Page 19

Three days after

I’m sitting on the floor of my bathroom, googling “Dean Morrison.” I had started to wash my face when I got distracted by the near-compulsive idea that I have to find Dean. To find Will. Unfortunately, there are millions of hits, even when I search “Dean Morrison Florida.”

That doesn’t stop me from scrolling so long my feet go numb. When I finally give up, my legs are jelly as I stand to brush my teeth and then head downstairs.

The house was always too big for just Will and me—even during the weeks we had Mia.

But without him home, it’s cavernous. The air is so still it feels brittle.

The spacious rooms and echoing hallways only magnify his absence.

As I walk downstairs to the kitchen, I feel a sharp, heavy silence that permeates every square foot.

When I clear the landing, I hear something—someone talking maybe?

It’s muffled. An unfamiliar sense of fear grips me, but then, a flicker of hope.

Will?

I follow the sound through the house with one hand at my neck. “Hello?”

“Babe, Will’s on the news,” a voice calls out from the living room.

Este.

I move quickly to reach her—my blood feels like ice in my veins.

“In a developing story, local authorities are searching for a well-known attorney today after family members reported him missing,” Kristy, the female anchor says, her voice infused with a synthetic somberness.

A photo of Will that I’ve never seen before flashes on the screen—him in a white button-down and shorts at the beach.

“William Somerset of the Hall & Somerset law firm was last seen at his Isle of Sicily home early Sunday. Authorities are currently looking for any information that might lead to him being found.”

Just below the photo, there’s a caption so tiny you would miss it if you weren’t looking: Photo provided by Somerset family .

“What is that?” I point to the caption. Este pauses the playback, and we both walk toward the TV screen with narrowed eyes.

“Somerset family?” I look between Este and the TV. “I didn’t give anyone that picture. I’ve never even seen it.”

“Oh. Well, I mean…” Este looks back at the TV. “You’re not his only family.”

It dawns on me. “If Constance gave them this photo, so help me…”

The photo disappears, and Kristy turns to her male counterpart, who says, “Now, for the sad update on a story we covered the other day. The driver of the vehicle that crashed on Via Tuscany has died from injuries he suffered during the crash.”

“Authorities have identified the man as Dean Morrison,” Kristy says. “Mr. Morrison had been in the hospital since the accident and earlier today succumbed to his injuries. While the crash is still under investigation, our thoughts are with the family at this time.”

“Wait, Dean’s the one who crashed into Carol’s fence?” I gasp, thunderstruck.

“Who is Dean?” Este frowns.

Dean Morrison.

I instinctually pull out my phone and open my call log.

(863) 555-0142

I’ve been calling the number periodically over the last twenty-four hours, hoping like hell someone would magically pick up. My stomach sinks. Now I know no one is going to.

I look at Este, completely at a loss for words.

“Nora, honey, are you okay?”

The only clue I might have about where Will went is now linked to a dead man. I want to tell her everything. The words almost fly out of my mouth, but I bite my lip to keep them in.

How would I even begin to explain? What is even happening? Will’s missing and Dean’s dead. What does that mean?

A frantic knock at the door smacks me back into reality, and I start at the sound.

“I’ll get it.” Este touches a gentle hand on my shoulder.

“I came as soon as I could,” the person on the other side of the door says eagerly.

Her face is almost obscured by the giant gift basket she’s gripping, but I’d know that chipper voice anywhere.

Autumn. She enters with a frenzied burst of energy and chatter.

“I was in Jacksonville for work—a baby shower, of all things. My God, you poor thing. And Will! Oh, it’s all so awful.

” Rushing past me, she makes her way toward the kitchen.

Este rolls her eyes at Autumn from the couch. “Oh. It’s you.”

Autumn ignores Este, hoisting the basket onto the island.

“I brought some fresh flowers to brighten up the space, some snacks—it’s so hard to remember to eat but you have to keep your strength—chamomile tea to soothe anxiety, Carole Radziwill’s book about the summer everyone she loved died.

Sad, but somehow inspiring…and…” She digs toward the bottom of the basket to produce a floral notebook. “A journal from Rifle Paper.”

Autumn visits the flagship Rifle Paper store on New England Avenue the way some people go to church—often and with solemn reverence. For her, it’s a perfect sanctuary of jewel-toned flower graphics, peacock throw pillows, and quirky greeting cards.

Este’s off the couch and picking over provisions in the basket with a dismissive scowl. “Who died?” Her tone is glib.

Well, Dean for starters.

The thought makes my heart beat faster, the sound of my own blood pressure spiking dulls the conversation around me.

“ Este, ” Autumn hisses, shooting a pointed glare in her direction. “Nora needs our support right now.”

Este rolls her eyes. “We’re not sitting shivah, Autumn.”

This is when I realize Autumn is dressed in all black.

“Can you please both stop talking?” I say, trying not to sound wounded.

Autumn opens her mouth as if she’s going to say something, but then closes it.

When she speaks again, it’s in a calming, sweet voice, “I’m going to make some fresh iced tea.

” She pulls a Harney & Sons tea box and Meyer lemons out of the basket.

