Unmissing(22)

All those years I spent sleeping on a dirt floor with a ratty sheet, layers of zip ties digging into the flesh around my ankles, my husband was sleeping safe and sound, living in a cushy lap of luxury in a seaside estate fit for a prince . . .

No one ever said life was fair, but this is downright cruel.

Merritt wanders to the window by the door, rising on her toes and peeking beyond the curtains, one hand on her belly. “Let me just text him and see how far away he is.”

“Does he know about me?”

I was hoping I’d be the one to deliver the good news.

Glancing up from her bright screen, she shakes her head. “No. He doesn’t.”

“So . . . you didn’t tell him I was going to be here when he got home?” I feel the need to ask again because the Luca I know loathes surprises. One would think being married to him, she’d know that.

Either way, I’m too excited to be upset. In fact, I’m so swollen with anticipation I could burst at my seams.

“Ordinarily I wouldn’t spring something so heavy on him, but he’s got a lot on his plate right now,” she says with a tone marinated in sympathy. Does she truly care about him, or is she putting on airs? Time will tell. “I just wanted him to focus on getting home safely.”

Her phrasing leads me to think she’d expect him to drive like a bat out of hell to get home if he knew what was waiting for him.

The butterflies in my center work themselves into a nauseating frenzy.

I can’t wait to see his face when he walks in the door.

Every second until then is torture.





CHAPTER ELEVEN


MERRITT

Luca texts me back within seconds—he’s fifteen minutes away.

I feel awful unloading this on him without warning, and I know he isn’t the biggest fan of surprises, but selfishly, I want to catch the expression on his face when he sees Lydia again. I want to gauge the gaze in his dark eyes. And I need to hear the first words out of his mouth.

They’ll tell me everything I need to know.

“Are you hungry?” I gesture toward the kitchen. “I can make you a sandwich?”

I need to make up for the other night, for shutting the door in her face. I don’t believe I was in the wrong, given her appearance and the way she showed up on my doorstep so late, but knowing now that she’s been through something unspeakable has somewhat softened my reservations.

“I hope turkey’s okay . . .” I move first in hopes that she’ll follow, and I catch a whiff of my Kilian perfume on the way. It’s always tradition to dress up for Luca when he returns from the airport. We usually have a mini date night, something to keep the romance alive and lift our spirits. Tonight will, understandably, be different, but I didn’t want to look the way I feel—it would only worry him.

Lydia follows me to the kitchen, her damp sneakers faintly marking the freshly washed hardwood floors from the front door to the marble island.

A moment ago, I was taken aback by her petiteness in our double-height foyer. It visually swallowed her whole. In all my curious wonderings, I’d never once thought about her elfin figure. But I recall, now, the “missing” posters describing her small stature. Five foot one. A hundred pounds. It’d be easy to overpower someone of her meek build—assuming that’s what happened.

I know nothing, of course.

Everyone seemed to think she jumped or fell off the cliff that day ten years ago, but the reality is, nobody knows what happened—except her.

“Tomorrow’s grocery day,” I add as I raid the fridge, grabbing condiments and a dwindling loaf of bread. Wednesdays are typically reserved for household shopping, but with Luca being gone this week, I only made a minirun. Fridays are for date nights. Saturdays are for family outings. Sundays are for lounging. We have a whole system—one that’s existed for years. One that’s perfect for us. One that may forever cease to exist the second my husband walks in the door tonight.

“Still likes his bread cold, I see.” Lydia nods toward the sliced rye wrapped in cellophane, which until a few moments ago, was taking up valuable shelf space next to the butter. Pressing her index finger against her temple, she adds, “I remember these things. It was never just the almonds.”

I almost make a joke of it, almost point out all the other things he unnecessarily prefers to keep refrigerated—like peanut butter, potatoes, blackberries, and hot sauce. But I bite my tongue. This isn’t an exchange meant for pleasantries. There’s nothing cute about this.

This moment is bigger than the two of us. Viscous. Swathed in a million unknowns.

“You can have a seat at the table if you’d like.” I work in haste to make her sandwich as the weight of her stare anchors me to the floor. When I’m finished, I wipe my trembling hands on a kitchen towel and deliver her turkey-on-rye with a tight smile.

She doesn’t touch it. Not at first. She studies it.

Like she doesn’t trust it.

I fuss with my hair before sweeping it over one shoulder. “We have mustard. Yellow and Dijon.”

I sound like an idiot—and I’m realizing now she didn’t even say yes to my offer to make her a sandwich, nor did she confirm she was hungry. But it’s too late now. I don’t know how to make any of this less awkward. There’s nothing natural about marrying a widower, having his children, spending years crafting our dream life—and then answering the door to his dead wife.