“Goddammit!” I snap. “Fine. So be it. But starting in half an hour, I will never think about Uri Bugrov this way again.”
I slide my finger over my clit and massage slowly, all the while picturing his face, remembering the way he wrapped his arms around me, the way he touched me, the way he took me on that dining room table, forcing my body to feel things that it hadn’t felt in a long time.
I throw myself into this forbidden moment, all the while promising myself that it will never, ever happen again.
15
URI
Her list is decidedly practical. Toothpaste, dental floss, moisturizer. She’s asked for some clothes, too, but she hasn’t made specific requests. No “bring me the purple sweater with the black stripes, NOT the lavender turtleneck with the dark gray stripes” like I might’ve guessed based on her attitude today. Instead, she’s written in a neat, slanting hand, “a couple of t-shirts, leggings and/or jeans.” She’s also asked for pajamas, though I’m tempted to “forget” them so she has no choice but to sleep naked.
I scowl at my own juvenile bullshit. Get your head in the game, mudak.
Stepping into her space, even though I’ve already been here, is unsettling. Things have changed. I glance around, looking for clues about what kind of person this new obsession of mine really is.
The little bungalow was already small, but it feels even smaller after she’s crowded it with endless junk. I spy an hourglass from Egypt, a snow globe from Paris, a miniature opera house from Sydney, a keychain from Peru; the list goes on and on. They sit on every surface, collecting dust and looking bored.
She does have two of everything, weirdly enough. An extensive collection of his-and-hers pairings. The same mugs but in different colors. The same plates but with different patterns.
Based on this kitchen alone, I’d guess she lived with someone. But there’s no evidence of another person apart from Alyssa’s shit.
I check my phone absentmindedly. I’m waiting on a call from Carl, the private detective on my payroll. Not that I need him when I can figure out certain things for myself. Most of Alyssa’s life is painfully obvious. The woman travels a lot and I’m guessing her job is to blame. But for a traveler, there’s a distinct absence of photographs anywhere.
Until I comb through her chest of drawers and find an old shoebox stuffed far out of sight.
It’s filled with pictures. The more recent ones feature Alyssa alongside a young woman about her age. She sports platinum blonde hair and a confident smile. That would be the mysterious Elle, I assume.
But as I flip back, another girl starts to appear in almost all the older pictures. She’s dark-haired and dark-eyed and there’s a certain something in her eyes that captures my attention. A fearless gaze that doesn’t hold even the tiniest bit of self-consciousness.
I’m still immersed in the pictures when my phone starts ringing. Carl. “Hey, bossman, the results just came in from the background check you asked me to do,” he says in his raspy Boston accent. “The broad came out squeaky clean. You can go ahead and hire her without thinking twice about it.”
“I’m not looking to hire her. I just need to know her background. Give me the summary.”
“Oh. Ah. Right. Er, lemme check the notes here. Born in San Diego to a Mark and Linda Walsh. Pops was a teacher; Mom stayed home. Her father’s retired now. She had a twin sister with a weird name but it says here that she, er, died.”
That catches my attention. “She had a twin?”
“Yeah, Z… Zi… Ziva Walsh. Died at seventeen.”
I glance down again at the photo in my hands. They look nothing alike. I wouldn’t have pegged them for sisters, let alone twins. But the way they’ve got their arms wrapped around each other suggests that their bond was forged early and made to last forever.
I realize belatedly that Carl is still talking. “Wait, what was that?”
“Oh, I was just saying that this chick is a travel writer. Freelance. She’s gotten offers from a handful of different companies for steady writing positions but she’s turned them all down.”
I frown. “Why?”
“Unclear. You’d have to ask her.”
Why does everything seem to go back to talking to her? That is the thing I most want to avoid.
Maybe that’s because it’s the thing you most want to do.
“I mean, I know I sound like a hack here, but there really wasn’t much there to look into, boss. She’s a freakin’ Girl Scout.”