six

“We certainly know how to liven up a party, don’t we, Baby Brother.”

Shannon might as well have been talking to a Michael-shaped statue. He ignored her quip and stared stonily down the street as if pining for Gabriella’s return. Like the third point on a bizarre, twisted love triangle, I stared at Michael, pining for him.

Zoey thanked me for corralling her son. I pretended to listen, but my mind and my heart were elsewhere: back in Seattle, three days ago, when Michael’s and my future held so much promise. Promise that might be nothing more than a fairy tale with a yet-unknown, tragic ending.

A few minutes of small talk later, Zoey disappeared with the rest of the onlookers, who had wandered back inside the center.

Shannon approached me, wearing an expression that was half consternation, half worry. “When Mr. Tall, Dark, and Brooding is ready to go, tell him I’m waiting in the car.”

I gave Michael a few more minutes of alone time, then edged next to him.

“You okay?” I asked.

His eyes flitted toward me, then settled back on the road. “No, I’m not.” He frowned. “Something’s going on with her, Kate, and it isn’t good.”

“You’ve got to admit,” I replied, “Gabriella didn’t have a good day.” I grinned, trying to lighten the mood. “First she was introduced to her husband’s mistress, then she got clobbered by her sister-in-law. I’d be a bit peeved, too.”

Michael’s mood snapped from pensive to prickly in a heartbeat. “This isn’t funny, Kate. I’m not here to traumatize Gabby. She had enough of that back in Mexico. If you and Shannon plan to use her as a human punching bag, then maybe you should both stay away.”

His response stung like a slap to the face, which was exactly how he’d intended it. I pretended annoyance to cover my hurt. “Hey, buddy. Back the truck up there. I didn’t do anything to harm Wifey Dearest. That little scene was all Shannon. And Bella,” I conceded. “But Bella was protecting you. If anybody’s the victim in this circus, it’s me. Why are you taking Gabriella’s side all of a sudden? Isn’t she the one essentially holding you hostage?”

Michael lifted his hand. For a brief, delusional moment, I thought he might slap me. His arm lifted a foot, then fell back to his side. He shook his head and groaned. “I’m sorry, Kate. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I hate what this whole situation is doing to you. To us.” When he looked back up, his eyes were shrouded. “I don’t expect you to understand this, but …” His voice trailed off.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the rest of the sentence, but I asked anyway. “But what?”

“I’m not in love with Gabby. But I do care about her, and something’s wrong. She’s a good person. Refusing to talk to me isn’t like her.”

“And extorting fifty thousand dollars is?”

Michael stared at his sneakers as if the answer were neatly tied in his laces. “No. I mean …” He ran his hands through his curly brown hair, the way he did when he was upset. “Oh crap. I don’t know anymore. Lord, what a mess.”

As I witnessed Michael’s struggle, my own chest tightened. No matter what happened, I loved this man. Which meant that when Michael hurt, I hurt. I reached out and touched his hand. “Hey, it’s okay. We’re not going to fix any of this tonight. Let’s go home and get some sleep. I’ll come over tomorrow morning and we’ll come up with a new plan.” I made a final, lame attempt at humor. “If Gabriella keeps giving us trouble, I’ll sic Rene on her. Unlike Bella, Rene actually bites.”

Michael shook his head. “Sorry, Kate. You’re out. I never should have involved you in this fiasco in the first place. I thought meeting you would guilt-trip Gabby into agreeing to the divorce, but it only seemed to scare her. I need to talk to her alone.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“No, but I’m not sure any of this is a good idea anymore. I came here to get Gabby out of my life, but maybe that’s not realistic. Maybe we’ll have to stay married until she gets citizenship.”

My heart dropped to my knees. My face fell by that same amount.

“You don’t get it, Kate. You can’t. You don’t know Gabby’s and my whole story. She’s frightened, like she was before I agreed to marry her.”

“Frightened? Of what?”

“I don’t know, at least not for sure. But I intend to find out.” He swallowed. “I don’t expect you to understand. Shannon never did.”

I placed my hand on his forearm. “Then you don’t expect enough of me. I do understand.” I parroted back my own revelation. “When someone you love hurts, you hurt. If Gabriella’s in trouble, we’ll help her. Together.” As much as my heart ached, I meant it.

