“But that sounds like a lovely name,” I’d said.
“It meansschool,” he replied, laughing. “That’s all I could think of then, wanting to go.”
By date four, after a month apart, sex was on the table, of course, and the thought terrified me. I’d already imagined what it would be like to go to bed with him, to re-experience pleasures I’d long given up for dead, but actually doing so seemed like something else entirely.
When I admitted to him that it had been almost six years since I’d made love with anyone, he’d smiled and said, “Well, I look forward to showing you it was worth the wait.”
That was enough to convince me. He turned out to be not only a passionate lover but also a very patient, giving one.
After an intense year of long-distance dating, we started discussing the idea of my moving to Buenos Aires. He was deeply in love with me, he said, and though the clearest thought I could allow in my head right then was that I wanted to end the torturous commute betweentwo continents, I soon realized that—against the odds—I was pretty sure I loved him, too.
On one of my visits to Argentina, when we were deciding between me sharing his apartment or us getting our own, he brought me to Uruguay to show me the house his uncle had left him and that he’d just finished renovating.
“What if we livehere—at least for now?” I’d said as the weekend wound down.
“Are you serious?” he’d asked. “Because nothing could please me more.”
Iwasserious. He’d mentioned already that it was easy enough for foreigners to obtain residency. It would be just the two of us in this tranquil place of rolling fields. I’d already known I couldn’t pick up where I’d left off in life, that old routines would never offer solace again, but I sensed that living quietly here with such a tender, easygoing man would bring its own kind of comfort.
I wash my face, plug in the night-light in the bathroom, and leave the door to that room ajar. Fear of the dark is something I experienced as a child—an issue my parents thought might have developed after a distant cousin told me a terrifying story about an old woman who lived in attics and crept into bedrooms at night—and though it abated over time, it kicked in again after Mel died. If Sebastian has trouble falling asleep from the faint glow, he’s never complained.
It’s not until I’ve slid under the duvet that the night’s events really catch up with me, leaving my stomach in painful knots.
I know Logan has meant well: following up with the lawyer, calling the state police, traipsing thousands of miles to break the news to me. But he’s a fool if he falls for what Ruck said. What that monster probably wanted, as he lay close to death, was to have us twisting in the wind, desperate to know the truth and never free to move on.
I refuse to let him do that to me.
Chapter 4
When I wake, it’s still pitch black outdoors, and though my eyelids are heavy, I can tell right away that I’ll never fall back to sleep. Rather than get up, though, I lie in the twisted sheets, letting my thoughts untangle. As memories from last night work their way into my consciousness, I groan into the pillow. My ex-husband here in my home ... The letter ... Ruck’s appalling lie ... It all really happened.
But Sebastian will be back today and so will Poco, and Logan will be gone.
Just outside the window nearest me, an owl hoots a couple of times. Then other sounds sneak into the room. Footsteps and clinking, someone moving around the kitchen, it seems. I roll quickly on my side and peer at the clock. It’s 6:12, later than I realized.
It must be Logan in there, making himself an espresso before he hits the road. Is he planning to take off without saying goodbye, leaving a note instead? I can’t decide whether that behavior would suit me or seriously piss me off.
I struggle out of bed and quickly change into the jeans and turtleneck sweater I tossed onto the armchair last night. Then I pad barefoot to the kitchen. To my shock, it’s Maitena who’s there, removing something from the oven. Hearing me, she spins around, grasping a baking sheet of freshly made medialunas.
“Ah, Bree,buen día,” she says.
I wish her a good morning, too, and before I can ask why she’s here so early, she mentions that Jorge told her I had a guest, and she wanted to make sure that there was something to serve for breakfast besides yogurt. She says she will make a frittata, too, if I’d like.
I’ve never had reason to think Maitena’s a busybody, but my gut tells me that part of her mission this morning is to get a sense of what I’m up to with my mystery guest, perhaps being protective of Sebastian.
“Gracias, pero no necesita,” I explain. I go on to tell her that my friend is leaving shortly, and we will be fine with coffee and the medialunas, which look wonderful, I add. She thanks me, scoots the pastries into a basket, and after placing it on the table, takes her leave through the back door. She probably thinks I was chasing her out, and I am. I don’t want her bustling around when I say goodbye to Logan.
As soon as she’s gone, I leave the kitchen to finish dressing. While making my way back to my bedroom, I glance down the side corridor that leads to the guest suite. The carved wooden door is still closed, and I don’t detect any movement behind it. Logan had said he wanted to get an early start today, but I’m hardly about to poke my head into his room and make sure he’s up.
And then, in an instant, it’s a Saturday morning eight years ago, just before five thirty, and I’m lurching down a hallway in our New York City loft. Unable to fall back to sleep, I’d gotten up super early for me and was drinking tea in the kitchen when the call came in from a Detective Caputo with the New York State Police. He asked if I was Bree Winter. Caught off guard, I confirmed the fact tentatively, as if I wasn’t quite sure, and then he inquired if my husband was available, too.
“What’s this about?” I’d asked, overwhelmed with dread.
“We’d like to speak to you and your husband together if that’s possible,” he’d said.
As I’d started to run, calling out Logan’s name, the mug had slipped from my hands and shattered on the floor.
I slide my feet into a pair of loafers and then brush my teeth. My body’s still jittery from the news about Ruck, but at the same time I’m groggy, so once I’ve returned to the kitchen, I make an espresso, then settle into a chair at the table. Maitena’s opened a kitchen window, and outside a group of monk parakeets are already chattering among themselves.
