Unmissing(2)

Stepping inside with heavy boots, he secures the door behind him, double-checking the locks before resting a lifeless Coleman lamp on the dirty floor. His movements are deliberate, patient. And he hums a haunting tune under his breath.

It’s only when he turns back that I’m met with a twisted sneer and a chilling gaze so dark it sucks my soul from my marrow.

I flinch, shrinking into the cold metal chair beneath me.

“Ah, good,” he says. “You’re awake.”





CHAPTER ONE


MERRITT

I am—by all accounts—a reasonable woman.

I don’t believe in ghosts or the supernatural. I don’t subscribe to fortune-tellers, palm readers, or psychic mediums. I don’t place stock in afterlife concepts like heaven or hell—which means I certainly don’t imagine a person can come back from the grave.

“You must be Merritt.” A sunken-eyed, cadaverous figure stands on the other side of my front door. The porch light spills shadows across her gaunt cheeks as a wintry breeze cuts between us.

We’ve never met, but I’ve seen enough photos of my husband’s first wife to know the face that haunts my occasional nightmares. I’d know those features anywhere—those expressive, heavy-lidded eyes the color of dirt. Her full, perpetually downturned mouth. The ordinary, everywoman features.

I try to respond, but disbelief robs my voice.

I thought she was dead.

We all did.

“You don’t know me,” she says in a voice so docile it disguises her age. Luca’s first wife would be around thirty by now, but this woman speaks like a child, subdued and hesitant. As she wrings her hands, her deep gaze widens and pleads, like she expects to be turned away. “My name is Lydia Coletto.”

My husband’s last name on her lips serves as a jarring reminder of a tragic past Luca and I haven’t spoken of since a lifetime ago. I lift a palm to my chest and suck in a February breath that coats my lungs in a paralyzing layer of ice and Oregon petrichor.

The proper half of me considers inviting her in . . . until the flutters of my unborn son in my stomach steal my attention. I place a hand over my eight-month bump, an attempt to comfort us both. Upstairs, our daughter, Elsie, sleeps safe and sound, the projector painting hundreds of tiny stars on her ceiling, accompanied by tinkling lullabies.

Crazy people wander through this town all the time. Drifters mostly. Opportunists. Though it’s usually in the warmer summer months when our population nearly triples. There’s a homeless camp a few miles down the ocean. Eight miles north is the infamous and controversial Aura Sky Coliving Commune, which tends to draw unconventional types from all over the world.

This isn’t Lydia. It can’t be.

This is some kind of sick joke.

And this woman, I’m positive, is an opportunistic psychopath.

An impostor.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, bracing myself to inject as much courtesy into my tone as possible, deserved or not, “but the woman you’re claiming to be died years ago.” With a death grip on the doorknob, I force a civil smile. This is clearly an unstable person trying to cash in on a prominent local businessman’s personal tragedy. “Please leave now.”

She sighs, emitting a foggy breath that temporarily clouds her expression so I can’t gauge her reaction. When the condensed air fades into the night sky, her hollowed eyes hold mine with such intention I can’t peel my gaze away.

I use the opportunity to take a closer look at her—memorizing everything about this moment should I need to make a police report. The tattered, paper-thin gray hoodie that hangs off her narrow frame is ruined with stains, and the ripped light-wash jeans drooping from her lower half are at least three inches too short and one size too large. A stained, acid-washed denim backpack sags off one shoulder, and a sock-covered toe pokes out of her left canvas shoe. An assaulting cocktail of unwashed hair and stale cotton invades my nose, sending a wash of nausea through my center.

Behind her, our driveway is dark and the moonlit, seldom-traveled road that stretches beyond our home is vacant. Not a headlight. Not a tire crunching on gravel or bicycle leaning on a kickstand. No friends waiting in the distance behind the needled cover of evergreens. I’m not sure how she got here—or how she plans on leaving.

It’s as if she manifested from thin air.

“I’m happy to call you a ride.” I steal a glimpse of the oily strands of hair framing her narrow face, realizing they don’t stop until well past her waist. She needs a shower. And a meal. Some clean clothes. A haircut. Warmth. Comfort. Professional help. God only knows what else.

Unfortunately, I’m not in a position to be her savior tonight.

“Is he here?” she asks. No name necessary when you’re claiming to be someone’s dead wife, I suppose.

I don’t tell her Luca’s out of town this week, which would imply we’re home alone. Bent Creek proper is a solid five miles from here, there isn’t a neighbor in sight, and the roar of the crashing ocean waves to the rear of the property would drown out the sound of anything nefarious. The nearest security panic button is three rooms from here, and I’m quite certain I left my phone upstairs by the washing machine.

I stiffen my posture—I’m getting ahead of myself. No sense in getting worked up . . . especially when it could hurt the baby.