Chapter One—Lorna #2
I turn away from the island and walk toward the living room. “Not fragrance. This bottle hasn’t been available through regular retail in two years.”
A horn sounds faintly on his end. Chris says something I can’t make out to whoever is with him, then returns to the call. “Sorry. We’re heading to another meeting.”
“Fenton’s with you?”
“Yeah.”
I’m not surprised. Fenton probably accompanies Chris into public restrooms and stands outside the stall waiting to hand him toilet paper in case the dispenser is empty.
I sit on the end of the sofa. “Chris, somebody searched for a perfume I wore years ago, found a bottle, and sent it to our home anonymously. This is entry forty-two.”
“Forty-two?”
“Yes.”
He sounds concerned. “I thought it was somewhere around thirty.”
“I showed you the spreadsheet when it hit thirty-seven.”
He hesitates for a long second, and it’s clear he doesn’t remember. Chris clears his throat. “Right.”
I pull one leg beneath me. “The number matters, but what they’re sending matters too. A scarf I looked at. A menu from a restaurant. Things from my private account. Now this.”
His tone is soothing. “I know it’s upsetting.”
I grit my teeth, annoyed by the patronizing. “It’s frightening.”
“I know.” His answer comes quickly. “Have you talked to the delivery person?”
I take a deep breath, trying to rein in my anger. I remind myself Chris is busy, and I don’t think he really understands the full scope of the situation. “Gerald logged the courier. I’ll get a copy of the delivery slip.”
“They need better screening.”
I look across the living room toward the entry. “Screening for what? It’s a legal bottle of perfume addressed to me.”
His tone remains firm. “They could require sender information.”
“Then whoever is doing this writes down a fake name.”
“We can change the package policy.” The certainty in his voice would almost be reassuring if the problem were package policy.
“Chris, that’s not what I’m asking.”
He doesn’t answer immediately.
I press my fingertips against the sofa cushion, then release it. “I’m asking you to look at the whole log with me. Not one delivery at a time. All of it.”
He answers quickly. “Okay.”
“When?”
“I’m back Friday.”
Friday is four days away. I stare at the perfume box visible across the room. “You’re gone until Friday?”
He sighs so quietly I barely hear it. “I told you Denver was running long.”
I scowl at the phone as my throat gets tight. “You said Wednesday.”
“The Highfield team added another round. Fenton moved the flight.”
I grit my teeth once more. A decision about my husband’s whereabouts that reaches me after his assistant has already handled it. I’m the last to know, as usual.
Chris keeps talking. “I’ll sit down with you Friday night, and we’ll go through the spreadsheet. If we need to increase Willa’s hours or change building procedures, we’ll do it.”
My voice is thick. “If we need to?”
“Lorna...”
I try to keep from shouting. “I’m mostly staying home now.”
“I know.”
“I stopped going to events unless Willa can come. I don’t walk anywhere alone.
I don’t post in real time. I’m checking the hallway camera before I open my own front door.
” I cycle through some deep breathing exercises I saw on YouTube.
They don’t really help except to distract me from the fear for a moment.
His silence lasts several seconds. When Chris speaks again, his tone has softened. “We’ll fix it.”
I want to ask how. I want to ask what he thinks he’s fixing when he hasn’t looked at the evidence. Instead, I say, “Friday.” Nothing will be resolved on a phone call. I’ve already tried that a few times.
“I’ll be there.”
A muffled voice comes from his side of the call. It’s Fenton again.
Chris lowers the phone for a moment, then returns. “I have to go. I’ll call tonight if we finish before dinner.”
I don’t believe it, and my tone is dull. “Okay.”
“Love you.” It sounds perfunctory.
The words come easily despite the pinching sensation in my diaphragm. “Love you too.”
The call ends, but I remain on the sofa with my phone resting against my thigh.
Four months after we married, Chris took me to Lisbon because he had meetings in Porto and decided two days together beforehand would make the trip worth it. On our last morning, I mentioned over breakfast that I wanted to walk through Alfama before we left. I didn’t ask him to come.
Chris had two calls scheduled from the hotel, followed by a car to the airport. He checked his watch, opened his phone, and canceled both calls.
“What are you doing?” I’d asked.
“Moving them.”
“You don’t have to come.”
He’d given me that slow, mischievous smile that only I ever saw. It was just for me. “I know.”
He had stood and reached for my jacket from the back of the chair. “You want to see Alfama, and I haven’t seen it either.”
We spent three hours walking streets steep enough to make my calves burn. Laundry hung between buildings overhead. Chris bought coffee from a stand near the Miradouro da Gra?a, then followed me into a church because I wanted a closer look at the tilework.
I had touched one of the blue-and-white tiles set into the wall. “They’re called azulejos. Portugal has used them for centuries.”
Chris leaned closer to examine the pattern. “You researched tiles before the trip?”
I had grinned a little sheepishly. “I research everywhere before I go.”
He looked at me and smiled. “You prepare for vacations?”
“I like knowing where I am.”
He had leaned forward and kissed the tip of my nose. “That’s one of my favorite things about you.”
I laughed. “My inability to arrive anywhere ignorant?”
“Your curiosity.” He’d asked me three more questions about the church before we left. That was when we still talked.
I look toward the kitchen island. The spreadsheet is open on my laptop.
Forty-two rows. Dates, photographs, courier records, screenshots, and notes.
I’ve spent eighteen months making sure I know exactly where I am.
Chris hasn’t opened the file since entry thirty-seven and had forgotten there were that many.
I unlock my phone and pull up our call history. Today’s call lasted twelve minutes. Chris initiated it after I reached him through Fenton.
The previous call from Chris was six days ago. I scroll further back. Nine days before that. Then another gap, followed by a callback after I’d called twice.
The pattern continues for months. Almost every conversation starts with me trying to reach him. Fenton answers, takes the message, then Chris calls when his schedule allows.
I stop scrolling. I can’t remember the last time my husband called me first.