Chapter 2
CHAPTER
TWO
Lydia
My mom and sister are FINALLY on a plane back to Ohio.
YAY. Can I print T-shirts now? I survived the Baby Shower of 20__
Lydia
LOL. Thanks again for coming. And for the adorable layette set.
I hope Anton rubbed your feet afterward.
This is the nicest thing I can think to say, and I’m glad when Lydia doesn’t answer.
I have my best friend’s no-good husband to thank for my biggest journalistic success.
And the fact that I haven’t had another one since.
I was doing casual research for an article on dating sites about a year ago when I stumbled across Anton Richie’s profile on the Unmatched app—a site that exists solely for married hookups.
I one hundred percent expected to be reintroducing Lydia to the dating scene by now, after she nailed Anton’s balls to the wall in divorce court.
Instead, after a tumultuous few months during which she catfished and confronted him, and he put her through an obscene amount of pain, I just attended a baby shower for their firstborn.
She’s explained it to me in more detail than even my stomach could handle. TMI about the dynamics of their marriage and sex life, and not nearly enough about Anton laying down a good grovel. If you ask me, the man doesn’t know how.
But he claims he’ll never try to cheat again. And Lydia seems . . . happy.
So I keep my mouth shut. And mostly only scowl at him when she isn’t looking. But watching that all go down was reaffirming. Lydia can keep her marriage, if that’s what she wants. And I’ll just keep writing about all the reasons men can’t be counted on.
Or at least, that seemed like a solid plan until November.
When I arrive outside my apartment door, I let out a relieved sigh, looking up and down the empty hall.
No unexpected deliveries. No envelopes taped or tucked into the cracks of the door.
And I haven’t received a legitimately threatening email for at least a month.
But once you get in the habit of being paranoid, it’s hard to let go.
I checked my peephole camera app before leaving the gym after work, and it hadn’t recorded anything of note. So I let myself in, flipping the lights on and dropping my bag onto one of the stools at my little breakfast bar.
I live in a studio apartment, which is easy enough to scan and clear mostly in one glance.
Everything’s exactly the way I left it this morning.
On the far side of the room, my bed is made with the fluffy purple duvet and green pillows I splurged on when I moved in.
My green midcentury microfiber couch, an incredible find from an online secondhand market, divides the “bedroom” space from the living area.
A TV is mounted to the wall by the door, because the opposite wall—the entire reason I originally moved in—is one long counter with a stretch of windows to the ceiling.
When the sun is up, I have the most incredible view of the Rocky Mountains to the west of Denver.
I flip the deadbolt, but don’t set down my keys or kick off my shoes until I’ve peeked into the bathroom and inside the closet. Once I’m satisfied I am well and truly alone, I let go of my pepper spray canister and strip off my clothes to shower.
A day in the life of a lady journalist.
After I’ve rinsed away the forty minutes of squats and deadlifts I put in after work at the gym, I condition and wrap my hair, heat up a frozen ramen bowl, and settle on the couch to catch up on email.
Randall wasn’t kidding about staying on top of the Observer inbox.
Keeping it at zero has been so time-consuming, I haven’t had time to check my own—which isn’t the worst thing.
Sometimes wading into my work email is more precarious than stepping into my apartment.
But I need to deal with both before bed or I won’t sleep.
Monday, March 8, 20__, 6:09 PM
To: Info@
From: GESmith@
Subject: feedback
Does the Observer not use a proofreader? There was a typo in your article on the new club on Lincoln Street. I’ll let you find it yourself.
Monday, March 8, 20__, 3:59 PM
To: Info@
From: iluvcox@
Subject: Garbage
I am never reading the political waste featured in this publication again. Pleese fire Adrienne P and hire someone more attractive.
Monday, March 8, 20__, 3:16 PM
To: Caprice_Phipps@
From: Mrs.R@
Subject: A proposal
Ms. Phipps,
Randall Jones suggested I email you directly. I have a story you might be interested in—information you have not yet covered related to the Unmatched app. Please reply to this message, or you can call or text: 303-555-4462.
Mrs. R.
I close my laptop and wander to the fridge for a bottle of water, scrolling through my phone for music to break up the thoughts in my head.
