Chapter 34 Lee
Lee
Lee checked in every day with Markos. He told her he would call if there was news…and he didn’t call. She contacted three psychiatrists: Two didn’t speak English and the English-speaking one couldn’t see her for two and a half months.
Lee caught herself checking her appearance in every reflective surface—the coffeepot, the window, the TV screen when it was turned off. Even when she was by herself in the apartment, she ruthlessly scrutinized her forehead for wrinkles, narrating a running critique of her looks and performance.
On Sunday morning, Lee’s phone finally chimed with a text from Markos. We need to speak in person as soon as possible. Lee arranged to meet him at the taverna on the corner, donning a black top (to convey somber) and expensive jeans (rich, fit, too concerned about my sister to worry about clothes).
Markos was smoking outside the café. As Lee approached, he dropped his cigarette to the cobblestoned street and ground it out with a leather ankle boot.
“Sorry,” he said, “I can’t seem to quit.
” He wore a tailored gabardine trench coat over a light blue button-down shirt (a bit frayed at the collar), a messenger bag, and dark jeans.
“There are worse habits,” said Lee.
“I have them all,” said Markos, looking rueful. He had circles under his deeply set eyes. Even when clean-shaven (Lee could smell an astringent aftershave), his cheeks were shadowed with stubble.
“I doubt that,” said Lee. “OK, what’s the news?
” Noticing that her hands were trembling slightly, Lee clasped them together.
The headache that had started three days ago pulsed behind her temples.
She’d woken twice last night drenched in sweat, her heart racing: withdrawal.
Markos tipped his head to the side and furrowed his brow, looking at her.
“You are OK?” he said—a statement that functioned as a question.
Lee was unaccustomed to anyone wondering how she was feeling.
She was trained to project emotions, not wallow in them.
In truth, Lee was not OK. She was overwhelmed and teary.
She wanted to cry, yearned for the release of just sobbing on this man’s shoulder.
She wanted him to hold her, to hold her up.
She figured these desires were caused by chemical imbalances in her brain.
She didn’t even know this gruff Greek detective.
Lee had never gone for classic male beauty—she chose lovers who were broken in body and spirit, men (and a few women) whom she could allow to treat her badly because she pitied them and wanted to save them. But Markos seemed strong—he was a man to lean against, not to save.
Lee knew how to make herself cry for a camera—she just thought about her father as a boy, alone and disconsolate.
She thought about her mom, Charlotte, a hopeful girl before she was taken advantage of in her young teens by a famous painter.
(At least according to an essay Charlotte had written to win them the Mediterranean cruise on the Splendido Marveloso ship.)
When trying to summon tears for the camera, Lee was not able—not yet—to access how she, herself, had felt as a child, but she had been trained to channel others’ sorrow (which felt nothing like Depression).
Lee cleared her throat, shook herself to attention. “What is it, Markos?” she said. “You told me you needed to meet.”
“Let’s walk,” said Markos. He put his hands in his pockets and began striding down the narrow street lined with small shops and tavernas.
Lee was glad she’d pulled on Regan’s sneakers—Markos walked quickly.
The road became more residential as it wound between buildings painted in cream and ocher, many covered with ivy vines and some boasting balconies lined in pots of blooming flowers.
“We’ve found your sister’s car at Athens International Airport. ”
Lee stopped walking. “She flew somewhere? Where? When?”
“We’re fast-tracking a warrant to access passenger information.”
“But that could take—”
“Days, yes. Possible, a week or more. I’m sorry.”
“Oh my God.”
“We’ve completed interviews with all of her former Airbnb tenants. Every one has a credible alibi; we don’t think they are involved.”
Lee nodded. With Flora’s help, she had shut down the Airbnb rental page for the time being.
She was growing short of breath, but kept pace with Markos, hiking a steep path lined with white houses.
The exertion made her notice that her legs were shaking, too.
Everything felt unstable—not just her emotions, but her actual body.
She stumbled slightly, and Markos steadied her.
“Where are we?” said Lee, slowing down, smelling jasmine, bougainvillea, and the earthy scent of the sun warming the stones beneath them.
Each home had vivid, bright blue doors and window shutters.
“This is Anafiotika,” said Markos.
“I don’t even feel like I’m still in Athens,” said Lee. “This looks like a magazine spread of a Greek island up here. My family went to Rhodes Island, on a cruise.”
“A cruise?” said Markos, raising his eyebrows.
“My mom won a contest, and the prize was a Mediterranean cruise,” said Lee. “It’s a long story, for another time.”
Markos nodded. Lee wanted to take his hand. Was this some kind of trauma response?
