Reflexively she dialed Izzy’s number and was surprised when her own husband answered.
“Hey,” he said. Even in that one word, she heard all his shame and despair. She ignored it, could not deal with his emotions or what he’d done to their life. In her mind, financial infidelity was a more egregious betrayal than a sexual one. She honestly didn’t know what the future held for them, but for the time being, she couldn’t think about it. She’d forgiven him before he’d even confessed; she’d meant it, too. But that didn’t mean she didn’t hate him at the moment.
“You found her,” she said, feeling the flood of relief. She felt both Emily’s and Trevor’s eyes on her.
“Uh, no. She left her phone. I found it on the floor of Trevor’s room.”
“Oh, God.” She shook her head at the kids, and both of them seemed to slump in disappointment. Izzy had dropped the line that connected them, gone off the grid. This terrified Linda more than anything else.
“I’ll find her. I promise,” he said. She could hear how badly he wanted to do that, to be the hero here. “She Googled someone named Camilla Novak. Do you know who that is?”
She searched the memory banks of her rattled brain. “No,” she said finally.
“There’s an address in SoHo, not far from here.”
Linda rummaged through her bag and found a capless Bic pen and a receipt from the coffee shop where she’d fucked Ben just hours before. It reminded her that they both had a lot to regret.
“Give it to me,” she said, her tone harder, less yielding than she intended. She just couldn’t help her anger, couldn’t keep from expressing it. She scribbled down the address, wondering aloud to Erik why Izzy had taken the uptown N/R.
“I don’t know. But she also looked up someone named Kristof Ragan. Ring any bells?”
“No.”
She wrote the name down. “Anything else?”
“She went to some site called Services Unlimited. It looks like an escort service masked as temp services. Weird.”
“Why would she go to a site like that?”
“No idea.”
“Anything else?”
“Just American Express. She was probably trying to track charges.”
“Is that it?”
“That’s it. Hey, are you going to give that to the detective?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Okay,” he said, then he paused and issued a sharp breath. “Just give me a head start. If I can get to her first, maybe I can convince her to turn herself in to the lawyer. We don’t want her taken into custody, right? She’s been through enough.”
The detective returned to the room then with sodas for the kids and a coffee for her. She thought he wore too much cologne; it made her sinuses ache.
“Okay,” she said. “Give me a call back when you find something.”
She ended the call and stuffed the paper in her bag. She looked at the detective, offered him a grateful smile for the coffee he handed her. “He’s checking the computer now. He’s going to call right back.”
The detective nodded. “Okay,” he said, handing her a card. “Call me on my cell if he finds anything.”
“Where are you going”?
“I have a lead I want to follow up.”
They stared at each other and in that moment it was hard to keep what she knew from him, an authority figure. He’d been open with her, told her everything he’d learned about Izzy’s husband. She felt guilty, nervous for keeping things from him, even if it was only to give Erik a head start so that he might talk some sense into her crazy sister. She was glad when he moved toward the door.
“Let me ask you something,” he said. He paused with the knob in his hand and turned back to look at her. “Did you ever suspect that your brother-in-law wasn’t who he said he was? Was there ever anything that gave you pause, something that’s coming back to you now?”
She’d thought about it since he’d told her everything, about the missing man, the stolen identity. But other than the nebulous feeling she’d had that she didn’t care for him or trust him and didn’t think he was good enough for Izzy no, there was nothing, no clue that might help them now. She told him as much.
“Just think about it. Let me know if anything comes to mind. No matter how small or inconsequential it might seem.”
Then: “Does the name Camilla Novak mean anything to you?”
She couldn’t hold his eyes, dropped her gaze to the floor. “No,” she said. “Uh-uh.”
He let a beat pass. Then: “You sure?”
She nodded and forced herself to meet his eyes with a wide, earnest gaze. “Why? Who is she?”
“Someone who might have information. We’ll see. Call me,” he said, and then left the room.
“Did you just lie?” Emily asked, incredulous. Linda considered lying again but didn’t have the heart, not with both of them staring at her like that.
“Shh,” Linda said, moving over and sitting next to her daughter, dropping an arm around her shoulders. Her little girl felt so thin, so fragile.
“You lied to the police?” Trevor said, his voice high with anguish, looking like he did the day she had to break it to him about Santa.
“I’m just giving Dad a head start,” she whispered, glancing over at the door. She moved over to him and put both her hands on his thin shoulders. “We want to find Isabel before the police do.”
“I thought you said I did the right thing.”
“God, stop whining for once,” said Emily.
“You did” said Linda. “You did do the right thing. But this is the right thing, too. In a different way.”
It was nothing but shades of gray, she wanted to tell him, none of it black and white. But instead she opened her free arm to him and he came and sat on her lap; he wasn’t too big for that. Emily rested her head on Linda’s shoulder and she took her brother’s hand and squeezed. They could be so mean to each other, scream and whine to beat the band, but Linda knew they shared the same ferocious love that she and Izzy did. And now, with foundations shifting, and life as they knew it crashing around them-in ways they weren’t yet aware-they’d have this. They’d always have this.
12
He felt an acute annoyance as she bled out, died slowly. Her eyelids fluttered quickly, butterfly wings of panic and resistance. There was a hopeless rattle to her breath. He looked away when he saw her hand start to twitch, her eyes go blank. His annoyance resided at first in the back of his throat, then became an ache just above his brow line.
A slow unraveling occurs when one thread separates from the fabric; it can’t help but catch on something. One tiny pull, then another, and eventually the whole garment comes apart. He’d broken the first rule he’d set for himself: Leave at the first sign of trouble; cut your losses, take what you can, and change that garment before you’re left half naked in the cold. It was attachment and arrogance that brought him to this place. Sara’s earlier admonition rang in his ears.
He moved over to the couch and sat, put his chin on one fist, watched her. There was a time when he thought he could love her. But when she’d given herself to him so easily and served her purpose, his passion for her cooled quickly.
HE’D MET MARCUS Raine at Red Gravity, where they were both programmers. Though they’d been raised in the same country, just miles apart, Marcus Raine didn’t want to be friends-not with his fellow countryman, not with anyone. Their colleagues laughed about Raine behind his back, joked that he just powered down at the end of the day, sat slumped at his desk until morning. He was there when everyone arrived, there when they left in the evenings. He seemed to have five sets of nearly identical outfits-black pants and Rockport shoes, button-down shirts in some shade of brown or gray. The receptionist took notes-brown on Monday, charcoal on Tuesday, slate on Wednesday, chocolate on Thursday, gunmetal on Friday. He didn’t often acknowledge the weather, wore the same three-quarter-length lightweight black jacket, rain or shine, summer or winter. Sometimes he wore a stocking cap when it was very, very cold. Sometimes, in the blistering heat, he didn’t wear the jacket at all.