Chapter 27 - The Husband I Buried

Now

When I got home from Sofia’s on Friday afternoon, it was late enough to justify opening a bottle of wine.

Tess lay curled in her bed, paws twitching as though she was chasing a phantom in her dreams. I sat cross-legged on the couch, staring at the photo frames lining the mantel. Luis grinned at me from every shot. Birthdays, picnics, beach days. One of us together on his parents’ yacht.

I should have shut the laptop and gone to bed. I had already checked everything I needed to, reviewed our previously shared bank account, confirmed there were no mysterious transfers, nothing that set off warning bells in the months before Luis died.

Maybe I was just chasing ghosts at this point. Sad and depressed, struggling to accept what had happened, just like everyone thought, but didn’t want to say to my face.

But the urge to dig, to figure out what was going on, to know, wouldn’t go away.

And then I started thinking about the people at the funeral. The ones I hadn’t known, but who knew Luis at some point.

Photos were taken on the day. Maybe the blonde woman was in one of them. I unlocked my phone, scrolling to Jess’s contact number.

Call her. Don’t text.

My mind shouted at me, but my fingers typed anyway.

Do you still have the funeral photos? I need to see them again.

The dots appeared. They lingered. They disappeared. Then a reply:

Kenzie. Please don’t do this to yourself. You’re spiraling. I’m worried about you.

I swallowed a huge gulp of wine, ignoring the sting.

Jess wasn’t going to deter me, no matter how well-intentioned she was.

I just need to check something. Please. Send them.

A minute later, the photos came through.

I scrolled, my thumb sliding across the images. Black coats, somber faces, tissues clutched in hands. My own expression was a blank, hollow mask staring back at me from the screen. Did I really look that bad?

Then, I came to one that made me stop scrolling.

There. Half-hidden by the branches of a maple tree at the cemetery, standing away from the crowd. It looked like the woman I had seen at Luis’s grave. Her blonde hair peeked out from underneath a fascinator with a veil, her face tilted down, sharp cheekbones just visible. Wearing a floral dress, printed with white daisies, maybe, against a dark background. My heart hammered.

‘Who the hell are you?’ I whispered, leaning closer, knocking into my glass and sending a splash of wine across my jeans. My frustration peaked. If I could just see her face, I’d be able to dig further.

Tess lifted her head, ears pricked at my tone. She sensed my unease. I reached down and stroked her soft fur, trying to calm us both.

‘She was there, Tess. At the funeral,’ I murmured, voice tight.

Why hadn’t she introduced herself? Why hadn’t she approached anyone, shared a memory, shed a tear alongside the rest of us?

There was no doubt now. She’d known Luis well enough to come to his funeral. I knew his friends, mostly from work, but I didn’t know her. Was she an ex he hadn’t thought to mention?

The way she ran from me told me enough. She was hiding something. I just had to find out what.

My gut told me she knew something. Maybe she didn’t know why Luis was alive and catching a train, but in this photo, she looked like she was standing at the edge of the crowd. She didn’t want to be seen.

I opened my phone and scrolled to the message Sofia had sent. Keith. He had served beside Luis. You didn’t spend that much time around someone without learning a thing or two about them.

Maybe Keith could enlighten me.

I hesitated. Drained my glass of wine. I should’ve stopped there, but I poured another. It gave me the courage to cross to the drawer where I’d thrown the Coterie Institute invitation. I still hadn’t written anything on it, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know whether they’d been to collect my response.

I stood by the drawer, my fingers gripping the handle. Afraid.

Not that they’d been in my house again, but that I’d missed my opportunity.

I pulled the drawer open and fumbled inside, sifting under a notepad and some pens.

I thought I’d left the card at the very top, but I couldn’t see it. Maybe it had been dislodged when I shut the drawer.

Then I remembered: I had taken it into my room with me before I went to sleep. The scent was comforting. I’d fallen asleep holding it.

I moved through to the bedroom and pulled the made bed apart. Covers, sheets, and finally the pillows.

There it was, slightly crumpled at one edge.

The blank card.

