“You don’t know that.”
“I have it on good authority he’s currently liquidating,” I say. “And why would someone liquidate a lucrative business empire if they weren’t planning on skipping town? He knows I can go to the police at any time . . . he’s getting his ducks in a row.”
“People have all kinds of reasons . . .”
“I’m not exactly in a position to give him the benefit of the doubt.”
Leaning back in her seat, she raps her knuckles against the table. “This doesn’t have to be as hard as you’re making it, Lydia.”
I keep my back to her. I adore this woman, but she doesn’t get it. And how can she? She hasn’t lived through an ounce of what I have. I’m sorry she married a closeted gay man and that her daughter got caught up with the wrong crowd, but she doesn’t get to tell me I’ve made my life harder than it has to be.
I endured nine years at the hand of the devil himself.
I nearly bled to death on the earthen ground of a forest miles from civilization or help.
For six months, I lived under the radar. I shoveled literal pig shit in exchange for under-the-table pay that amounted to half the minimum wage. I collected cans from the side of the highway until I had enough for a fifty-cent gas station snack cake—which was occasionally the only thing I’d eat for days. I fielded suspicious questions from police who were certain I was walking the streets in search of johns, drugs, or both. I slept in the rain and cold. I drank from creeks. I bathed in the ocean.
But the hardest thing I ever did . . . was walk up to Luca’s door.
As far as I’m concerned, it’s all downhill from here.
I’ve come too far to take the high road, to let him win.
“You’ve lost an entire decade of your life because of him,” she says. “Why give him another second of your attention? He probably likes it. Deep down, he’s probably getting off on seeing you again.”
She doesn’t know Luca like I do. That’s not how he works. She hasn’t seen the silent panic in his eyes as he tries to stifle his reactions in my presence. She doesn’t know that his frozen demeanor is nothing more than a mask to disguise his crumbling interior.
My being here terrifies him.
And maybe not in the same way he terrified me.
But terror is terror.
“I’m not saying you should forgive and forget,” she continues. “But maybe consider going to the police and letting him be someone else’s problem so you can focus on yourself. Don’t give him another minute of your life. He’s already taken so much.”
My phone vibrates. I flip it open to find a small, grainy picture of a swaddled infant with pitch-black hair.
“What is it?” Delphine asks.
“Luca’s wife just texted me a picture of their baby,” I say.
“She thinks you’re friends, doesn’t she?” Delphine asks. “All this time you’ve been spending with her.”
“I think she’s scared I’m going to take Luca from her, and this is her way of begging for me not to break up her happy home. If she only knew . . .”
I fold the phone and toss it on the counter, cupping my hands over my nose and mouth and exhaling.
Delphine comes to my side, placing a palm gently on my arm. “It’s okay if you like her, Lydia. She’s not the one who hurt you.”
“This is probably one of the best days of her life,” I say. “He’s probably sitting right next to her, and she has no idea who he really is. What he really is.”
“Or maybe she does.” Delphine lifts a shoulder to her ear.
I lean against the counter, replaying various conversations I’ve had with Merritt over the weeks and the way her pretty face lights in Luca’s presence. Nothing that’s come out of her mouth has given me any indication that there’s more than meets the eye or that she’s aware of her husband’s sadistic side. She’s a typical vapid, materialistic, West Coast housewife trying desperately to maintain her cushy lifestyle and picture-perfect family.
That said, I don’t resent her.
None of this is her fault.
“Maybe when this is over, the two of you can be friends,” Delphine says. “Real friends. Once the dust settles, I mean. If you value your relationship with her, write her back. Tell her the baby is beautiful, that sort of thing. Leave any mention of Luca out of it.”
“And then what?” I envision the police storming her hospital room, leaving with her handcuffed husband, her newborn screaming, some detective filling her in. Premature sympathetic betrayal sours my mouth.
It’s probably best I ignore it. I can’t, in good faith, send her a sweet message knowing I’m on the verge of tearing down her entire world. Besides, I don’t think there’ll come a day when we’ll ever be friends, even if Luca’s behind bars. There’s too much baggage to unpack. Too many intricacies. We’ll look at each other and only see him. He’ll color every facet of that friendship. The constant undercurrent.
After this, I need to move on.
“I don’t know, angel.” Delphine rubs my back, and for the first time, I don’t recoil. Not even a little. “Wait right here, will you?”
Grabbing her shop keys off the counter, she disappears downstairs before returning a few minutes later with a small beaded necklace in hand.
“You’re going to think I’m silly,” she says with a half laugh. “And I’m sure you already do. I can tell you’re not into this stuff . . . but I’d feel better if you’d wear this.”
Seven polished, bead-sized stones strung on a gold chain rest in her palm, finished with a metal clasp.
“It’s for protection.” She massages the stones one by one between her thumb and forefinger. “Bloodstone, red jasper, black tourmaline, white howlite, tiger’s eye, moonstone, and smoky quartz. These are the big ones. Will you wear this?” Her pale brows raise. “For me?”
The rocks are small, the necklace unobtrusive enough.
I certainly can’t imagine it’d make anything worse . . .
“Sure.” I lift my hair, turn, and let her secure it. It’s lighter than I expected, the beads smooth and cool against my hot flesh. “Thank you.”
Her warm palms rest on my shoulders as she whispers words so slight I can’t hear them. A quiet prayer, perhaps. Something to soothe her own nerves.
“Please think about what I said . . . about going to the police.” She lets me go. “Sleep on it if you have to. I just . . . I have a terrible feeling.” When I turn back, I find her clutching at her stomach, her hands balled into tight fists. “You might think you have the upper hand in this situation, but it’s only because he’s letting you think that.”
My blood turns to ice with her words.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
MERRITT
The baby doesn’t sleep.
Sometime in the middle of the night, he decided to stop latching. It always starts with the same agonizing screams, his little face turning plum purple and bloodred. Sooner or later a nurse rushes in to save the day, insisting I send him to the nursery so I can rest and assuring me that a couple of Similacs here or there aren’t going to sabotage my breastfeeding efforts.