Michael nodded, but he didn’t make eye contact. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” He shuffled toward Shannon’s Mini Cooper without kissing me goodbye.

It shouldn’t have surprised me. I’d rejected all forms of affection from Michael since the great birthday dinner debacle. Still, that missing kiss felt like a kick to the gut. Of course Michael would help Gabriella. He had a kind heart and an incredible capacity for forgiveness. Otherwise he’d have kicked me to the curb eons ago. Michael’s kindness and loyalty were two of the many reasons I loved him.

The question was, did Michael still love me?

For the first time in our relationship, I felt alone. It was ironic, really. I’d spent the past three days obsessing about whether or not I should leave Michael. It never crossed my mind that he might leave me.

Until now.

Bella nudged my hand. I kneeled next to her and rubbed the soft spot behind her ears. “We’ll always have each other, sweetie.” The steady look in her eyes agreed. Bella would be by my side for the rest of her life.

I watched the Mini Cooper disappear into the distance, then loaded Bella into my Honda and returned to the rental house. After giving a quick and purposefully obtuse recap of the evening to Sam and Rene, I collapsed into bed, where I stroked Bella’s fur and stared at the ceiling. I lay there for hours, long after Bella’s smooth, whispering breaths turned into deep, long snores. I finally drifted to sleep around three in the morning, wondering how my life had gone so suddenly, horribly wrong.

When I woke up at eight, I felt physically exhausted but mentally invigorated. Sleep had brought with it resolution. I would not be a third wheel. I would not be a bystander to my own future, either. Not when I had the ability to do something about it. Michael’s and my relationship might still be uncertain, but it would not include Gabriella. If money would unbraid our three lives, I’d get the money. Rene had offered to help. She could easily help. Fifty thousand dollars was a fortune to me, but to her and Sam …

Honestly, if our roles were reversed, I’d give her the money in a heartbeat.

The three of us had a long talk over breakfast, during which we came to an agreement: Rene would give me a fifty-thousand-dollar loan, legally secured by my house, and at market-rate interest. She balked at the formality, but I insisted.

Dad always said that mixing money and friendship was a surefire way to lose both. But Dad had never met Michael, and he underestimated me. I’d sell myself on the streets before I defaulted on that loan. We agreed that the first six months’ payments would be made in free dog supplies and unlimited babysitting. If Michael and I couldn’t make regular payments after that, I’d sell the house. The thought made my heart hurt, but if the yoga teachings were right, attachment—to a two-bedroom Ballard bungalow, for example—led to suffering. In some twisted way, maybe selling my childhood home would ultimately help me find peace.

The next impossible challenge would be getting Michael to agree.

I tried to call him, but the call went directly to voicemail, so I left a vague message saying that I had a solution to our problem and asking him to call me back.

Sam and Rene decided to take their two- and four-legged kids on a day trip to Tillamook. I stayed in Cannon Beach and waited for Michael to return my phone call. Forty-five minutes after they left, I checked my cell phone for the third time. No messages. Full battery. Five bars.

“This is ridiculous,” I said to no one in particular. I glanced at my bored-looking dog. “Come on girl, let’s go to the beach.”

At the sound of the B-word, Bella leaped to her feet and charged the door, jumping in circles and whining. “Okay already, I get it,” I said, laughing. “I’m coming.”

Bella and I descended the property’s steep staircase to the beach, serenaded by the constant, rumbling white noise of the ocean. At ten in the morning, Haystack Rock’s bell-shaped outline was softened by gray morning mist. The beach was desolate, populated primarily by light green foam, beached tubers of seaweed, and broken sand dollars. Most of the town’s tourists were still hitting their snooze buttons or standing in line at the Bloated Boar, a local eatery famous for waffles, pancakes, cinnamon rolls, and other carbohydrate-rich indulgences.

I waved at a teenager playing fetch with an off-leash pit bull, pointed at Bella, and yelled, “This one’s not friendly!” He waved back and threw a tennis ball in the opposite direction.

“Come on, Bella. Let’s see if we can find a stretch of sand all our own.”

I turned left and walked away from the town, inhaling the salty breeze and allowing the ocean’s lullaby to soothe my frayed nerves. As we continued walking, hotels and houses disappeared, replaced by tall sandstone bluffs and boulders made of black basalt. Driftwood logs littered the sand. Some were the size of telephone poles, others small enough for Bella to carry. All were powerless against the coast’s powerful storms.

