Page 32 of You Know Why

This time, though, I know the message is meant for me.

Bring us the money he stole, every dime of it, or he dies.

Dinner and Detectives

I text back to the strange number.

I have no idea what you’re talking about.

Then, just like with Trey, the text and the contact number go poof.

Okay. Clearly, I am dealing with people who are more sophisticated than the average bear.

The problem is, I’m not lying. I don’t know what they’re talking about. Trey has gotten himself into something. He seemed completely shocked that we weren’t in Italy, as planned. And he is not happy about us being with Eden.

Now I need to find out why.

The house smells like pizza. The kids have come inside and are sitting at attention at the island in the kitchen. Their noses are red and running from the cold. I wipe them down, trying to put myself in their shoes for a minute. They are so confused. Warring between their love for someone precious and their fear of the current situation. I am so proud of them. They’ve handled today better than I have.

Eden is bustling around and gives me a smile. “We have pepperoni and mushrooms, and a veggie lover’s. And I called my detective friend. She’s going to come over in a little bit.”

“That was very kind of you. I’ll take the veggie. I know these two are going to hog all the pepperoni, aren’t you?”

I tickle Neve’s ribs, then move to Four, and they giggle and squirm. I have to do a better job of keeping things as normal as possible for them.

Eden smiles at the kids, and I can see there is a sadness in that fleeting look. I feel pity for her. She seems so lonely. Not creepy. Not dangerous. Just . . . glum.

“Can I get you a drink?” she asks. “Some wine, maybe? I have a couple of decent reds, nothing fancy, but . . .”

“Yes, please. A glass of wine seems like the best course of action right now.”

Eden pulls the cork from a bottle of pinot noir and pours a glass full. I take a healthy swallow, allowing the alcohol to trick my nervous system into thinking it can relax. I am strung wire tight. I will snap if touched wrongly.

She serves the pizza with a small green salad, the lettuce wilted, and we all dig in.

With the first sips of wine and first bite of pizza, I’m struck by the strangeness of the moment. Finding normalcy in a stranger’s kitchen. There is so much commonality in our lives—this need for sustenance, the joy of a simple meal—but despite that, you never know what’s happening behind the doors of another’s home until you’re invited in. And even then, the veneer rarely slips. You are to them as you are to the rest of the world: An observer. You see what they let you.

I am an excellent observer. It’s what makes me such a good photographer.

And something feels off about Eden Barrow’s home. She said she’d been gone a week, but the state of the house—dust on the wine bottles, the old lettuce and clumpy cheese on the pizza, the metallic scent from the oven element, like it’s rarely used . . . It seems like she’s been away much longer.

“Have you always been based in Atlanta?”

“Oh, no. Chicago before this, Los Angeles before that. Sydney at one point. They move me around depending on the need for business oversight. But as I’ve moved up, I’ve gotten better at asking for home bases that are easier on me. Atlanta is closest to my hometown.”

“And did you always want to be an accountant?”

“Oh, Lord no.” She laughs. “I wanted to be a pilot. Took lessons and everything, but my vision hasn’t always been great, and I started having vertigo and losing my horizon. I did Lasik, which helped some, but I still get vertigo. It’s a shame, really. I love the view out the front of an aircraft.” She shrugs. “At least this way, I get to travel.”

The kids join in the conversation, asking questions about Australia’s animals. Eden entertains them with stories about kangaroos and koalas until Neve sets down her fork and starts staring into her plate. It’s time for them to go to bed. I tell them this, and Four, so endearingly, gives me that puppy dog face again.

“No ice cream?”

Eden hops to her feet and grabs a gallon of vanilla out of the freezer. I’m close enough to see there is nothing but the oval package inside.

Two pizzas, old lettuce, and a tub of ice cream.

A chill skitters through my body. This is . . . weird. Granted, I have a family, I’m a working pseudochef, and I rarely travel, so we’re always overstocked. Plus, after the pandemic, with an infant and a toddler, I became a little obsessed with having enough to sustain us in case something unexpected happened. Eden is clearly the opposite. She must eat out constantly.