We Are Us

I finish chewing and twist the cap off my drink. “From who?”

“Anyone. Your lawyer, the FBI…” She glances at the TV on the wall, it’s screen mercifully dark. “I haven’t checked the news yet today.”

I think about Gavin downstairs, combing through security footage for a glimpse of the man who’d broken into the apartment less than forty-eight hours ago. The credit card statement he gave me is in my pocket. “The FBI might be building a case against me as a co-conspirator.”

Sadie barks out a laugh. “You?”

“It’s not all that farfetched. Not if they think I rented the boat Tucker may have used to escape.”

“Is there any proof of that? Or that Tucker’s living somewhere as a fugitive?”

But I’m not listening. “Oh my God. What if that’s what Wren was looking for when she ripped Tucker’s office apart the other day—proof that she’d helped him escape?”

“She could have been looking for anything. She’s nuts.”

Wren might be a lot of things. But she’s not nuts. She’s smart, and devoted to Tucker.

I pull out the credit card statement and push it across the table. “Someone used my name to rent a boat. Well, actually, they didn’t intend to rent it with this card, they just gave the number to the person dealing with the paperwork. The card was run by accident and reversed almost immediately.”

Sadie drops her burger, snatching up the piece of paper. After a long moment she tosses it back to me. “So what? They can’t prove it was used to get Tucker out of the country. They can’t even prove he’s still alive.”

“What about the credit card? The one in my name?”

“Poppy, you were at the Delano in Miami. Any place where there are rich tourists, there are identity thieves. I’m sure you just got ripped off.”

“You’re probably right.” I take a bite of my burger, deciding it isn’t nearly as good as the onion rings. “But it still doesn’t explain how Tucker escaped.”

Sadie stands up, dumping her barely touched meal into the garbage.

“I thought you were starving?”

She shrugs. “My eyes are bigger than my stomach, I guess.” She turns on the faucet and washes the grease off her hands, lips pursed as if holding back a mouthful of words. I wait, knowing my sister won’t be able to keep them inside for long. “Listen, I hate to say this again. But who’s to say he escaped?”

“You think—”

“I don’t know,” she cuts in. “No one knows, right? But if you fell and cut your head, maybe he fell too. If your blood was on him…”

“Just say it, Sadie.”

“Sharks. There, I’ve said it, okay? Those are shark-infested waters. And can’t they detect blood in the water from like a mile away?”

My attention slides to the shelf just over Sadie’s shoulder, to a photograph of Tucker from our honeymoon. He hadn’t realized I’d taken it until I printed it and had it matted and framed. He’d been standing on the balcony of our villa in Bora Bora, the sea a stu

Tucker looked open, vulnerable. A good man with an old soul. A man I loved.

And I loved him then. Back when I believed the lies he told me. When I thought he was more good than bad. That we were meant to be.

Those days are long over.

But I still can’t imagine that he’s dead.

“What if Wren rented a boat in Key West and anchored it near Dry Tortuga? They took it back to Key West, and he boarded a private plane bound for Cuba. From there, he could be anywhere by now.”

I glance at Sadie, noticing the bright spots of color on her cheeks. She is gripping the counter so hard her knuckles are white. “Are you okay?”

“Nothing a nap won’t fix.” She grabs for the strap of her purse sitting on the counter next to her half-full Snapple, knocking over the bottle. “Oh shit,” she yells as it spills directly into her bag.

I jump up to help her, grabbing for the paper towels and sopping up the puddle.

“Damn it, it’s all in my cosmetic case too.”

“I’ve got this. You should go wash your makeup brushes with shampoo before they’re ruined.”

She shoots me an appreciative look and heads for her bathroom. “Thanks, sis.”

“No problem. I’ll just lay out everything to dry out here,” I say, emptying the contents of Sadie’s purse onto a clean dish towel. Noticing the wide open zipper of her wallet, I begin pulling out cash and cards and receipts and laying them on the towel to dry. It isn’t until I am wiping out the inside of her bag that I notice the gold Mastercard with the now familiar account number.

With my name across the front.