Every Single Secret(34)

“Well.” I stood. “I should go back upstairs and get dressed. I’ve got a whole lot of aimless wandering around to do today.” Not to mention I needed to return the Nissan’s keys to Cerny’s office before he figured out they were missing. “Okay, well, thanks again for the breakfast. See you around.”

Luca sent me a tight smile.

Upstairs, I shucked the quilt and crawled into bed beside Heath’s warm sleeping form. In spite of the coffee I’d just drunk, I was wiped out from sleeping on the lumpy chaise, and in seconds, I passed out. When I woke later, he was gone, his breakfast dishes still sitting on the table. Skipping the cold eggs, I picked up another cinnamon roll and wondered if Luca had any hot coffee left.

I threw on a pair of jeans and a sweater, yanked my hair into a topknot, and found the keys. Downstairs, as I neared the sunroom, I heard low voices—Dr. Cerny and Heath.

“It’s like somebody put a filter over the sun,” Heath was saying, “that makes everything look the same, all the time.”

I slipped through the door and edged toward the key hooks.

“You’re talking about an obsession,” Dr. Cerny said.

My hand stopped a couple of inches from the keys.

“Fine. Tell me how to make it stop.”

“You have to decide first. Do you want to involve Daphne?”

There was no answer.

“The question is, do you believe she is capable of understanding?”

I backed out of the door and closed it behind me. Capable of understanding? Really? I’d agreed to come to this musty old house to support the man I intended to spend the rest of my life with. Of course I could understand whatever it was he was dealing with. I slammed into the kitchen, and Luca, standing at the stove stirring a pot of soup, glanced up.

“Hello,” I said, pointing toward the back door. “I was just heading out.”

“Espere,” he said and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. He wiped it down with the dishtowel over his shoulder and handed it to me. Then he snagged a granola bar from a bowl on the counter. “Para mais tarde,” he said.

“Sorry, I’m the asshole who only speaks English.” I held up the water. “But thanks. I’ll be back for lunch.”

“Cuidado,” he said behind me.

Now that one, I knew.

I stopped and turned back. His clear, intense eyes were boring into mine.

“Why would you tell me to be careful?” I asked.

He went back to his pot without answering, which was frustrating. But the guy didn’t speak English, so I tried not to read too much into it. And I guessed it made sense, his warning. He probably knew that people wandered out without realizing how far they’d gone. I had forgotten water last time I’d trekked up the mountain.

“Oh,” I said, the thought coming to me at once. “It’s Portuguese, isn’t it? You’re from Brazil.”

Over his shoulder, he sent me a smile. I noticed he had really nice, straight teeth.

“Or maybe actually Portugal?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“Okay, then. Brazil. Rio de Janeiro. Big stone Jesus.” I spread my arms. “I’ve heard it’s beautiful there.”

He sobered. Then moved to the counter and pointed up at the magnetic knife rack. To the empty space on the end.

“Onde está a faca?” He tapped the magnetic strip, and I met his eyes. Sent him a look of confusion. He raised his eyebrows. “Você pegou.”

I smiled. “Sorry, I don’t understand. And I should really go. The birds are waiting for me, I’m sure. But I’ll cuidado. Promise.”

I fled the kitchen, not stopping until I’d slipped around the far side of the house, in the direction of the bird garden, out of sight of the kitchen. I was fairly certain Luca hadn’t bought my confused act. He knew I’d taken the knife. I figured I should probably go get it and wait for an opportune time to return it. I didn’t need him reporting me to Cerny.

I glanced over at the barn, at the far end of the yard, and nearly jumped out of my skin. The doors were creaking open just then, a figure slipping out from them. It was a woman—thin, dressed in black yoga pants and thermal top, with a yellow baseball cap pulled low. Glenys. What was she doing in the barn?

She didn’t see me. She was slumped against the side of the barn now, hands pressed to her face. She inhaled once, then again, like she was trying to collect herself. Then she slowly straightened, wiped her sleeve across her face, and took off toward the stand of trees behind the barn.

I set off after her. Although the terrain was level and the path mostly clear, she was taking this trail slower. I held back to keep a safe distance between us. It was a risk, following her like this. I barely knew the woman, and really didn’t have any right to steamroll my way into her private grieving. I just couldn’t get the picture of her poised on the ledge of the window out of my head. The way her thin back curved under the weight of her sadness. I promised myself I wouldn’t push. If she didn’t want to tell me what was bothering her, I’d leave. But I had to know she was all right. She felt like a friend.

I tromped over sodden leaves, the woods smelling vaguely of mildew, of organic rot and decay. A melancholy scent. Bright as it was, the forest was well into autumn—halfway to dying—and it took some effort not to let the vague feeling of sadness settle over me. After about fifteen minutes, I heard the rippling of water ahead, and I slowed. At the bottom of a gentle slope, where the path converged with a broad but shallow creek, Glenys had stopped.