This Story Might Save Your Life(40)
“But if he did it, then why send you those texts?”
“To cover his bases.”
“Benny.”
I know. It’s a lot of conjecture. But if Joy did leave me clues, then the question burning at the forefront of my mind is Why? Why did she need to? And how did she know she would need to? The only thing I can think is that she was afraid Xander would figure it out and pull a power play just like this one. “Why else would she have been so secretive about the divorce?”
Luna appears to be mulling this over, and for a moment I feel vindicated, prepared to share my theory about Joy’s encrypted file. I may not know what’s on it yet, but perhaps its very existence, coupled with this alarming money transfer, is all the proof Luna needs to take me seriously right now.
But before a single word can leave my mouth, she’s shaking her head. “Some things are especially difficult to bring out into the open. I didn’t tell anyone we were having problems until our marriage was officially over.”
My shoulders drop so low I feel like I’m melting.
“And anyway,” Luna adds, “that doesn’t explain why they’re missing.”
“I’m just saying,” I say, hating myself, hating this conversation, hating everything. “Anything’s possible at this point.”
* * *
FINGERPRINT DUST IS an evil, evil thing. It takes a while to figure out which combination of wet and dry towels works best to remove the dust rather than push it around, and this only after Luna has sucked up the loosest particles with a hand vac. After half an hour of this, I need a clean rag, or at least that’s what I claim as I climb the stairs, only to find myself sinking onto the sofa the second I reach the living room. Noise continues all around me as I close my eyes to block out the mess.
It’s unclear how much time has passed when I open them—a minute? an hour?—but the intermittent start and stop of the vacuums has shifted to a solitary, consistent whine. The longer it lasts, the warier I become, and I find myself following the sound to the hallway behind the kitchen. The guest room door is closed, and through it, almost inaudible beneath the irritating whine, are the muffled voices of Quinn and Mallory. They sound upset, and I’d be willing to bet neither is cleaning. I consider going downstairs to give them privacy but change my mind when I hear Mallory shout, “You don’t know what you’re saying!”
“Then tell me what to think, because I’m imagining all sorts of crazy things right now,” Quinn says.
I hold my breath. Mallory’s voice sinks out of earshot, but Quinn—dear, bellowing Quinn—is impossible not to hear.
“I uprooted my life for you so you could take this job, and don’t look at me like that. I’m not trying to play the martyr. I went willingly, I know. But I did it because I thought it would make you happy.”
The only word I catch in Mallory’s response is “podcast.”
“Bullshit,” Quinn snaps. “You and I both know that’s not true. You did it because he’s got you under his thumb. Because for whatever ungodly reason, you can’t say no to the man.”
They dip out of range again. I inch forward, and as I do the floor lets out a startling creak of protest. I freeze mid-step, heart leaping into my throat. The vacuum stops. Quickly, as quietly as I can, I tiptoe out of the hallway.
I’m at the sink rinsing a rag when Quinn exits the guest room.
“How’s it going down there?” she says with an air of forced casualness.
I focus on the water, praying my voice doesn’t betray me. “Slow.”
Five minutes later, I find Luna in the yard, standing opposite the judge and her partner at the fence. Carlotta and Emil are both in robes—Carlotta’s, long and silky, tightly bound at the waist; Emil’s, terry cloth, open to expose his bare chest.
“Do you know there’s a search party tomorrow morning?” Luna asks when I join them.
I hadn’t heard about this.
“At the elementary school,” Carlotta says, wispy white hair softly backlit by the adjacent porchlight. “Your fans organized it on Facebook.”
It’s not a police-sponsored activity, Luna explains, but she thinks we should go. The implication being that it would make a bad impression if we didn’t. I reluctantly agree.
“What else have you learned?” Carlotta asks.
The shrill chirp of crickets fills the background as Luna shares what we know.
“That’s not a lot to go on, is it?” Carlotta says with a frown. “What about the stalker? Any news there?”
“None,” I say. “And he hasn’t posted anything.” Which doesn’t tell us much. If he was responsible for their disappearance, he wouldn’t be announcing his whereabouts. If he wasn’t, there would be no pictures to post.
“And they still haven’t figured out who he is?” Carlotta asks.
I shake my head.
“One thing I’ve been wondering”—Emil inches closer to the fence—”did Joy or Xander mention anything about the MG having issues? Because I told that detective woman my concerns, and—well, Xander bought it from me, didn’t he? I did a good job restoring it, I’m proud of my work. But you know those old roadsters. I’d feel terrible if the car was somehow to blame.”