The Good Widow(80)

Beth will tell me I was nuts for coming over here. That I ransacked my boyfriend’s apartment for what? To prove to myself that not all men are liars? I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror on the wall. I do look a bit dazed. My hair is falling half out of its ponytail; my eyes have large bags under them. I wipe a smudge of mascara from my right lid. It’s time for me to stop listening to secondhand gossip and letting my mind take me to crazy places. I need to talk to Nick about the driver’s license. Let him give me his logical explanation. He more than deserves that.

I push the T-shirt back into the box, and my hand hits something that feels like a rubber strap of some kind. I pull it toward the top and remove the T-shirt above it, blinking several times at what’s dangling from my fingertips.

Dylan’s purse.





CHAPTER FORTY


JACKS—AFTER

I’m holding the same purse Officer Keoloha described when he told me the story of Dylan filing the police report. It’s a straw tote with a rubber handle and a bright-pink-and-green jeweled pineapple on the side.

I pull the purse open slowly, trying to make sense of why it’s here, in Nick’s closet. I squeeze a dried hibiscus flower between my fingers, picturing Dylan plucking it from a bush and smelling it. Or maybe James had picked it and given it to her, and she’d tucked it behind her ear? I find a banana lip balm and remove the cap and inhale it. There’s a map of the road to Hana folded neatly. Had she been following along as they drove? Guiding James to each viewpoint? And then I find her wallet. I hesitate before unsnapping the small turquoise billfold, praying there’s something inside of it that will explain everything. Because there has to be a reason her purse is here. I open it and see various cards—ATM, Vons, library. There’s also a five-dollar bill and a pay stub from the restaurant where she worked.

But there’s no driver’s license. No passport. No identification of any kind.

I think of her ID in my pocket. Was it once here, wedged between the grocery store card and the bank card?

I close the wallet and notice some tissue at the bottom of the bag. I unwrap the Kleenex, and I’m staring at something I’ve had in my hands more times than I can count.

A pregnancy test.

The only difference is hers was positive.

I stare at the jeweled pineapple on the side of the purse cradled in my arms—wanting to understand why it’s here in Nick’s walk-in closet.

The hairs on my arms stand on end again, and sweat trickles down my back. I keep thinking I hear a key in the lock.

I check my phone again, which I had set to silent mode. More texts from Nick.

Hey!

I tried calling you. Are you still at your place?

Hello?

Quickly I shove the box back up on the shelf. I remove James’s sweatshirt and wrap Dylan’s purse in it and hurry to the elevator, pushing the button over and over, but it won’t come.

My thoughts unfold one by one.

Nick has Dylan’s purse, which was stolen less than an hour before she died.

I take the stairs two at a time, lose my balance, and grab the handrail, the purse flying, its contents spilling.

He could only have her purse if he’d been the one to steal it.

I scoop up Dylan’s things, shove them back into the bag, and wrap it in the sweatshirt again, my hands shaking. Finally I’m in the parking garage standing next to my car. I push the button on my fob and hear the click of the doors unlocking.

Which means Nick was in Maui when they were. That he’d been inside their Jeep just before they died.

I gasp for air as the realization sinks in.

“Surprise,” Nick says from behind me, his breath on my neck.





CHAPTER FORTY-ONE


JACKS—AFTER

I freeze, squeezing the sweatshirt, the purse beneath it pressing into my ribs. “Nick . . . you scared the shit out of me—” I try to swivel around, but his lips are still pressed against the back of my neck, his arm around my shoulder.

He plants a light kiss on my cheek. “Aren’t you happy to see me?” he asks.

“Yes, even though I can’t exactly see you,” I say, his hot breath tickling my ear.

My mind is racing, the strap of the purse poking me. It won’t let me forget what I now know. That he was there. Inside their Jeep. Was he a stalker, a jilted lover who had spun out of control?

Or more?

I release a long breath. There has to be an explanation. Maybe Officer Keoloha didn’t mention that the purse was found. And maybe Nick has it because it was sent back to him because he had been still engaged to her. His touch feels like the Nick I know—the Nick who could never have lied to me. “That feels good,” I say, and he spins me around.

“I tried calling you about thirty minutes ago to let you know I got off work early . . . why didn’t you tell me you were here?”

“I . . .” I was so focused on not getting caught ransacking his place, I hadn’t decided what I’d do if I did. I feel my cheeks redden as I try to think of a reason. “I came here to surprise you actually. When you got off your shift. Funny, we were surprising each other!” I force a laugh.

“Well, it’s kismet then—us surprising each other. I decided something today, you know,” he says, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Oh? What’s that?”