If there’s anything worse than reading your own hate mail, it has to be also sifting through everyone else’s.
I was not, however, expecting to find an actual lead.
I want the raise my boss offered today. Need it, if I’m honest—my credit card balance has crept into the lie-awake-at-night range.
But I’ll have to find something else to write about.
I don’t know where Randall dug up “Mrs. R.,” but I’d still rather lose sleep worrying about money than ever write another word about Unmatched.
Before I can turn on my favorite guilty pleasure Broadway score, the theme from Scooby Doo cuts through the air, and my brother’s face fills my screen. I let out a resigned sigh.
“Shouldn’t you be out causing trouble?” I ask. “Thought you were deploying soon.”
“Yeah, soon,” Theo confirms. “Just trying to tie up some loose ends.”
Something in his voice sounds off. He hasn’t mentioned being sick recently, but I find myself scanning his handsome face, looking for signs he’s been under the weather.
Nothing stands out. His eyes are clear; his skin flawless, as always.
There’s stubble across his square jaw, but his head is shaved so close he might as well be bald.
Otherwise, he’d have a full head of thick, curly hair like mine.
In the looks department, we’re a fifty-fifty mix of our Italian mother and Black dad.
I guess despite all his faults, no one can dispute that Anthony Phipps was attractive.
“What loose ends? You literally don’t even own a houseplant.”
Theo’s a Navy SEAL and has been for the last eight years.
It had been his goal since we were at least ten, but I didn’t really understand the phrase “living the dream” until I attended his graduation ceremony.
After I watched him receive his trident with the rest of his class, it was clear he lived and breathed for those guys, and they felt the same way about him.
I thought I’d had something like that too.
“Actually, I’m going to drop in on you one last time before I head out.”
“Theo. I have managed to maintain my existence the last six months, even with you back in Virginia.”
“I know. I’ve been monitoring your front door footage.”
I huff and wrinkle my nose. “You won’t be able to do that from wherever it is you’re going this time.”
“True. Which is why I’m bringing you something before I leave.”
“Oh no. You’ve done more than enough in the way of gifts. I already have pepper spray, a Taser, and a personal safety alarm—which, by the way, went off by accident in the grocery store last week. I couldn’t figure out how to shut it off for like two minutes.”
Theo bites his lip in amusement. Since we were old enough to walk, he’s swung back and forth between serving as my protector and enjoying my torment. “Just looking out for my little sister.”
“I am still, and always will be, three minutes older than you.”
His joking tone fades abruptly. “Anyway, I might need you to come get me at the airport Friday . . . with a car.”
I furrow my brow, setting my water aside. “I might be able to borrow Lydia’s. Why?”
He grunts. “I really think you should have one of your own . . .”
“Maybe when they start giving them out for free. My Vespa gets me anywhere I can’t ride my bike. Or I take the light rail.”
He frowns. This is an old argument. “Whatever. Sure, borrow Lydia’s.”
My mood—and the appeal of his visit—is dropping by the moment. I glance at my calendar, remembering the stupid pet expo Randall’s making me cover. “Actually, I’ll be busy that day. Call Mom or get an Uber.”
“Reece. Can you just not make everything an argument for once?”
I set the phone against my fruit bowl and fold my arms. “Okay. I won’t argue. If you tell me why I need to phone in a favor with my best friend just to give my grown-ass special ops-trained little brother a ride home from the airport.”
He looks up at the ceiling. “It’ll be much easier to explain once I get there.”
“Great. Then get yourself to my apartment and explain it to me then.” I reach forward to end the call, no longer in the mood for Theo’s games.
“Wait,” he says. And the ragged edge of his tone, paired with the haunted look on his face, keeps me from hanging up.
“The thing I’m bringing . . . it’s . . . it’s important.”
“Come on, Theo. This is stupid. If you won’t tell me what it is, just tell me why all this is necessary.”
“Because.” He swallows, and then his jaw hardens as he stares at me through the camera. “I’m bringing you something of Kyle's.”
My lips part as I sink onto one of my barstools, trying to process what he just said. Why Theo would do this to me.
Because Kyle is dead.