is actually himself. “And just because someone looks like a monster doesn’t mean he is.”
And just because someone doesn’t, doesn’t mean he isn’t.
If Marin ever gets the call that Frances got, she will kill herself. She’s made a lot of promises to a lot of people.
This is the one she’s made to herself.
Chapter 23
When she gets to work the next morning, there’s a voice mail on her phone from Vanessa Castro.
Marin’s first instinct is to drop everything and call Derek at work, so they can find out the horrible news together, but then she remembers. Derek still doesn’t know about the private investigator. In hindsight, the distance in their marriage might not all be coming from him. Marin is full of secrets, too.
She needs a minute to gather herself before calling the PI back, and she shuts the door to her office so nobody will disturb her. She thinks about dinner the night before. When Derek got home after work, there were no steaks on the counter ready for grilling, no Brussels sprouts roasting in the oven. He came upstairs to find her sitting on the bed staring at her laptop, and he watched without comment when she slammed it shut. He didn’t ask what she was looking at. He took one look at her hollow, tearstained face and seemed to understand instantly that his wife was having a rough evening. He didn’t ask why, because he knew why, even if he didn’t know the details.
Instead, he gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Indian, Greek, or Thai?”
“You pick,” she said. She was about to apologize for forgetting the steaks, but he was on the phone calling for takeout before she got the chance.
Vanessa Castro never just calls. The PI always emails first so they can agree on a time to speak. These days, nobody likes it when the phone rings out of the blue; it feels intrusive, which is why nobody bothers with a landline anymore. A landline can do only one thing—ring.
The PI only spoke five words in her voice mail: “It’s Vanessa. Call me. Thanks.”
She thinks of Frances. Oh god. Taking a deep breath, she makes the call.
“It’s Marin,” she says, when the PI picks up.
“Hi,” Castro says. “Sorry to call out of the blue.”
“Just tell me.”
“It’s not about Sebastian,” the other woman says, and every part of Marin’s body sags with relief at those four words. “Oh, shit. I should have explained that in my message. I’m sorry, Marin, I was distracted. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s okay.” It isn’t really, but it will be, once Marin’s heart returns to its normal rhythm and she can breathe again. “What’s going on?”
“McKenzie Li,” Castro says. Hearing the name makes Marin sit up straighter. “Are you aware that she’s missing?”
Missing? Sharp inhale. Her heart rate picks up again.
“Missing?” Marin repeats, trying to inject the right note of confusion into her voice, trying to react as if she didn’t potentially have something to do with it. But she couldn’t have—she’d changed her mind about Julian, so why the hell would the younger woman be missing? “What … what do you mean?”
“I’ve been keeping loose tabs on her…” Castro does sound distracted, like she’s following a train of thought that’s much further along than what they’re currently discussing, and maybe reading through something on her computer at the same time. “I know you said you were handling it, but I’d already started digging and I just wanted to keep going for a little bit…”
Marin closes her eyes. Shit shit shit. “Right…”
“… and a few hours ago her roommate posted something on Facebook about her being missing.”
Marin realizes she’s holding her breath again, and she forces herself to exhale. She has to say something, and she doesn’t know how to respond. Her heart is thumping wildly in her chest, and she thanks god Castro isn’t telling her this in person, because she’s certain the guilt is written all over her face. “When … when did this happen?”
“It seems she’s been gone for two nights,” the PI says. “Which is long enough to concern her roommate, because they apparently had dinner plans last night.”
“We … Derek and I just got back from Whistler yesterday. We were out of town for the weekend.”
“Yes, I saw that on your Instagram,” Castro says absently. Her words give Marin another jolt. The private investigator she hired checks her Instagram? “I wasn’t checking up on you,” she adds, as if reading Marin’s mind. “I happened to