After about twenty minutes, Bella and I reached a sandstone bluff that extended into the water at high tide, effectively bisecting the beach. I rolled up my pants and took off my shoes. “Come on, girl. Let’s see what’s on the other side.”

We waded through ankle-deep water …

To our version of paradise.

The stretch of sand before us was as gorgeous as it was desolate. Imposing cliffs made of sandstone and red clay bordered the left, traversable only by an impossibly steep wooden staircase and a crude path dotted with orange traffic cones. The staircase led to a wooden building, a small grassy area, and a mostly empty parking lot with a sign labeled Arcadia Beach State Recreation Site. To the right, there was nothing but flat sand and bright blue water.

I smiled. There wasn’t a person (or, more importantly, a dog) in sight. I shaded my eyes and peered at the parking lot. It was empty, except for an older, dark blue sedan that was barely visible through the evergreens. Bella whined and danced at the end of her leash, begging me with her eyes. Please? Can I?

Michael wouldn’t have approved, but then again, Michael hadn’t returned my phone calls. Worst case scenario: if a group of bearded men and their wild pack of dogs were in the car, I could easily call Bella back before they made their way down the staircase. I picked up a stray piece of driftwood and unhooked Bella’s leash.

“Okay, girl. Fetch!”

Each time that glorified stick flew through the air, the rest of the world evaporated. Bella pushed her athletic body to full capacity, conquering the surf and coating her tongue with wet sand. The warm sun melted knots of tension from my shoulders. My dog’s unfettered joy melted achy worry from my heart.

A half hour of playful bonding later, we reached another sandstone bluff. Bella collapsed happily in the sand, panting. I sat on a basalt rock and called Michael again. My stress level climbed with each unanswered ring. Why wasn’t he picking up?

I tried to drown out my worried thoughts by chanting So Hum—the ancient mantra of the breath. I barely made it through four repetitions before I picked up the phone to call Michael again.

Dad’s voice chided me. Desperate much?

I shoved the evil device back into my pocket. If Michael were available, he would have answered one of the last five times I’d called.

Maybe a movement practice would distract me.

I didn’t have a yoga mat, but that didn’t matter. Yoga—at least the kind I practiced—could be done anywhere, without any equipment. I tied Bella to a shaded log and ambled to an area of firm, wet sand. Bella expressed her displeasure by barking and play bowing.

“In a minute, sweetie,” I promised. “You got to exercise on the way down here. It’s my turn now.”

I faced the ocean and touched my palms together in the Anjali Mudra, often called Prayer Pose. The simple, symbolic gesture soothed me. My heart rate slowed; my breath deepened. A few breaths later, I began the sequences of poses known as Surya Namaskar, or the Sun Salutation.

I mentally coached myself, just as I would one of my students. As you inhale, reach your arms up toward the sky. As you exhale, fold forward. Bring your ribs toward your thighs and your hands to the earth. Achy tension released from my lower back. Cool, wet sand moistened my palms. With your next inhale, step your right foot back. On exhale, place your left foot next to it. Press your hips toward the sky and your heels toward the sand in Downward Facing Dog. The pose was a wonderful symbol of strength (in my upper body), flexibility (in the backs of my legs), and grounding (every place my body touched the earth). On your next inhale—

A huge wave crashed into me, drenching me in freezing, salty water. I tumbled to the ground in what I would forever think of as Ass-in-Sand Pose.

Bella’s eyes chastised me. I tried to warn you.

I let loose my first true belly laugh in days. “So much for that idea, huh, girl?”

Time to utilize the next tool in my yoga toolbox: meditation. I sat cross-legged in the sand next to Bella and tried to cleanse my mind while she covered my face in sloppy German shepherd kisses.

No use.

Each time my mind stilled, it flashed on Gabriella. What hold did that gorgeous woman have over Michael? Michael claimed that he loved me, and I believed him. So why did I still feel so jealous? More importantly, why hadn’t he returned my phone calls?

I felt trapped, torn between irreconcilable longings. I longed to shove Michael away. I longed to grab onto him and never let go. I longed to go back to Dad’s favorite Barbra Streisand movie: The Way We Were.

