“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.
“Do I look like a person who has trouble talking to people?” Her words are matter-of-fact and her tone is neutral. But her eyes are so vacant that her gaze sends a chill through my backside despite the heated seats beneath me.
The answer is yes. Nothing about her screams friendly people-person. But I keep that to myself.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.” She looks like a lot of things, all at the same time. Unstable. Broken. Capable. Determined.
“It’s okay. It’s not like you’re slamming a door in my face again.”
I can’t tell if she’s joking . . . I don’t think she is?
“I apologize for that, too,” I say. “It was dark when you showed up. And you were claiming to be a dead woman. I’ll be completely honest, it terrified me.”
Lydia smirks. “That doesn’t seem like it’d be all that hard to do. You seem . . . uptight. Not what I expected for Luca.”
I pick at a hangnail for a fraction of a second. I’m in desperate need of a manicure, but who has time for self-care when my entire world is upending?
“We’re quite the opposites, aren’t we?” I ask.
“You and Luca? Or you and me?”
“Both . . . I guess.” I cringe on the inside, praying I don’t offend her. I know what people see when they look at me, and I’ve always divided them into two groups: those who aspire to be like me and those who find themselves triggered, as if everything I have somehow prevents them from having everything they want.
“To say the least.” Lydia scans the shiny buttons and knobs of my dash and console before settling her attention on the polished screen with its showstopping radio and navigation display.
This vehicle is over the top, embarrassingly so. No one needs a Swarovski crystal gear shifter, heated and cooled cup holders, hand-gesture functions, a sky lounge of twinkling lights, or massaging seats, but Luca picked it out for me for my fortieth. He put a lot of time and effort into choosing it. Plus, he knows how much I loathe spending hours upon hours haggling at car dealerships. It was a thoughtful gift all around.
“You’re older than him,” she says. It’s not a question.
“By a handful of years, yes.” And by “handful,” I mean five. But it’s not something I tend to advertise because people do the math and insert uncomfortable scenarios such as envisioning myself at fifteen and Luca at ten. They ignore the fact that we met when we were both adults. “Why?”
“Just an observation.”
Lydia herself was not yet twenty-one when she disappeared, which means she’s thirty. I have a sister about her age—Adair. While we have nothing in common besides eye color and we live on opposite coasts, I’ve no doubt that if I went missing, she’d make a million waves until I was found, and she’d be calling in every three-letter agency in the country plus Scotland Yard.
That was one of the more tragic things I remember about Lydia’s disappearance—she had no family. She was an only child. Her father wasn’t in the picture, and her mom passed away from sepsis when Lydia was eighteen—likely a result of using contaminated street needles. Luca, local authorities, and some random Facebook group of Nebraskan true crime junkies were the only ones who looked for her.
“I think we’re getting off track here,” I say, dialing down the heat because my car has morphed into a sauna. “Why don’t you just start from the beginning? And tell me everything that happened?”
“Shouldn’t Luca hear it first?”
I hesitate. “Yes. He should.”
“So let’s go to him.”
I bite my lip. I hate to tell anyone I’m alone, but there’s no getting out of this now.
“He’s not available,” I say.
She frowns. “Where is he?”
“Working.”
“Then let’s go to him. Surely he can spare a few minutes for his wives, don’t you think?”
The flippant ease at which the word “wives” slips off her tongue sends a sickening trill down my spine, but I don’t react in case it’s what she wants.
Lydia lifts a brow as she awaits my response. Two nights ago she was so fragile, delicate as vintage china. Today there’s a quiet air of confidence about her.
Is it an act?
With palpitations in my ears, I clear my throat and straighten my shoulders. “He’s actually out of town.”
Lydia points to my phone in the cup holder. “Then call him.”
He has another pitch tomorrow—the third and final. Now is not the time.
“This is the sort of news he should find out in person . . . Why don’t you come by on Saturday? Is eight o’clock too late? I’d like to have my daughter in bed first, so we can give you our full attention.” I place a slight emphasis on we and our, letting her know that we’re a united front.
I don’t know if she intends to drive a wedge between us, but while her situation is gravely unfortunate, a handful of months together and a quickie marriage to Luca aren’t going to trump the years we’ve spent building our life together.
“I’ll be there.” With that, she climbs out of my car and grabs her things from the back.
I collect myself as she walks off, bags slung over her frail frame, and then I drive home—trembling the entire way.
CHAPTER TEN
LYDIA
“I take it this is the friend you were wanting to reconnect with?” It’s pouring when Delphine pulls into my husband’s extralong, extrawide driveway and parks in front of the fourth stall. Her wipers swish and screech across the windshield as Neil Diamond croons an uplifting tune from her tinny speakers—a nod to simpler times.
“It is.” I prop the hood on the leather jacket I found in Amber’s collection and tuck my hair back so it doesn’t get wet.
Earlier Delphine gave me a kitchen cut per my request, chopping my hair into a blunt style that stops just below my shoulders. It’s a flattering length, making my fine strands appear bouncier than before—not that I give a shit about that kind of stuff. This isn’t a beauty contest, and if it were, Merritt would beat me by a landslide with her glossy, highlighted ash-brown locks, her blinding-white, straight teeth, those full lips and dimpled chin, and her crystal-clear blue eyes unfairly accented with a fringe of dark lashes.
She may be older than him, but she’s poised and sophisticated. Quietly elegant, like someone who grew up on the East Coast attending boarding schools and becoming proficient in dressage and Latin. The kind of woman who turns heads and accepts free drinks from smitten men who want nothing more than a moment of her attention.