“Have I told you about my lemon tree? I know everyone is obsessed with their chicken coops, but lemon trees are so much more useful. You can use lemons to clean, for skin care…” She busies herself with the teakettle on the stove.

Este puts a finger gun to her temple and says to me in a hushed voice, “I could not possibly care less. Can we send young Martha Stewart on her way now?”

Before I can tell her to be nice, my phone rings from the corner of the kitchen. The sudden sound startles me, causing me to give an involuntary jump in response.

Maybe it’s Will.

Propelled by anxiety, I nearly lunge across the room to reach the phone, ignoring the concerned expressions on Este’s and Autumn’s faces. But it isn’t Will.

It’s Marcus.

Autumn and Este exchange questioning glances, and Este mouths, “Who is it?”

I raise a finger to signal “just a second” and slip out the back door onto the pool deck.

“Hello?” I whisper. Aware that Este and Autumn can probably see and hear me, I keep my back to the windows from the kitchen and walk toward the side hedge.

I don’t want to explain to either one of them why Marcus is calling me.

Este knows we’re friends. At least, I assume she knows.

But the kinds of friends who call each other?

She might think she’s the connective tissue between us.

I can’t handle her questions about him. It’s not a can of worms I want to open.

“Hey. People are talking about Will up at the restaurant.” His worry is palpable—earnest and a little frantic. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

And I think, begrudgingly, that Fritz might have had it right the first time when he questioned the benefit of filing a report. Autumn and Marcus are just the beginning of a string of people who’ll be worried about Will now. At least more people will be looking for him, too, I suppose.

How am I rationalizing the pros and cons of this nightmare?

“Saturday night after the party…I don’t know. He said he was going down to the dock for Mia’s sweatshirt,” I begin, struggling to explain a situation I don’t even understand. “It’s been two days. He’s not answering his phone. He missed a meeting with Fritz. Everyone’s freaking out.”

“Jesus.”

“I know,” I admit.

My helplessness comes into focus and neither of us says anything for what feels like a long time.

I’m about to tell Marcus goodbye when I glimpse a flash of gray from the corner of my eye.

Looking toward the street, I see the gray sedan roll by.

It’s the same one that’s been driving through the neighborhood since Will disappeared. I freeze.

“Are you still there?”

“What? Yeah. Sorry. I just…Yeah.”

Marcus finally offers a hollow “Is there anything I can do?” And I think we both know there’s nothing he can do.

“Nora!” Este calls from an open living room door. “Mia’s here.”

Even from the other side of the lawn, I can see a stricken look on her face.

“Marcus, I’ve gotta go.” I hang up and quickly close the distance between Este and me. “What’s wrong?”

I look past her to the living room, where the TV’s still on and Autumn is fluffing pillows. As if a cleaner home will be the baited trap to finally lure Will back.

“Where’s Mia?” I look back at Este.

“Her bedroom.” Her voice is tight. “She said she left her AirPods here.”

“Okay. What’s with the face?”

“I thought you said she called Will that night?”

“I did.”

“I thought you said it was because she left her Taylor Swift hoodie on the boat.”

“I did. Este, why do I feel like I’m on the defensive? That’s what happened.”

As if on cue, Mia appears in the living room, AirPods in hand, wearing the exact hoodie Will said he had gone to retrieve.

“What the fuck?” I spit out.

“Exactly,” Este agrees.

I walk past Este to try to catch Mia, who’s headed for the door. “Mia, hey, I didn’t know you were coming. How are you?”

She stops in the foyer and shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“Yeah. Fair.”

It’s a weird thing being the second wife who is only fourteen years older than the kid.

I never know what role I am trying to fill.

Big sister? Stepmom? Fairy godmother? Mostly, I really like Mia and think she’s caught in a tricky situation between parents of a busted marriage. I try to send a lifeline where I can.

“You know you can come over anytime you want, right? Your dad doesn’t have to be home for you to come hang out. I put the snacks you like in the fridge by the pool.”

“Thanks. That’s—”

A car horn blows from the driveway.

“Sorry, my mom’s outside, so…” She thumbs in the direction of the door.

“Can I just ask…how did you get your sweatshirt back? Did your dad drop it off?”

She frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“The other night, he said…” I take a breath, not wanting to sound like I’m accusing her of anything. “Did you call about leaving that sweatshirt on the boat the night of his birthday?”

“No. I would never leave this sweatshirt anywhere.” She gives herself and the sweatshirt a little hug. “I stayed up making TikToks with Katie that night.”

Mia never called Will. Dean Morrison is dead. And Will is still MIA. I look around the house, and it’s suddenly unrecognizable. Like I might be in an alternate universe.

The car horn honks again. This time, it sounds for so long I get a mental image of Constance putting her entire body weight against the steering wheel. My nerves are so frayed I jump about a mile. Mia just rolls her eyes in her mother’s direction.

“See you later,” she says and reaches for the door.

She leaves me standing in the foyer like she hasn’t just dropped a bombshell on me.

If she never called Will that night, then who the hell did?