Unmissing(9)

“I’ll add it to the list,” I say, opting not to tell him I don’t love it. We named our daughter Elsabeth, after my late grandmother. It’d only be fair to honor someone from his side. Hopefully it’ll grow on me these next few weeks . . .

From the window above the kitchen sink, I catch the nanny’s maroon Kia turning into the drive, though ordinarily I’d hear it from a mile away.

“Annette’s here,” I say. “I’ll text you after my appointment.”

I end the call and meet her at the door.

“Good morning, Mrs. C,” she says, placing her gas station coffee cup on the marble console, and when she isn’t looking, I check to ensure it doesn’t etch the stone. “And where’s our princess this morning?”

I loathe how she calls my daughter a princess. It insinuates she’s spoiled, but I’ve never said anything because Annette means well and she adores Elsie. That’s all that matters. Finding good help in this town, people you can unequivocally trust, is hard, so I choose my battles. Now, if she were plunking my child in front of a television set all day while mindlessly scrolling through her phone, I’d speak up. That’s a hill I’d be willing to die on.

A squeal from the kitchen is followed by Elsie’s bare feet padding against hardwood. A second later, she charges toward Annette, who scoops her up with open arms. A tight twinge situates in my middle every time I spot the light in my daughter’s eyes when she sees her nanny. Sometimes I’m certain it’s a hair brighter than the light she gets when she’s with me. Then again, it could be my imagination.

It’s human nature to assume the worst.

Someone once told me that I’d only be my husband’s favorite until we had our first child, and that I’d only be my daughter’s favorite until she becomes a teenager and decides she hates everything about me. But I don’t think it has to be that way.

I intend to be everyone’s favorite until my dying breath.

“I’ll be back in the early afternoon.” I sweep my hair into a high bun, securing it with the elastic on my wrist. I swear it grows an inch a week lately. Coupled with these third-trimester hot flashes, I’m a walking, talking human sauna. “Three o’clock at the absolute latest.”

Annette bounces my daughter on her hip. “We’ll be here . . . having fun. Right, Princess?”

I restrain a full-body cringe.

“It’s supposed to warm up a little today.” She speaks to me but looks at my daughter. “Thought we’d play outside a little bit if that’s okay?”

Normally I’d agree to that without a hitch—but given last night’s events, I’m not sure if that’s a good idea.

“Actually, Annette.” I clear my throat. “If you wouldn’t mind staying indoors today, that’d be great.”

She frowns. Confused, disappointed, or both, I’m sure. But it’s understandable—this isn’t normal for us.

“There have been some solicitors going door-to-door out here,” I say. “I don’t know if they’re from the commune, or if they wandered up the coast and wound up here. Either way, I think we should keep Elsie inside until these people are gone.”

Her lips press flat as she digests this. “Why would they come all the way out here?”

Her question is valid—we’re miles from town with sparsely placed vacation homes and no actual neighborhoods. True solicitors would have better luck in Bent Creek proper.

“I saw one of them last night.” I knead a kink in the small of my back. “Knocked on my door after dark. She was a little rough looking. Kept asking to speak to my husband. It was very unsettling.”

Annette shakes her head, validating my concerns. She gets it. “What are they peddling now?” Lines spread across her freckled forehead.

“God only knows.” I turn, heading to the kitchen to grab my purse and keys. “All right, I can’t be late. Call me if you need anything.”

I wait until the two of them are in the family room before double-checking the lock on the front door. And on my way out, I secure the garage entry as well and ensure all our security cameras are online and active enough to pick up the slightest movement. Normally I wouldn’t be this vigilant, but after last night, I’ve no choice but to turn my peaceful oceanside abode into Fort Knox.

I’d rather be safe than sorry.





CHAPTER FOUR


LYDIA

“Home sweet home.” Delphine flips the switch by the door of her apartment. A fluorescent light above her kitchen island sparks to life, illuminating a more livable version of her shop.

Same earthy, organic scent.

Same new-age themes.

Less crowded, which is a relief, as I fully anticipated a borderline hoarder situation.

Without question, this place is the Ritz-Carlton compared to the dirt-floor cabin-shack I called “home” for nine years. And it beats sleeping at the post office any day of the week. Anything with running water and an HVAC system is a win at this point.

“It’s pretty straightforward.” She sweeps a fluffy white cat off the kitchen counter and gently places it on the ground. Without missing a beat, it sashays to me, offers a quiet mew, and stares up with striking yellow eyes. “That’s Powder. He was my daughter’s cat. Older than dirt now but sweet as can be. You like cats, Lydia?”