One thing at a time.
Placing a cupped palm over her heart, she exhales. “Thank you so much for understanding. Are you a coffee drinker, angel? Help yourself. I made a little extra because I wasn’t sure.”
I never drank coffee until I became homeless and realized I could seek refuge in a warm diner for an hour or two for a mere buck and some change. A little extra for a tip. It was bitter at first. Hard on my seldom-used, sensitized stomach. But eventually I grew to associate it with comfort. I’d go so far as to say I learned to like it, deeming it an affordable luxury.
The mind is a powerful thing.
“There’s some almond milk creamer in the fridge if you don’t take it black.” She contorts her body into a new position, threading one arm beneath the other as she bends at the waist. “So I was thinking . . . I’ll probably have you do some laundry for me today.” A whistled exhalation passes through her lips as she moves to the next pose. “You know, I always used to hate doing laundry when I had a family. It was just this never-ending chore. I’d do three loads, and four more would pop up. Like Whac-A-Mole but with dirty clothes. Anyway . . . now that I’m only doing it for one, it’s kind of depressing.”
Delphine just might be one of the loneliest souls I’ve ever met. Not that I’ve met a lot of lonely souls. But hers practically oozes from her porcelain pores. It colors every word that comes from her mouth. It makes sense why she latched on to me the way she did, so trusting and desperate at the same time.
She rises, folding her hands into a prayer position. Closing her eyes, she mutters something under her breath, so faint I can’t make it out from this side of the apartment. And then she disappears into her bedroom. A second later, she emerges with two overstuffed canvas drawstring bags and a roll of quarters.
“Our facility’s in the basement.” She places everything on the kitchen table. “But the washer’s out of order. Landlord keeps saying he’s going to fix it, but you know how that goes.” She rolls her eyes. “Anyway, there’s a Laundromat about five blocks west of here. Bright-blue roof. Right on the corner. You can’t miss it. Hope that’s not too far for you to walk?”
The bags look heavy, and I’m used to traveling light, but five blocks is nothing compared to the hundreds of miles I’ve logged these past six months.
“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.