Unmissing(19)

“Not at all,” I say.

“Wonderful, angel. When you get back, come find me in the shop, and I’ll find you something else to do.”

I wait until she leaves before getting cleaned up and heading out. While I know exactly which Laundromat she’s referring to, I take a longer route, soaking in the sunshine and fresh air and keeping my eyes peeled for a familiar face or two . . . because I certainly won’t run into my husband—or his wife—staying cooped up in that apartment all day.





CHAPTER NINE


MERRITT

I’m going mad. Not angry-mad, but crazy. The clock on the dash blinks to 12:01 PM, informing me I’ve been driving around town aimlessly for three hours now. I’ve scanned every sidewalk, peered into every shop front. I’ve crept past every public park and slowed down by every bus bench. I even called the homeless shelter in the next town over—no one knew of a woman fitting Lydia’s description.

I have half a mind to head to the Aura Sky commune, but I’ve heard they don’t appreciate unexpected visitors.

I need to find this woman before Luca gets home. I need to get to her first, find out what exactly she wants. Understand her expectations. Try to get ahead of the storm. I hate to assume the worst, but every time I close my eyes, I picture a media frenzy. Photographers outside our door. Journalists begging for an interview. My child screaming out of fear. Restaurant employees being harassed for insider information. Perhaps it’s an overreaction, but there are so many ways in which this could go. This isn’t the sort of thing that happens around here. Around anywhere, really. Most dead people stay . . . dead. Curiosity from the general public would only be natural—but I’m not about to allow my family to become the center of some entertaining Dateline special.

We’re nothing if not private people.

Annette’s with Elsie for two more hours. I called her in on her off day on short notice, fibbing about some unexpected doctor’s appointment when I sensed hesitation in her tone. Thursdays are normally reserved for her grandkids, and I feel awful about taking her away from them, but desperate times and all . . .

Lightheaded, I pull into a parking spot outside The Coastal Commissary. I head in for a decaf latte and a turkey avocado wrap. My blood sugar is bottoming out. I haven’t eaten since this morning, and even then I couldn’t swallow more than two bites of blueberry oatmeal before my stomach threatened to expel it into the kitchen sink.

I consume my lunch in the car in record time, picking stray bits of lettuce off my undulating belly and tossing them out the window for the birds. And when I’m done, I continue on my mission, keeping a close eye on the time.

Thirty minutes into the next leg of my journey, my gas light comes on. Flicking my turn signal, I hook a sharp right and pull into a corner Chevron to top off my tank. It’s only when I’m leaving that I notice a stick-thin woman hauling two bags on her back. Her hair billows in the wind with each step, long and stringy and down to her hips. I lift my foot off the brake and head her way.

As soon as I get closer, I slow down to get a better look.

It’s her.

I pull into a parking spot a half a block up, roll down my passenger window, and wait for her to get closer.

“Lydia,” I call out when she’s within shouting distance. “Lydia, hi.”

I catch her stare in the side mirror, and she makes her way to my car, dropping her bags with two heavy clunks on the sidewalk.

I lean over the console. “I’m so glad I saw you . . . Wanted to tell you I’m so sorry about the other day. I was wondering if you had some time to talk?”

I nibble my thumbnail—an old, anxious habit. One I broke Luca of many moons ago, a hypocritical yet necessary move.

“I won’t take up too much of your—” I begin to say when she opens my rear passenger door and shoves her bags in the back.

Without a word, she climbs in beside me.

I hold my breath, half expecting her to smell unkempt like she did the first night, only I’m met with a peculiar combination of peppermint and oranges. A hint of patchouli, too.

Leaving the car in park, I rap my fingers on the steering wheel and take a deep breath.

“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you,” I say. Though the tiniest sliver of me still doesn’t—maybe because I don’t want to. “I was just wondering if you could tell me what happened?” She’s quiet, her attention heavy and sinking into me like invisible teeth. “I don’t understand. We—Luca—thought you were . . . deceased.”

I muster the courage to make eye contact with her and end up distracted for a moment, hypnotized by the abyss of her dark gaze.

Folding her skeletal hands in her lap, she focuses over the dash, at the back of the parked Camry in front of us.

My whole life, I’ve never trusted quiet people; something about their busy brains and all the things they aren’t saying makes me nervous.

“It’s a long story,” she finally says.

“Begin anywhere you’d like.” It’s a strange thing to say to someone in her situation, but then again, this entire situation is strange. “Or I can begin, if you prefer? I can tell you what I know?”

“No offense, but this isn’t about you.” Her words bite, but she has a point.

“I just didn’t know if it would make it easier for you to talk to me.” I keep my pitch delicate. I don’t know if she feels threatened by me, by my position in Luca’s life, but I want her to know I’m here to listen. Plus it’s imperative we start this out on an amicable front, or things could get ugly, fast.