I shuddered. That story didn’t exactly end happily ever after.

Ten minutes of breath-focused distraction later, I checked my cell phone for the five hundredth time. Still five bars. Still fully charged. Still no messages.

I frowned toward Bella. “No wonder one of the eight limbs of yoga is abstinence.”

Bella withheld comment.

I untied her leash and unclipped it from her collar. “Come on, sweetie. Let’s head back.”

We followed the shoreline back toward Cannon Beach. I swung Bella’s leash in my right hand while she herded waves on my left. By the time we reached the rock wall near the stairway to the parking lot, the tide had gone out enough that we could walk around it without getting wet. Now that it was almost noon, small groups of matchstick-sized people wandered the beach. Some of them were walking toward us.

I reached for Bella’s collar, but stopped. A few hundred feet ahead, a colony of seagulls—dozens of them—dotted the shore. Bella’s eyes begged me.

Please? Just one more run?

Why not? One of us should be having fun. “Okay, girl. Go get ’em!”

Bella galloped after those birds like a cheetah after a gazelle. It was ridiculous, really. All of us—human, canine, and seabirds included—knew that Bella would never catch them. But that didn’t diminish anyone’s fun. When Bella was about fifteen feet away, the birds took off in unison, flew a hundred feet down the beach, and landed, still in formation. Bella skidded to a stop, let out a single loud bark, and tore after them again.

May as well give up, hunter dog.

I reached out my arms and yelled, “Bella, come!”

As trained, Bella turned a one-eighty and ran back to me at full steam.

Three hundred feet … two hundred … one hundred … “Bella, slow down!” I yelled. I repeated the command three more times in a rapid-fire panic. “Slow down! Slow down! Slow down!”

Bella didn’t hear, didn’t understand, or—more likely—chose not to listen. She launched through the air, collided with my chest like a hundred-pound bowling ball, and knocked me flat on my sitting bones for the second time in thirty minutes. A quick German shepherd chin nibble later, she ran a quick circle around me and chose a new destination: a Jenga-like stack of driftwood piled up against the cliff.

I spit out a million tiny particles of sand. “Bella, come!” I commanded.

No response.

I stood, brushed the wet sand off my bottom, and trudged toward my dog. “Bella, knock it off and get over here! Leave it!”

Bella pretended to be deaf.

What on earth was she so interested in? Half-eaten hotdogs? Urine from a particularly studly Golden Retriever? A seagull corpse?

Bella stopped sniffing and commenced digging.

I groaned. It had to be a dead creature of some kind. Bella couldn’t digest real food unless it was incubated in expensive prescription enzymes; I imagined scooping up undigested seagull parts and groaned louder.

“Bella, I said come!”

Not even an ear twitch. This level of disobedience was unusual, even for her.

I broke into a jog. When Bella wanted something this badly, it was a sure bet that I didn’t want her to have it. I skidded to a stop next to my recalcitrant canine and clipped the leash to her collar. “That’s enough girl. Leave it.”

She ignored me.

I tightened the leash and made my voice especially stern. “I mean it.”

Bella refused to move.

Whatever she’d found, it was infinitely more interesting than a five-foot three-inch yoga teacher.

Bella, channeling her inner Ricky, grabbed onto something and pulled, exposing a woman’s tennis shoe.

“Seriously, Bella?” I grumped. “This much drama over a shoe?”

I looked closer and gagged.

The shoe was attached to a foot. A foot that was attached to a caramel-skinned ankle. A caramel-skinned ankle wearing a starfish ankle bracelet.

Oh God, no.

Bella had unearthed a body—a woman. She was buried, facedown, in an obviously man-made mountain of driftwood, seaweed, and sand.

I wish I could say I was horrified. I wish I could say I screamed like a scared little schoolgirl. I wish I could say I vomited like I did the night I found my friend George’s body.

But I didn’t. I simply stood there, thinking the same words over and over: not again.

I clawed through the rocks, unearthed the broken body’s left wrist, and forced myself to feel for a pulse. Her fourth finger was bare except for a band of lighter skin where a wedding ring used to be. I suppressed the urge to run off to warn Michael, pulled out my cell phone, and dialed 911.

“Hi. My name’s Kate Davidson. I found a woman’s body. I think she was murdered.”