Page 41 of Circle of Strangers
Will scans his fingerprint, unlocking his MacBook.
“What’s your theory?” I ask.
He exhales slowly, as if the question itself weighs too much, and he turns his gaze toward the window despite the curtains being drawn.
“I don’t want to begin to guess. It could be anything.” He looks at me, his gaze steadier now, in focus. “Honestly, I’d rather not think about it. It has nothing to do with us.”
I disagree.
And interesting choice of words.
“So, we might be living next door to a murderer and you’re just going to bury your head in the sand?” I cross and then uncross my arms. I’m not trying to put him on the defense, but his attitude about this is too casual for my comfort.
Will straightens, his expression turning serious. “You think Oscar killed her? Is that your theory?”
“Statistically,” I keep my voice measured, “when a woman goes missing or ends up dead, it’s more often than not at the hands of her romantic partner.”
My words are a test.
Will nods slowly, his expression unreadable. “This is true.”
He reaches for me and takes my hand, bringing it to his lips but not kissing it, almost as if he forgot to complete the move because his mind is elsewhere.
“We can talk more about this after my seminars.” His thumb brushes over my knuckles.
The warmth of his touch, the familiar weight of his affection—it should make me feel safe. And for a fleeting moment, it does. But beneath his warm gestures, something cold lingers. A nagging doubt I can’t quite shake.
I squeeze his hand before letting it go. “Sounds good.”
As I turn to leave the room, the scent of his cologne catches me again, trailing after me like whispered secrets.
28
Lucinda’s letters are arriving with almost a maddening frequency now. She’s up to something, though I’ve yet to determine what it is. She’s made it clear she knows where I live and that I’m living under an alias. She’s rewriting history as a way to get under my skin and remind me of the torment I lived through a lifetime ago. But nothing can prepare me for today’s letter.
My Gabrielle—
I think of you often, if you can believe it. There isn’t a day that goes by that I wish things had been different between us. I often look at other mothers and daughters and wonder how it might have been had our circumstances been more conventional. There are things I’ve never shared with you—things that might provide the context I’m sure you’ve always needed. While it’s too late to change the past and wishing things were different is a waste of time that I don’t have (more on that another day), I hope you can take solace in knowing I’m a much better mother to your half sister than I was to you.
If we never meet again, I wanted you to know you have a sister. She’s thirteen and she’s got your hazel-brown eyes and wide smile. I see a little bit of you in her every single day. In another life, the two of you would have a wonderful bond. I just know it.
She knows nothing about you or your existence, and while you don’t owe me anything, the mother I was and the other I now am might as well be strangers and I ask that you keep it that way—not for me but for her.
Lies.
I refuse to believe any of it.
I shove the letter in the drawer with the others and go about my morning. But curiosity gnaws at me for hours. Lucinda painting herself as a saint of a mother is something she was always good at, but I know her better.
If I truly do have a sister, she could be in grave danger.
Flipping the envelope over, I inspect the postmark on the back.
Hinsdale, Illinois.
If I recall, Hinsdale is an upscale Chicago suburb, a place with new money and old, tree-lined streets with million-dollar mansions. Clearly she’s still in the greater Chicago area. And driving out of her way to mail letters from a specific post office is something Lucinda wouldn’t hesitate to do.
Once again, her motives have me perplexed. Emotional whiplash. Mental torment. But to what end? And why now?
