My brother peels five twenties from his wallet and fans them across the countertop. “Are you sure about that?”

The kid’s not sure. His gaze flicks from us to the cash, and the struggle is real. A hundred bucks can buy a lot of gigabytes. He whips his head left and right, taking note of a colleague ringing up a purchase at the register, another hunched over a MacBook at the far end of the counter. When neither of them looks his way, he swipes the bills and my phone from the counter, pocketing both. “BRB,” he says, and then he disappears through a door marked Employees Only.

While he’s gone, I head over to the computer display and pull up the internet. “What was it Coach Miller called that neighborhood where he lived? Rainier something.”

“View? No, that’s not right.” Dave thinks for a second or two, then snaps. “Vista! Rainier Vista.”

“That’s it.” I look up the neighborhood and scribble a couple cross streets in a notebook I carry in my bag, then do the same with the nearest FedEx and police department.

“While you’re at it, find us a decent restaurant. I haven’t eaten since Atlanta, and I’m starved.”

For my brother, decent means complicated dishes and wine pairings, both of which means dinner takes forever. I shake my head. “We can stop at the first drive-through we come to, but I want to keep moving.”

He wrinkles his nose. “You’re seriously suggesting we order food at a window and eat it out of a paper bag?”

“Yes, because I still want to see Will’s old neighborhood and talk to somebody at the police department before the day’s over, and we can’t do that if you order the seven-course chef’s tasting menu, which I know you will.”

“Seriously, Iris. I have to eat something. The low blood sugar is making me light-headed.”

“Would you stop being such a drama queen? I already told you, we can—”

“Um, sir?” We look over, and it’s the kid, my iPhone in one of his fists. “The text was sent from a messaging app.”

“Okay,” Dave and I say in unison, and in exactly the same tone. Not okay as in we’re done here, but okay as in go on.

The geek assumes the former. He plunks down my phone and turns to go.

“Wait,” I say. “What about the number?”

“The app encrypts and then destroys the text, as well as where the text originated.” He shoves his glasses up his nose with a knuckle. “Think of it as a Snapchat for text messaging. Only, you don’t have to reveal any identifying information in order to begin a conversation.”