Page 11 of The Expat Affair
I scroll a bit, but there’s nothing more. Only the most basic of facts amplified with rumor and conjecture. I toss my iPad to the couch cushion and listen to Martina loading the dishes into the dishwasher, waiting until she’s good and busy. And then I push off the couch and step to the built-ins by the window.
There, on the bottom shelf, at the bottom of an old, dusty box shoved to the very back, is a phone. One that no one knows about because nobody digs through this box but me, filled with a messy jumble of toys Sem outgrew ages ago, rattles and wobble balls and loud, flashy, torture devices Thomas was constantly pulling the batteries out of because the noise drove him to madness. I push them aside and my fingers connect with the used Samsung I bought at the market with cash. Before today, I’ve only used it twice.
With one ear on Martina banging around the kitchen, I power the burner up—still at 49%, thank God—and navigate to the messaging app, which is empty. Nothing. Not a single peep. I don’t know if it’s good news or bad.
My heart gives a kick at sudden movement in my periphery, and I slide the phone into my pocket and sink onto the couch. Sem and Vlinder watch from the doorway, already bundled in their winter coats. She’s such a pretty little girl, all big eyes and flouncy sleeves. Her name is the Dutch word for butterfly, and I kind of see the resemblance.
Sem’s fingers close around hers. “Vlinder wants to play outside.”
“Okay, but you know the rules. Stay in the yard, and don’t go near the water.” I sign it, too, just to be sure.
In unison, they give a solemn nod and turn, hand in hand, for the back door. I sit for another long moment, giving my heart time to settle while I watch them kick a ball around the grass.
What’s next? An investigation, for sure. An army of police marching through the factory and the neighborhood and the house, gathering evidence, questioning witnesses. A media frenzy, reportersand cameras everywhere, a perverse sort of entertainment that will fall back on the already struggling House of Prins. I tell myself to stop catastrophizing. We don’t know who the dead man is yet. Now is not the time to panic.
My mind drags back to a night this past November, that first, fateful step down a road filled with burner phones and this slow, steady drip of dread. Surely this isn’t what I think it is. Surely it’s not Xander but another man murdered on his shower floor. One big, weird coincidence he and I can laugh about later. Much, much,muchlater.
My phone buzzes—not the one buried in the couch but my regular cellphone. I pick it up off the table.
Diamond exec Xander van der Vos murdered in Amsterdam Zuid. Millions of euros worth of diamonds missing.
Now.
Now is the time to panic.
Rayna
My hangover evaporates on the long trek home, thanks to an unexpected drizzle in the frigid January air, a chicken and avocado sandwich I scarf down on my shortcut through the Vondelpark, and the climb to my apartment at the top of four flights of the steepest stairs known to man. By the time I finally push through my front door, I’m panting, but feeling much more like myself.
My room is at the end of a short hall, a cramped space with slanted walls and a tiny window that leaks when it rains, but for €500 a month, the price is right. I step over the clothes and shoes littering the floor, pluck my laptop from the charger, and collapse with it on the bed.
All morning long, the questions went round and round in my head. Who killed Xander? Why him and not me? How am I still alive?
That last one, especially. I try not to think about it too hard, but it’s impossible. A man was murdered while I slept in the next room. He took his last breath while I snored away in his bed, oblivious. It’s a miracle I’m not in the drawer next to Xander at the morgue.
I shove the morbid thoughts away and wriggle the mouse, and my eyes bulge at the number sitting at the top of my text app. More messages than people in my address book, which since the divorce, has become paper thin.
Most are from my sister, Addison, and my heart clangs withalarm. Automatically, my thoughts go to my father and his affinity for fried foods despite his dangerously high cholesterol, my mother who climbs behind the wheel at all hours of the day and night even though she can’t see a lick in the dark, my sister, Addison, and her two small kids including my daredevil nephew with his predilection for diving headfirst off couches and beds.
Or maybe Barry finally drove off that cliff.
I point the mouse at the top message and give it a tap.
Niiiiiice, sis. But imma need details, pronto.
Where are you? Whose bling?
Seriously, Ray, stop ignoring me and call me back.
WHY AREN’T YOU ANSWERING ME???
The rest are more of the same, urgent and insistent cries for me to respond or else, typical fare for my bossy older sister. I back out of the string as a memory pulses, the image of Xander with my phone, grinning at me from above. Were we at his house? In his bed? I blink, and the vision is gone, as insubstantial as smoke.
The next message is from a phone number not labeled with a name, though I recognize it as belonging to a former friend, one who told me secretly that she hated Barry for what he did, but not enough to rock the boat in our tiny Louisiana town. It’s shocking, actually, how many people did that—worked themselves into knots flip-flopping from lame excuse to lame excuse. Their husbands worked with Barry. They were neighbors, friends, members of the same country club. In the end, Barry’s money and status eclipsed his misdeeds.
Or maybe it’s just that my own misdeeds loomed so much larger.
Yes, it does. Don’t tell you-know-who I said so but good for you.
