Page 53 of The Expat Affair
At the thought of Sem, my body vibrates in my seat, my bones threatening to bust out of my skin. From the moment those twopink lines appeared on the stick, every decision I’ve made has been for Sem. Holding him inside, carrying him to term, keeping him alive. When people hear my story, they point to Sem as my golden ticket, and I suppose he was in a lot of ways. They think I’m a gold digger, when nothing could be further from the truth.
Rayna is quiet for a long while. “I should probably preface what I’m about to say with the fact that I’m the last person on the planet you should be listening to when it comes to relationship advice. But I’ve been to a lot of therapy, so I have a pretty decent idea of what a therapist would say to you right now, and that’s that you can only be in charge of your half of the relationship. You can’t carry the whole thing all on your own. You can’t make another person participate or reciprocate. The only thing you can do is decide if you want to be with someone who isn’t giving you one hundred percent.”
“Thank you. But it’s not that simple.”
“Because of the money?”
“Because of the money, because of Sem’s health, because I’m stuck here either way. But mostly because of Sem.” My cell buzzes again, and this time, I glance at the screen and see I’ve missed multiple texts from Martina. A familiar worry pounds in my chest, and I snatch up my phone and start scrolling. “Oh, shit. Sem’s not eaten all day, and now he’s complaining of a headache.”
“The flu?”
“Maybe, but Sem has cochlear implants. Anytime he complains of ear or head pain, it freaks me the hell out.” I pull a fifty from my wallet and toss it to the table, batting away Rayna’s hands as she scrambles for her wallet. “It’s on me. Also, screw the train. Let’s Uber back.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re rolling in dough.”
“I haveaccessto dough. Not at all the same thing. But you’re right. Uber’s on me, too.” I pull up the app on my phone andrequest a black car. As soon as we’re assigned a driver, I drop the phone in my bag. “Six minutes. And about that gun.”
“Which one?”
“The one I can help you get.”
“Oh, my God, Willow,” she says, panic creeping into her voice. “I thought you were kidding. Are you serious right now? You really think I should get agun?”
I stay quiet, holding her gaze, and my silence is not an answer, and yet at the same time, it is. Yes, Rayna needs a gun. Yes, I’m completely serious.
And not a gun that’s like Xander’s diamonds, grown with enough fire and hardness to fool people into believing it’s the real thing. Only an idiot or a half ass would settle for a gun printed with plastic. Rayna needs arealgun, one made out of steel and that uses metal bullets.
“Okay... now I’m really freaked out.” She drains the last of the wine from her glass and pushes to a stand. “And even if I agreed with you, which I’m still not certain I do, I wouldn’t have the first idea where to get one.”
“Well, let me know, because if there’s one thing I’ve learned by becoming a Prins, it’s that money opens all sorts of doors. Even illegal ones.” I stand, shoving my arms into the sleeves of my coat. “Actually, especially those.”
Rayna
I spend the rest of the weekend in my sad, beige room, catching up on the work I’ve let slide since Xander’s death put a target on my back. On Saturday, Ingrid packed a bag and fled to her parents’ house, leaving me alone and my nerves jangling, my body jumping at every noise. The jarring ding of the bell from someone down on the street, the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs, a dog’s incessant barking in an apartment below.
And all weekend long, Willow’s words ring in my ears.
You need a gun, one that’s not printed out of plastic.
After the detective told me about the second murder, after his questions shifted in tone to imply that whoever killed Xander will be coming after me next, I have to admit it’s not the worst idea.
A gun, a real, metal,highly illegalgun. I think about her offer all weekend, but really, I don’t need that long. The last straw comes Sunday evening, as I’m sorting clothes in front of the washing machine at the far end of the hall.
I’m shaking out a pile of laundry, shoving the whites into the machine when something goes flying. A flash of metal that hits the wall before it disappears under the machine. An earring? Acoin? Idon’t have all that many of either, so I drop to my hands and knees and peer under the washer, but the hallway is too dark, the floor far too dirty. All I see is a thick field of dust bunnies.
I fetch a clothes hanger from the wardrobe in my room and useit to scoop everything out. The dust bunnies. A filthy sports sock with a hole in the toe. A million tiny pellets of what looks suspiciously like mouse droppings.
And another tracker. An identical match to the one I found in my bag.
I hold it in my palm, and it sizzles the skin because I know what it means. It means that first tracker, the one I shoved under my seat on the tram, wasn’t a fluke. It wasn’t dropped in my bag by accident. It’s absolute, irrefutable proof that someone is following me, and I led them right to where I live.
I do a quick and frantic search through the rest of the clothing in the pile. I turn each piece inside out and give it a good shake, feeling every pocket and around every hem. Another tracker drops from the back pocket of my favorite jeans, pinging me in the toe.
I leave the laundry in a messy pile and return to my room, turning everything upside down and inside out, ransacking the place like a tornado. I peel off the bedding and flip the mattress up against the wall. I dump out drawers and move the furniture around to get underneath, running my fingers along every floorboard and crack. I roll the carpet into the hall and upend my suitcase and peer into the dark corners of the wardrobe. I shake out every book and bag and piece of clothing I own.
In the end, I find four more. One in my backpack, another in my purse, two more tucked in the pockets of my coats, including the one I wore to Xander’s funeral. I line the trackers up on my dresser, thinking about how whoever is behind them got close enough to drop these things in my bags and clothing. The idea makes me dizzy with dread.
I rummage through the mess for my phone and text Willow.
