I should have dealt with her myself when I had the chance. I easily could have invited her to lunch, slipped a little something into her drink—eye drops maybe—waited for her to pass out on the way home, then taken her out to a remote section of the woods to dispose of her. A quick slit to the jugular would’ve done it. No need to complicate it. But every time I played the scene out in my head, it always ended with that psychic lady she lives with giving interviews on TV, pointing fingers at Luca. Those types will do whatever they can to hog the spotlight, and free publicity is priceless. Not to mention, it’s always the husband.
We’ve been screwed since the moment she ambled into town.
She was always the one in control—we merely had the illusion of it.
I measure a cup of heavy cream and dump it into the pot.
Never saw the extortion coming. Never in a million years. And a thousand bucks a day? I still can’t get over it. She’s bold, this one. That must be like lottery money to her. She could buy hundreds of canvas shoes with that kind of money . . .
In the next room, Luca tends to our children. Our beautiful, perfect, beloved babies. Does he realize how lucky he is that I chose him in the first place? I easily could’ve moved to a bigger city, set my sights on some moneyed doctor or established businessman, and taken a golden elevator to the top. But that’s what my mother did—and we all know how that turned out for her.
Hand-selecting Luca to be my husband—my life partner—felt like an insurance policy against that sort of thing.
He was opposite of my father in every way. Head to toe. Inside and out.
It was easier than I expected, shaping Luca into what I wanted. Enjoyable too. Then again, it was probably the artist in me. Crafting beauty out of nothing.
It started with the little things—bathing him in attention and compliments unlike any he’d ever experienced. Making him believe he was a perfect catch exactly how he was. Constant reminders of how sexy I found him despite having to close my eyes and pretend he was anyone else just to climax.
I made him feel like a man . . . a real man . . . and eventually he started to act like one.
It wasn’t an overnight process; in fact, it was a painstaking, years-long endeavor. But good art always takes time. But by the time we said “I do” on a private beach in Waikiki, the man was a masterpiece.
I stir the soup with a wooden slotted spoon, set the pathetic metal burner to simmer, and secure the lid.
Luca hates cauliflower—he also hates soup for dinner. It’s an appetizer, not an entrée, he says. Hardly filling. But he’s well aware of his current standing in my book, so he’s not going to complain. He’ll lap it up with a smile on his face if he knows what’s good for him.
And if he’s got a shred of brains left after the conversation we had earlier, he’ll stay out of my way until I decide what to do with him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
LYDIA
Detective Nolan Rhinehart sits across from me, a steady hand covering his mouth as he forces a breath through narrow nostrils. He’s young for a detective, maybe a little older than me. Maybe that means he’s good at his job, that they promoted him into this position based on his competence and not the number of years he’s put in.
“I know there isn’t a name for this kind of thing,” I say. Missing people don’t usually come back, not after this long. At least not enough for there to be a dedicated word in the dictionary for this sort of thing.
Returned?
Restored?
I was simply missing, and now I’m unmissing.
“So maybe there isn’t a protocol,” I continue, filling the silence with sound.
His eyes narrow. Either he doesn’t believe me, or he’s processing everything I’ve shared. Both, maybe.
“But whatever you need me to do to prove my identity,” I say. “Fingerprints. DNA. Name it. I’ll do it.”
“I was a recruit, just started at the law enforcement academy when Lydia went missing.” He sits straight. “She—you—were all anyone could talk about in my Investigative Procedures class.” He reaches for a pen, tapping it on the dirty table. “I even volunteered all my free time to help search. We combed those woods around the clock for weeks.”
Fullness presses behind my eyes. If I was capable of crying, I would. I walked in here with my defenses up, prepared to go to war to prove my case if needed. Fully expecting to be laughed at, stared at, ridiculed.
“You believe me,” I say.
“Couldn’t forget that face if I tried.” He taps his pen again, nodding to himself as he looks down, lost in thought. “I was there the day we found your backpack on the cliffs.” His jade-green eyes lock on mine. “Always found it fascinating that they were able to declare you dead without a body. Doesn’t always happen that easily.”
Knowing that man, what he’s capable of, I’m sure there was some bribery involved or some loophole exploited.
“When you’re about to get a windfall and you know the right people,” I say, “you can make things happen.”
“I don’t like to speculate without the facts,” he says, his tone direct yet placid. “But we’ll figure it out.”
While I’ve only known Detective Rhinehart two hours, he strikes me as a patient man. Unfortunately, his patience underserves this situation. I need someone to move on this now.
“I don’t know where they are right now, but his wife and kids are in danger.” I nudge the stack of papers closer to him and flip to the policy declaration pages. “If he did this to me, he’ll do it to them.”
He draws in a slow breath, scanning the papers. “It’s not unusual for someone to take a policy out on their family members—and it’s certainly not against the law.”
“But given this man’s history with insurance policies . . .”
He grimaces. “There’s an order to everything. If he’d been charged with this crime, we might have probable cause to—”
“So because he got away with it, you’re not going to do anything?” I don’t mean to interrupt, but come on.
“I’m more concerned with getting your case closed, Lydia,” he says. “And while I know it’s you, we’ve still got to go through the proper channels. Probably start with a DNA test . . .” He exhales, cheeks inflating as his voice trails into his own silent thoughts. Making a quick note on his legal pad, he continues, “And in the meantime, we’ll have to piece together your story a bit more. Solidify it if we can. You say you’ve been off the grid the last ten years . . . could be tricky. Definitely going to take some time. We’ll also need to bring in Mr. Coletto for—”
“There isn’t going to be a Mr. Coletto to bring in if you don’t find him.” I rise. “I’m telling you, he took his wife and kids, and he’s going to do something to them. I know it.”
He studies me, leaning back in his chair. “Do you know where he might’ve gone?”
I shrug. “No idea.”
“At any time, did Mr. Coletto state he was going to harm them?”
My jaw falls slack. “No offense, Detective, but did you not hear a word I said? This man is a sociopath and a murderer, and he’s got five million dollars waiting for him if he does what I think he’s about to do. What I know he’s about to do . . .”