26EMERY
How’s the patient?” Annie says through the line.
“Miraculous as ever.” Reaching for my laptop, I open the file where I’ve been transcribing my notes. Normally I’d be thrilled to talk about work right now, grateful for the distraction, but all I can think about is Luca being out there alone, just like he was that night. Trying to refocus, I scroll down to my last entry. “Vitals are Olympic athlete–worthy. I’ll draw some blood tonight and run a full panel tomorrow. His memory seems the same, but no weakness in limbs, altered gait, or coordination issues. In fact, we were out all day, and he still felt up to a walk tonight.”
“Ooh, like a date?”
“Not a date but notnota date?” Standing, I walk across the house to look out the front window. No sign of him yet. I turn away and start pacing, willing myself to relax. “I took him to the beach where we had our first date. We talked. Really talked. I can’t remember the last time we did that.”
“I told you this would happen! Oh my God, Em, I’m so happy for you guys.”
“Okay, calm down.” I bite back a smile as I pivot back toward the front of the house. “It’s just a start.”
“But it’s something!”
I’m listening, but my attention has been lured out the window and to the police car pulling into my driveway. My stomach plummets, my palms turning slick. “Oh, shit.”
“What?”
The doorbell rings.No no no no no.
“Annie, the police are here. I gotta go.”
“What?”
“I’ll call you back—”
“The fuckingpolice?”
“Luca’s not home yet. I just—” Without finishing my sentence, I end the call and run to the front door.
Pulse hammering, I throw it open and am faced with two uniformed officers. “Hi,” I say and then immediately, “What happened?”
“Are you Emery Martín?” the one on the left asks. He’s got a baby face and a mustache that looks like a sticker.
I nod frantically. “Yes, yes.” Looking past them at the street, I search for signs of an accident. My thoughts vacillate wildly between thinking something has happened to Luca, and that someone has reported what we’ve done.
Annie is right: I’m not cut out for prison. I’m not cut out for any of this.
Even so, I’d do it all over again.
“I’m Officer Dowd and this is Officer Stone,” Mustache says. “We’re with the San Diego Sheriff’s Department.”
I notice that Stone—an older, stoic officer—has split his attention between my face and over my shoulder, trying to get a look inside the house. His left arm is at his side, the palm of his hand resting on the butt of his holstered gun.
I’ve been trained to mislead people, to stay cool and calm and—most importantly—appear confident in the face of suspicion, but right now they could probably ask me my birthday and I’m not sure I could give a convincing answer. “Has something happened?”
“We’re looking for Luca Martín,” Officer Dowd says. “Is he home?”
“Can you tell me what’s going on? I’m his wife.”
“Is Mr. Martín here, ma’am?” Stone asks, a flash of impatience in his expression.
“No,” I say, frowning. “He went for a walk.”
“How long ago was this?”
“About a half hour. I was expecting him back any minute.”
