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I have no idea if that’s even a thing here in Holland, and I know from experience that even if it is, there are no words magical enough to shut down a jacked-up reporter on a deadline.
“Seriously, guys, back up. I—I can’t breathe.”
They don’t back up. If anything, the huddle around me tightens.
I’m filling my lungs for a scream when suddenly, the sidewalk tilts. I squeal and lurch to the right, falling through a gap in the crowd.
Or no—not a gap. An empty spot that someone has elbowed their way into making, the same someone who now has a hold of my arm, long fingers clamped down on my wrist like a vise.
“Hey, let go!” I shout, right as the fist gives a hard yank.
I’m heaved straight at one of the journalists, at close to seven feet a mountain of a man. He pivots right before I crash into his chest, allowing a sliver of space just big enough for me to squeeze through. My bag gets caught on something, a belt buckle, a fist, before it releases with a thud against my hip.
And then, suddenly, air. Freedom.
Ingrid, my savior in a teddy bear coat and red lipstick.
She barks something in vicious Dutch at the reporters, not viciousenough to make them back up, but at least they stop swarming long enough for her to hustle me across the street. A bike whizzes by, barely missing us as the biker leans on the bell. As soon as it’s gone, we break into a jog.
At the door, Ingrid digs through her keys for the right one, and I bounce on my toes. I can hear them behind us, clunky Dutch shoes coming across the pavement. I lean in and whisper, “You should hurry.”
Ingrid nods because she hears them, too. “I know.”
“They’re almost here.”
“Iknow.” I’m bracing for another ambush when she shoves in the key, gives the doorknob a twist, and the two of us tumble inside. “Flikkerop,” she shouts, and I laugh because I know that one—the Dutch version offuck off. She slams the door in their faces.
I’m about to thank her for a second time when another question worms its way through the wood, smacking me on the back of my skull, a direct hit.
Rayna, how do you respond to police naming you the lead suspect?
Willow
The Nine Streets are three square blocks lined with boutiques and cafés smack in the city center. The sidewalks are packed despite the cold, with people jamming the doorways and in snaking lines outside of specialty food shops offering up everything from bubble tea to hand-dippedstroopwafelsto overpriced french fries smothered with Parmesan.
I’m seated away from the fray, wedged between a giant potted Buxus and a chalkboard sign on a sidewalk terrace, freezing my ass off and trying not to think about how, yet again, I’m trailing another human around town.
Not Rayna this time but Thomas, who’s been in the store across the street for—I check my phone—going on twelve minutes now. Rive Gauche, according to the sign painted on the window, which sells a mix of heavily curated clothing and trendy home decor, candles and vases and lacquered trays topped with vintage carafes and hung with cheap jewelry. Gold-plated chains, bracelets made with colorful beads, fake pearls of every shape and color. The best thing I can say about it is at least it’s not lingerie.
Not that Thomas would ever be so cliché, but I also never thought he’d be the type to have an affair. I’ve thought about it a lot since seeing him outside that hotel, and really, I can’t come up with another explanation. Especially since he turned off location sharing for the twenty-four hours he was supposedly in Antwerp, and when yesterday I texted to ask how things were going at theconference, he said that everyone loved his speech. And then suddenly this morning, his dot reappeared, which is why I’m sitting here now.
Also suspicious is the way he’s dressed, in a sweater and faded jeans he must have dragged from the very back of his closet, under a peacoat I thought he threw away ages ago. Definitely not what he had on when he left the house this morning. A disguise, then, a ploy to make him look very much not like himself.
Meanwhile, I’m dressed like everyone else in this part of town, in generic jeans and a dark puffy coat, a new pair of sunglasses covering my face. They’re much like the kind of plastic things I used to own, purchased at a discount store between Sem’s school and here for a whole five euros. The glasses sit crooked on my nose, and it feels silly to be wearing shades on a day when the sun is muted at best, but I need a disguise and Gucci would never make a pair this tacky.
A woman’s voice floats from across the street. “Willow? I thought that was you.”
Shit.Not that good of a disguise after all, and what are the chances? Running into a neighbor all the way here, a good dozen tram stops into the thickest part of the city. Especially this neighbor, the neighbor Thomas refers to asde prater—the talker—because neither of us can ever remember her name. Vittoria? Francesca? Giada? The only thing I know for sure it that it’s very Italian, and this is hitting too close to home.
I look up with a smile, my voice going unnaturally bright. “Hi! What are you doing all the way over here?”
“Oh, just a bit of shopping. It’s Matteo’s birthday next week, and he’ssoimpossible to shop for. I bought him a pair of shoes, which more likely than not he’ll take back.” She holds up a bag from a department store nearby, hooked over a manicured finger. “You?”
Her gaze dips to the empty chair next to me, and I scramble for an excuse that won’t prompt her to sink onto it.
“I’m shopping, too, but for a new speech therapist for Semmy since his is retiring. I’ve got a meeting in twenty minutes with someone who comes highly recommended, but she’s all the way over in the Red Light, and I’m really not looking to make that trek every week. I’d prefer to stay closer to home.”
Immediately, I regret involving my son in the lie. Sem’s speech pathologist is fantastic, and nowhere near retirement age. What if this woman runs into Thomas or Martina? She’ll definitely bring it up, and I’ll have to come up with a cover. I should have just told her I was shopping, too, and left it at that.