Unmissing(43)

“Wonder if we’re next . . .”

“He just hired an assistant manager,” the first one says. “Pretty sure that means we’re doing okay.”

“Yeah, speaking of her. Where the hell did she come from? And why wouldn’t he just pull the manager from The Commissary or whatever? Pretty messed up.”

“I don’t even know what she does here,” a third one interjects. “She’s in her office all day. Only comes out to get something to drink or talk to Luca for a second, then she disappears. Something’s not adding up . . .”

“Maybe she’s going to save the restaurants?” the first one asks. “Maybe she’s some kind of financial consultant, and she’s moving numbers.”

I stifle a chuckle. This amuses me more than it should.

“Consultants aren’t cheap, though,” he continues.

“Yeah, but neither is that mansion of his . . .” the second one says under a cough.

The three of them laugh, and I use the opportunity to step out of the hallway and into the light. “Sorry to interrupt, but have any of you heard from Mr. Coletto today?”

Their smiles fade in unison. Two of them look away.

“His wife had their baby last night,” the first one tells me. “He’s not coming in today.”

Holy shit.

I didn’t think she was due until next week.

My stomach drops to my feet, and my breath hitches. Despite knowing this was going to happen sooner than later, the reality of the news leaves a bittersweet taste on my tongue.

“Lovely.” I infuse my tone with pleasantness, feigning happiness for my husband and his missus. “Guess I’m in charge today. If any of you need anything, you know where to find me.”

By ten o’clock, I’m browsing apartments online. I want to give Delphine some kind of compensation for room and board, but I’ve no idea what a decent place in this area goes for. Judging by a handful of comps, I deduce that she’s paying somewhere around a thousand bucks a month for her place above the shop.

With Luca out today, I likely won’t be getting today’s cut. But when I get home, I’ll set aside five hundred for her.

Out of curiosity, I click around on a few other listings, scrolling through sunlit, staged pictures and imagining one day having a place of my own. Not in Bent Creek, of course. This town is ruined for me. But somewhere perpetually warm, with more sunshine and less rain. Palm trees instead of evergreens. The desert, perhaps.

It’s two o’clock when I decide to throw in the towel. I don’t know how people can sit in front of computers all day, every day and not want to gouge their eyes out. Every blink feels like sandpaper against my eyelids, and when I push myself up from my chair, my bones creak and pop.

Grabbing my backpack, I lock up the office and head out—catching a handful of nosy stares from staff. I pass their coffee shop on the way—pausing to read the PERMANENTLY CLOSED sign posted in the window. My heart goes out to the staff, the innocent bystanders of Luca’s entrepreneurial greed. I can only hope my thousand-bucks-a-day “salary” didn’t accelerate that closing.

Taking a detour, I head for the boutique district, wasting the remainder of the afternoon wandering through bookshops and candle stores and coming out of it all with a few new clothes from a place called The Modern Lily. Spending money is something I look forward to getting used to again. Might as well start today.

It’s shortly after six by the time I get to the apartment. Delphine’s already closed the shop for the evening. Trekking the back stairs with shopping bags and zero food in hand, I prep myself with an apology in case she was expecting another sea bats meal . . .

Bracing myself to deliver disappointment on an invisible platter, I head inside—only to be met with Delphine seated at the kitchen table, hands folded next to stacks upon stacks of cash.

“Lydia.” There’s no sugar-spun softness in her voice this time.

Powder scampers across the kitchen, weaving between my legs before darting off, hiding.

Her gaze drifts to the money, then to me.

I take the seat across from her, my heart sinking. I can only imagine what’s going through her mind. No one has this kind of cash shoved in a drawer—no one but drug dealers and career criminals.

I don’t ask why she was rifling through my drawers. They were never mine to begin with. None of this was. I was only ever a guest under her roof, eating off her vintage silverware, drinking her non-GMO coffee, and wearing her dead daughter’s clothes.

Drawing in a hard breath, I rest my elbows on the table, rake my fingers through my food-service-scented hair, and meet her scrutinizing stare. There’s no way to know if I’ll still be in her good graces by the end of this—or if I’ll be right back where I started: homeless, penniless, and as good as dead.

Either way, she deserves to know everything.

“Care to explain what you’re doing with all this cash?” She blinks.

I’ve told the story to myself a million times, practicing it like a script on sleepless nights. Playing it out like a movie in my head. Wondering where I begin. Does it start the moment I met my husband? Does it begin on that perfectly beautiful summer day, the moment my freedom was snatched without warning?

I don’t suppose it matters anymore.

I drag in another breath that rattles in my chest, squeeze my eyes tight, and lick the numbness from my lips.