Unmissing(18)

My phone vibrates from the nightstand as a call from Luca lights my screen.

“You’re up late,” I answer.

He exhales into the receiver. “Can’t sleep.”

An icy blast cracks through my veins and my exhaustion fades, replaced with a quick jolt of adrenaline. What if he knows? What if she found his number and called him? What if he’s hiding from me the very same thing I’m hiding from him?

I sit up and position a pillow behind my back before resting against the headboard. “Need to talk about it?”

“Just wanted to hear your voice.” His hotel room TV drones in the background, hardly enough to distract from the underlying dissonance in his tone.

I want to know what’s really on his mind.

I also don’t want to know.

“That’s all?” I manage a teasing chuckle, trying to keep this light.

“That and I’m just thinking about tomorrow’s presentation.” A yawn paints his voice. He could fall asleep if he’d let himself, I’m sure. “Going over the last one in my head. Trying to figure out what I could do differently this time.”

Rolling to my side, I fixate on the five-by-seven family photo on my nightstand. I chose every outfit in that shoot, from the kelly-green tie hanging from Luca’s neck to the antique diamond dahlia pendant dangling from mine. It had to be perfect—and it was.

It’s dark in here, but I make out the outlines of our exuberant faces. Even if I couldn’t, I have the image memorized by heart. It’s one of my favorites—taken the week after we found out we were going to be a family of four and a month before our accountant informed us things were worse than we initially were told.

“I’m glad you called.” I slide the frame off the table and tuck it under my pillow. For now, I’ll soak up these last moments of pretending like everything’s normal and nothing’s wrong.

Lydia’s return is going to change things. Though for better or worse, it’s impossible to know yet.

Only one thing is certain—the second my husband gets home, our lives are never going to be the same.





CHAPTER EIGHT


LYDIA

“Good morning, angel. Sleep well?” I find Delphine doing yoga in the living room shortly after eight o’clock the next morning.

The overpowering aroma of freshly brewing coffee mingles with the cocktail of new-age scents already permeating the air, and my stomach furls.

“Hope I didn’t wake you. Tried to keep my music low . . .” She dials down the volume on her Bluetooth speaker before stretching her arms behind her back. “Oh, and I’m so sorry. I was thinking we could hit up the vital records office today, but I just checked my website, and someone booked two back-to-back sessions for this afternoon.”

She offers a sympathetic pout, studying my face.

“It’s fine,” I assure her, swatting a hand and swallowing the relief that bubbles up from my center. I didn’t know we were moving full speed ahead on the government ID thing. I’m not sure what I’d have said had she sprung that trip on me.

One thing at a time.

Placing a cupped palm over her heart, she exhales. “Thank you so much for understanding. Are you a coffee drinker, angel? Help yourself. I made a little extra because I wasn’t sure.”

I never drank coffee until I became homeless and realized I could seek refuge in a warm diner for an hour or two for a mere buck and some change. A little extra for a tip. It was bitter at first. Hard on my seldom-used, sensitized stomach. But eventually I grew to associate it with comfort. I’d go so far as to say I learned to like it, deeming it an affordable luxury.

The mind is a powerful thing.

“There’s some almond milk creamer in the fridge if you don’t take it black.” She contorts her body into a new position, threading one arm beneath the other as she bends at the waist. “So I was thinking . . . I’ll probably have you do some laundry for me today.” A whistled exhalation passes through her lips as she moves to the next pose. “You know, I always used to hate doing laundry when I had a family. It was just this never-ending chore. I’d do three loads, and four more would pop up. Like Whac-A-Mole but with dirty clothes. Anyway . . . now that I’m only doing it for one, it’s kind of depressing.”

Delphine just might be one of the loneliest souls I’ve ever met. Not that I’ve met a lot of lonely souls. But hers practically oozes from her porcelain pores. It colors every word that comes from her mouth. It makes sense why she latched on to me the way she did, so trusting and desperate at the same time.

She rises, folding her hands into a prayer position. Closing her eyes, she mutters something under her breath, so faint I can’t make it out from this side of the apartment. And then she disappears into her bedroom. A second later, she emerges with two overstuffed canvas drawstring bags and a roll of quarters.

“Our facility’s in the basement.” She places everything on the kitchen table. “But the washer’s out of order. Landlord keeps saying he’s going to fix it, but you know how that goes.” She rolls her eyes. “Anyway, there’s a Laundromat about five blocks west of here. Bright-blue roof. Right on the corner. You can’t miss it. Hope that’s not too far for you to walk?”

The bags look heavy, and I’m used to traveling light, but five blocks is nothing compared to the hundreds of miles I’ve logged these past six months.