Barcelona
Rebecca lay in bed as the day brightened. Beside her Brian snored lightly.
How could he sleep? She hated him for sleeping. She’d barely dozed. Though she knew he was right—they’d look crazy if they went to the cops at 7 a.m. He always played this role in their marriage, in their lives, their family. She got stressed, he played cool, Take it easy, Becks.
Only it wasn’t easy, was it? And for a long time she’d thought his laid-back attitude had been nothing but an excuse for simple laziness. Until he proved her wrong—and made her wonder if she was a fool for ever having doubted him.
Rebecca rose, padded into the kitchen. Every time she looked at the apartment she noticed new details: the ornate corner moldings, the perfect cabinetry. The owners had taken great care with this place. The Unsworths had been lucky to get it. Lucky, lucky. They were lucky people. Now their luck had run out all at once.
She poured herself a glass of water, drank it as the streets outside slowly woke. The world wouldn’t notice if Kira Unsworth vanished. No, that wasn’t entirely true. Kira was a pretty girl, and the world noticed when bad things happened to pretty white girls. Nancy Grace would run a special on her, Thirty-eight days since Kira Unsworth disappeared in Spain and police are no closer to finding her. Can we be sure her parents had nothing to do with her vanishing act?
An ocean filled with fake tears. Grief manufactured for ratings. The thought made Rebecca grind her teeth—
Footsteps.
On the staircase outside, slow and heavy, the footsteps of a drunk woman coming home after a long night.
She’d been wrong. She’d overreacted. She was a fool. Kira had lost her phone, lost track of time, gone home with the French guy.
The steps came off the stairs, toward the apartment’s front door.
Rebecca would wrap Kira up like a boa constrictor and drag her inside and yell at her, Don’t do that again. Do you know how worried we were?
She pulled open the front door. “Kira—”
Found herself looking at a tall woman, late twenties, a yellow T-shirt streaked with sweat from dancing. The woman gave her a dazed drunk smile. Rebecca felt irrational anger, How could you do this to me? How could you pretend to be my daughter?
“Excuse me?”
“Yes?”
“You were out? Dancing?”
“Ja, the Opium Club. By the beach. DJ Kush, great DJ.”
“Is it still open?”
“No. It closes, I think, at… six. Or seven.” She slumped against the wall, winding down like a toy with low batteries.
Rebecca hadn’t realized other places in the city would be open later than the Gothic Quarter bars. Some cop she was. So stupid. She should have been checking the clubs.
Still, the knowledge made her feel a little better. It was just possible Kira had lost her phone dancing, or couldn’t hear it because of the noise, or had drunkenly decided to teach Rebecca a lesson. Unlikely but possible. Besides, finding Kira in a club with a thousand kids dancing would have been a long shot.
No, best to wait for the afternoon for the clubs. They would have lots of surveillance cams.
“Good night,” the blond-haired woman said. She grinned drunkenly. “Or morning.”
Rebecca wanted to fire more questions: Did you see a tall American girl with some French guy who calls himself Jacques? Useless. She closed the door, no goodbye.
Back in the bedroom Brian slept curled up like he didn’t want Rebecca or anyone else to touch him. A thin sheet covered him. She knew what he was wearing underneath, tight black Calvin Klein boxer briefs, his favorites. He’d always been proud of his body. Not without reason. Even when she hadn’t liked him, she’d always been attracted to him. Suddenly she found herself on the path that had brought them here.
As if she could unravel the mystery of where Kira had gone by prowling the corridors of her history.
Or maybe she just wanted to distract herself. Anyway, she let the past take her…