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I open them again. “I know how I can find him. I know where he walks his dog.”
And just then Luis comes home. I introduce him to June, the kids come bouncing down the stairs to greet their dad. June says she has to go, and she puts on her coat while Carla ruffles through my bag for my purse because she needs money for new tights for her dance class tomorrow and before I have time to think, my hand has shot out towards her.
“Wait!”
I’ve shouted, and now they’re all looking at me: Carla, Matti, June, Luis, their gestures snap frozen in the moment.
“Sorry!” I laugh. I take the bag from Carla and, as discreetly as I can, I feel for the necklace at the bottom of the bag, hide it in the palm of my hand, then hand the purse to Carla. “There you go, sweetie.”
The necklace is still in my closed hand and Luis looks at it, and for a crazy moment I think he’s noticed. I hug June goodbye, nudging the strap of her purse from her shoulder and it falls to the floor.
“Sorry! I don’t know what’s the matter with me!”
It’s one of those bags with a million pockets and I’m on my knees, quickly shoving everything back into it and I manage to slip the necklace inside a small compartment on the side that closes with a press stud. I hand it back it to her.
“There you go, sorry about that.”
‘That’s all right. Big day!” she says, with a wink.
I hug her goodbye, clock Luis looking at me oddly, his head tilted. I smile as I will my heart to stop hammering.
Thirty-Three
I am sitting on a bench near the wooden platforms that I remember from the shots on Ryan’s phone, watching the sunset. This is around the time he took those photos. I remember those distinct blue and pink hues hinting at the sky.
He might not come today, of course, and that’s okay, because if that’s the case, I will return tomorrow, and the day after, until I catch him. But dogs like routine, they like to go to the same places at the same times, so I think it won’t take long. If he still comes here, that is.
Two dogs barrel down the path, pouncing after the tennis balls their owner has thrown for them. I watch a poodle dig a hole with two front paws, sending clods of wet earth all over the nearby swings. It starts to rain, big drops of water that stain the ground, and I think it won’t be today. I’m about to give up when I see a retriever with a red scarf around his neck. My heart jumps into my throat even before I recognize Ryan, ten feet behind him, looking so ordinary, unhurried, sonormalthat it makes my jaw lock with rage. I watch him for a moment as he stares down at his cellphone, his thumbs sliding up and down.
He looks up at the sky and squints and before I have time to walk over to him, he has whistled for his dog and they’ve turned around in the direction of the gates, with me not far behind.
Fifteen minutes later, Ryan crosses Riverside Drive and walks up the short driveway of an elegant home. He uses his own key to open the door before disappearing inside, the dog running ahead.
This is good, I think. It’s better than confronting him in the park. He can’t run away from me if I’m in his house. I wonder if he lives alone. Surely not, such a big house. Is he married? Children? I’m pretty sure he said he wasn’t but everything he says is a lie. I hope he’s married. I want to tell his wife what kind of creep she’s saddled with.
I walk up the steps to the porch, my pulse racing, my hands closed into tight fists, and ring the doorbell. The door opens almost immediately and I’m taken aback by the older woman in front of me. She smiles politely, pulling the edges of her powder-blue cardigan tighter around her.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for my friend,” I say, remembering not to choke on the word. “Ryan. Is he here?”
I’m absolutely expecting her to say something like,There’s no Ryan here, please go sell your wares somewhere else.But no. She gives me a quick up and down appraisal and opens the door wider.
“Yes, he is. Come in.”
She ushers me into the living room, a large space divided in the center by double doors that almost take up the entire width. The house is lovely inside, with arched doorways and eye-catching woodwork around the doors. A window looks out onto a backyard where the dog sniffs around a wrought-iron garden table.
This is absolutely not what I had in mind.
“Would you like to sit down?” she asks.
“That’s all right, thank you. I’ve been driving. I like to stretch my legs.”
“Of course. Did you come from far?”
“Not really,” I say, thereby contradicting myself. I don’t add anything else so after a moment or two, she smiles and says, “Well, I’ll fetch Ryan. I won’t be a minute.”
I walk idly around the room, contemplate a framed poster of a Matisse exhibition at the Tate Gallery from 1953. In one corner of the room is a built-in cabinet, with shelves on top and cupboards below. I glance at the framed photos nestled among leafy plants. Ryan appears in a number of them, and they suggest that the woman who welcomed me is his mother.