I took it and scrawled a ‘yes’ on the front, hoping it would show up well enough on the dark surface. Then I tossed it back into the drawer and returned to my phone.

If Luis really was dead and I’d somehow hallucinated seeing him that day on the train, that was one thing. But the woman in the picture was alive.

If Keith thought I was crazy, fine. He could join the club. At this point I had nothing to lose.

My thumb hovered over the call button, my nerves prickling. But I’d had just enough wine, and it had started to take effect.

I hit call.

The line began ringing.

Once. Twice.

Maybe he was more of a text message person.

‘Keith,’ a gravelly voice answered on the third ring. I waited for something more, but that was it. I guess that made sense, since I was the one who called.

‘Uh, hi. My name’s Mackenzie Morgan. Is now a good time to talk?’ I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

‘I mean, I was just sitting down to a beer at the bar, but sure. What are you selling?’

I gripped the phone tighter, nails pressing into the cover. ‘I think you knew my husband . . . Luis Tyndale.’

There was a pause. A low chuckle, rough and amused, but not exactly friendly. ‘Knew him? Yeah . . . you could say that. Hell of a soldier. Terrible taste in beer.’

I tried to ignore my nerves. There was something intimidating about this man. ‘I need to ask you some questions, if that’s OK?’

‘You’re his wife, you say?’ Keith asked. I could almost see him, leaning back on a barstool, smirk tugging at his mouth.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘What, you didn’t like his name? Wanted to keep yours? It has kind of a ring to it with the m’s.’

‘More like . . . I’ve had this name long enough that it was easier to keep it.’ I didn’t mention my partnership at the law firm, my name on the plaque, and how much that had contributed to my decision.

‘Yeah. I heard about the accident.’ His tone was flat, clipped, like Luis’s death was an unfortunate occurrence, but he wasn’t going to cry over it. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

I heard the crunch of something in his mouth, then. Peanuts, maybe. The sound made my skin crawl.

‘I have some questions,’ I said, trying to sound casual. ‘I was hoping you could answer them.’

‘How’d you get my number?’ His voice carried a sharp edge now.

‘Sofia Vega gave it to me. I . . . I hope that’s OK—’ I said. I didn’t want to get Sofia in trouble, but I doubt she would’ve given it to me if she thought it would be a problem.

Keith cut me off. ‘Sofia! Jesus. It must’ve been like a million years since I saw Sofia. I’m flattered she considers me a good enough friend that she kept my number.’

‘She thought you might be able to help,’ I said softly, careful not to push too hard.

Keith crunched another peanut. Louder this time.

This was my last lead. After that, I was scratching around in the dirt. I steeled myself and spoke. ‘I’m calling because I saw something impossible. A man who I’d swear was Luis, at the train station. I think maybe it was—’

I heard a sound, like chair legs scraping the floor. ‘No.’ His voice dropped, quieter, almost a growl. ‘Listen . . . you don’t want to talk about this over the phone.’

‘Please,’ I said, my throat tight, words trembling despite myself. ‘I need to know the truth.’

A long pause. I could hear the faint hum of the bar in Keith’s silence. Someone laughing in the distance, a glass clinking. Probably Keith finishing a beer. And then he spoke.

‘All right. You in Boston? Haul ass down to O’Malley’s. You know where it is?’

‘Yeah,’ I said.

‘Buy me a round, and I’ll tell you something about Luis you won’t find in any obituary.’

The line clicked dead before I could respond.

I stared back at my reflection in the darkened phone screen. Tess whimpered softly at my feet, tail thumping once against the hardwood then falling still. My hand shook slightly, the wine I’d poured hours ago suddenly bitter on my tongue.

I’d had two glasses over two and a half hours. I was OK to drive.

I ordered a ride anyway. Just in case. Then I sat frozen for a moment.

Why did it feel like walking into that pub would shatter everything I thought I knew about my husband? But after seeing Luis, then the woman at his grave, and now the photographs from the funeral, I knew I had to go.

I grabbed my keys and purse, locking the door on my way out.

As I turned around, I saw a car pull up in front of my house.

It didn’t look like my ride.

Shit.