“I want to talk to my husband.” Her tone is unsettlingly matter-of-fact. “And I’m not leaving town until that happens, so . . .”
Heat creeps up my neck. My head pounds harder. I imagine my blood pressure is inching into a dangerous zone. This can’t be good for me. And especially not for my baby.
This—whatever the hell it is—ends now.
“He’s not your husband.” I reach for her cart, rolling it out of the way, something I should’ve done the instant we locked eyes.
The sudden movement tips Lydia off-balance, but she catches herself and glances at my items.
“He likes cinnamon toothpaste, not mint. Mint makes him gag. Oh. And there’s a pale-pink birth mark on his lower back, left side. Shape of a crescent moon.”
My veins crack, ice-cold.
Reaching into my shopping cart, she plucks the glass jar of almonds I grabbed by the deli. “And he prefers Marcona—not California. Unsalted. Keeps them in the fridge because he likes them cold.”
I try to speak, but nothing comes out.
“He talks in his sleep sometimes,” she continues, “but only when he’s having a good dream. His favorite childhood memory was when his cousins came from Pennsylvania for a week and they went camping on the beach. When he was eleven, he had an emergency appendectomy.” She traces her finger against her torso, drawing an invisible line where Luca’s scar would be. “Would you like me to go on?”
She waits, but the words fail to find my lips.
Pushing her cart away she says, “That’s what I thought.”
By the time I’m able to form a coherent response, she’s gone.
CHAPTER SIX
LYDIA
I line up Delphine’s groceries on the kitchen counter. Milled cashew butter. Pomegranate seeds. Agave syrup. A block of grass-fed white cheddar from a local dairy. A pound of antibiotic-free deli turkey. Organic gluten-free penne. Ghee. Turmeric. Half a dozen free-range eggs. A quart of oat milk. A new toothbrush for myself as well as a plastic comb, a deodorant stick, and a twenty-pack of elastic hair ties.
Last but not least, a twelve-panel at-home drug test from the pharmacy section.
I peruse her cupboards and fridge, placing things where I think they might go, and I leave the test to sit out by the sink, unopened. A show of good faith. Not that I have anything to hide. I haven’t touched a drug in my life. For starters, I could never afford them. And even if I could, I’m pretty sure my mom did enough in her thirty-six years to cover us both for this lifetime.
Collapsing on Delphine’s red velvet couch next to her lounging cat, I fantasize about a real fire crackling in her fireplace instead of the vast array of white tapered candles currently on display. Someday I’ll have a fireplace. An apartment of my own. Something colorful with warm, soft textures and cozy furniture. Modern plumbing. Heat. Nothing rustic, nothing to remotely remind me of the cabin.
Maybe even a house by the sea . . .
I won’t go so far as to say Merritt stole my life, because she had nothing to do with what happened to me, but I can’t help but notice the stark contrast between hers and mine.
Who knows how I’d have turned out if it weren’t for that fateful afternoon in the woods. Maybe I should be happy for my husband, that he was able to pursue his restaurant dreams without me and plop a pretty little replacement into my spot to boot. But for now, I can’t stop focusing on the imbalance of justice. Everything else is background noise.
Powder lifts his head, his yellow eyes homing in on me. And then he hops down and trots to the window, finding a new place in the sun.
A stack of books on the coffee table catches my eye. I’m not sure if they were there earlier. Sitting up, I check them out: a crystal bible, a beginner’s chakra guide, and an angel directory.
The authors have various credentials following their names—all doctorates of some kind and then some. Makes them more credible, I imagine. Someone who spends ten years in college couldn’t possibly have a marble loose, right?
I chuff.
The power of suggestion is insane, but what’s even more insane is that people build entire empires off it. There are millionaires out there who’ve fattened their bank accounts and secured their futures all because they figured out how to get paid for telling people what they want to hear.
Sighing, I think of Delphine downstairs. Alone. She doesn’t strike me as a scammer or an opportunist. Just a woman trying to rebuild her life and put a little good out into the world. My heart aches for the loss of her daughter.
For a woman who puts unquestionable stock in the concept of angels, does she ever wonder where Amber’s angels were when her number was called?
Maybe life is easier when you believe in something. I have no doubt my time with The Monster would’ve been a percentage point or two more tolerable had I clung to the belief that someone was watching over me, planning to rescue me when the moment was right.
But it was only ever me, The Monster, and a million miles of solitude.
No one came.
No one cared.
No one was looking.
He made damned sure I knew that, too—showcasing local newspapers that had stopped running stories about my disappearance, opting to replace that coverage with articles on property tax levies and visits from state senators.
In the blink of an eye, I became old news.
Erased.
Clocking out of my thoughts, I page through the crystal bible, landing on a chapter about carnelians—ugly little red-brown stones said to restore vitality, instill creativity, and intensify motivation. Fitting, seeing as how I came here to get my life back, and I’m going to have to get creative to do so. One could argue my motivation is intense, too.
So that’s how this works—confirmation bias. You take a generic word like “luck” or “surprise” or “fortune” or “gratitude,” attach it to a stone, and then apply it to whatever scenario matches your current situation.
Easy enough.
I flip to a different section, landing on the page for amazonite—a rock named for women warriors and said to protect the balance between strength and caregiving. If I were a married mother like Merritt, perhaps I’d identify with this one.
I don’t blame her for not believing me last night. I didn’t intend to show up at her door so late, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to turn around and walk five miles to town with nothing to show for my efforts.
Besides, I was hoping my husband would be the one answering the door. He wouldn’t have turned me away or denied my existence, that I know for sure.
I wanted him to see me like that—decrepit, homeless, but still very much alive.
In a perfect scenario, the newest Mrs. Coletto would’ve invited me in and the three of us would’ve gathered at their kitchen table. Leaving no detail spared, I’d have told them all about my nine years with the man I called The Monster, how I finally escaped, and everything that has led me to this moment.
Reclaiming my life is going to be a backbreaking process, emotionally excruciating at times, but after having been through hell and back, this should be a cakewalk.
I picture Merritt sitting in her state-of-the-art, well-appointed home with her bulbous belly. Her German luxury SUV still warm in the garage from her day about town. The ocean waves crashing outside her windows as the sun lowers in the sky.