Page 105 of Cara
Sophie covers her mouth. “I can’t believe that was me.”
In stark contrast to the athletically strong woman next to me, the woman in these photos was almost lifeless, staggering through the streets with empty eyes and a body perpetually on the brink of collapse. Her clothes hung loosely on her frame, and her cheeks were as hollow as the dark circles under her eyes.
For such a long time, I knew a photograph could change everything. I braced myself to see her with a new man, knowing it was only a matter of time before I saw the first smile she’d wear that I hadn’t been responsible for making.
But that never happened.
I lost her altogether, forced to search a city I had no idea she’d already abandoned.
“Why did you have these out?”
Taking the papers from her, I flip through them, showing her the post-mortem photograph of a Jane Doe with pale skin, black hair, and eyes that had lost color altogether. The nextpage is the autopsy report that came out weeks later, revealing the name of the woman.
Maria Alverez.
Not Cara Alfieri. Not Sophia Marcello.
As I flip through another, her gaze drifts over flight records for nearby cities, extending as far as Germany, Sweden, even Norway. Realizing I couldn’t track her by name, I began to sift through entries of anyone whose physical description was even vaguely similar to hers.
“Norway,” she whispers. “You were getting close.”
As I return the papers to her, I shake my head. It had been a year of fruitless searching. The burden became harder to bear each passing day, but I wouldn’t stop.
When Dario would head home after a tireless day on the streets, he took with him this false identity I assumed, leaving me to continue searching for as long as I could manage to keep my eyes open, defined solely as a husband.
“You kept looking? Even after they told you I was dead?” I hear the soft rustle of papers cascading to the floor before she throws her arms around my shoulders, exhaling a weary sigh. “You would have found me, I know it.”
She gives me a nod, even as my head shakes back and forth. Without words, I can only stroke her hair, struggling to erase the haunting images of corpses that resemble her imprinted in my mind. I still can’t believe this is real.
The frames shatter inside the fireplace, breaking the silence between us. Eventually, she chuckles, dabbing her wet eyes.
“Let’s get drunk.”
I release a startled laugh. “What?”
“I really,reallythink we should obliterate that bar tonight. Let’s laugh, reminisce, and forget about all the bad stuff.” She kisses me deeply, her hand stroking the smooth skin under my chin. “Okay?”
I’d do just about whatever she wants right now. She’s here.
I'm on my goddamn knees for this woman.
“Let’s do it.”
“Aw, look at this one!”
Sophie turns a page of my mother’s scrapbook, laughing at a photo of me at nine, leaping off my father’s motorboat into a murky lake. Enough time has passed for us to have moved from the couches to a pile of blankets near the fireplace. The flames are reflecting off of the drained decanter beside us.
Over the past hour, a rosy glow has crept into Sophie’s cheeks, drawing me in helplessly. Her tipsiness brightens her smiles and frees her laughter, bringing lively warmth back into these once lifeless rooms.
I grin, recalling that day, albeit faintly. “You didn’t know how to swim then.”
“No, you made fun of me stuck on the boat while you got to swim, remember?”
“I’m sure I didn’t.”I did.
“Look, this was payback,” she says, tapping on a picture. “You were drowning in this one.”
I roll my eyes, flipping the page. She laughs, nudging the scrapbook in my direction, making me face a photo of myself. Awkward and unattractive next to her—drop-dead gorgeous—even at fifteen. Camilla had to force her arm through mine the night of that dance I would take her to.