“The workers who built this neighborhood were from the island of Anafi,” said Markos, speaking while he allowed Lee to catch her breath. “They built their homes as their ancestors had done.”
Lee looked around at the whitewashed homes.
“My grandmother was from Anafi,” said Markos. “This is my neighborhood.”
High above the city, Lee could hear birds and the rustling of leaves. Markos pointed to a vacant building. “This building was once our family bakery,” said Markos. “My parents were tricked, while I was in college.”
“Tricked?”
“An investment that did not exist. They lost everything believing in a lie.”
“Like Regan.”
“Yes. This matters to me.”
Lee gazed at the sweeping views from Anafiotika, the sun warm on her face. The Acropolis towered above them, and the city was spread out below.
“Why are you telling me this?” Lee asked.
“Because I want you to understand—I’m not trying to use your fame to solve this case.” Markos met her eyes. “I see someone in pain trying to help her sister. That’s all.” Lee was disarmed—Markos genuinely seemed to care. When was the last time someone had been nice to her without wanting something?
Markos was so straightforward and earnest…it made Lee suspicious. Was his candor a cultural thing?
Lee was accustomed to being prized for her external beauty and connections. But being treated with dignity confused her. Lee was filled with conflicting desires: She wanted to press Markos against the wall of his family’s former bakery and kiss him. Also, she wanted to run.
Instead, she spoke as earnestly as Markos had. “I found my father,” Lee said, the words emerging before she could stop them.
Markos held her gaze.
“When I was fifteen. He had killed himself in my bathroom. Hung himself.” Lee kept her voice steady, reciting facts.
“I found him before school. I called 911, then went downstairs and made breakfast for my sister and brother. Mom told them he’d had a heart attack.
Only my mom and I knew what he had done. ”
She waited for the usual response—the awkward sympathy, the change of subject. But Markos asked, “What did you make them for breakfast?”
His unexpected question caught Lee off guard. “What?”
“For breakfast. What did you make?”
“Cinnamon toast,” Lee said, remembering. “It was the only thing I knew how to cook besides scrambled eggs, and we were out of eggs.”
Markos nodded thoughtfully. “My father walked out on my mother when I was twelve. I also made breakfast for my sisters and brothers. Bread with olive oil.”
“I’ve never told anyone about making breakfast,” Lee said. “It seemed…I don’t know. Trivial—compared to finding my dad.”
“Not trivial,” said Markos. “It’s the moment you became someone who takes care of others. You’ve been doing it ever since, yes?”
Lee was moved by his insight. She had spent her life alternating between control and chaos, always trying to manage others’ emotions while her own threatened to drown her.
“My old therapist would charge three hundred dollars for that observation,” she said. Her mind returned to Regan. “I keep thinking about what I could have done differently. If I’d visited my sister, called her more…how could I not have known what she was getting into?”
“She’s an adult,” said Markos. “Why would you feel responsible?”
“It’s just who I am,” said Lee.
Markos leaned forward. “Lee, you are here now, fighting for her.”
Her dark thoughts taunted her: He’s just saying what you want to hear.
But when she looked at Markos, Lee saw no deception or agenda. Markos seemed to understand loss and responsibility.
“I’m scared all the time,” said Lee softly. “Not just about Regan. About…everything. My brain tells me terrible things.”
“Like what?” Markos asked.
Lee hesitated. “Like…my family would be better off without me. Like, I’ll never feel peace. Finding Regan won’t even change anything because I’ll still be…I’ll still feel this way.”
She waited for him to offer platitudes. Markos kept his eyes on her face. “This voice,” he said finally. “Is it telling you the truth?”
“It feels like the truth.”
“Possible, this voice is a liar,” said Markos.
Lee felt a small space opening between herself and Depression’s relentless narrative. She nodded. “Possible,” she acquiesced.
“As soon as the warrant comes through,” said Markos, “we’ll know which flight Regan was on and where she went.”
Lee nodded.
“I cannot promise what condition she will be in, Lee,” said Markos. “But I promise we will not stop looking.” Lee stared at Markos, hearing Depression’s warning: Don’t trust him. Don’t be vulnerable.
She thought of a quiet rebuttal: Possible, this voice is a liar.
Her chest grew warm, and her stomach eased. For a moment, hope flickered inside Lee. Markos’s hand found hers (finally), and he held her fingers.
Possible, she would feel peace.
Lee caught sight of their reflection in the front window of a cottage: grieving woman being comforted by handsome cop. Even now, she was arranging herself for an imagined audience. Embarrassed, Lee pulled her hand away.