Page 24 of The Expat Affair

I think about whoever’s out there, sitting in a coffee shop somewhere or maybe even here in this tram, watching my little blue dot dance across their screen. My heart thuds at the thought, my gaze panning over the people near me. Two women sitting close, their heads pressed together as they talk in a language I can’t understand. A trio of teenagers, passing around a Starbucks cup. Amother trying to wrangle her overactive preschooler, hyped up on the half-eaten cookie in his hand. A man in a red shirt and a battered ball cap staring at his phone. I’m pretty sure he got on when I did, and now he’s standing by that same door, his body positioned so that if he raises his gaze even a little, we’d be eye to eye. I watch him, and panic zings through my veins. Is hefollowingme?

The tram rolls to a stop, and I shove my things back in my bag and strap it across my chest, my muscles jumping out of my skin.The doors ding open, and I force myself to sit still, waiting as people filter in and out, pretending to adjust my shoe as I drop the tracker to the floor and shove it under the seat as far back as it will go.

And the whole time, I watch the man in the ball cap the same way my father taught me to ride a horse once upon a time, with eyes that focus on nothing and everything. The second you turn your head, your body moves and you confuse the animal. I watch the man in the ball cap without looking at him, without moving a single muscle. He doesn’t move, either. Not even to look up from his phone.

By now, the last stragglers have boarded the tram, and the doors are ready to close. I wait until the very last second and lunge for them, landing on the sidewalk right as the doors slide shut behindme. The tram clangs, the signal it’s about to pull away.

Triumphant, I whirl around, my gaze searching out the man behind the glass. He’s still standing in that same spot by the door, still clutching his phone, only now his head is raised. He sees me watching and smiles, right before the tram slides away.

Willow

Tuesday blooms bright and sunny, a blessing after what feels like months of rain. Thomas left this morning before the sun came up for Antwerp, where he’s tonight’s keynote speaker at the World Diamond Centre’s annual conference. Sem and I have the house to ourselves. The whole entire giant house with all its walls and its rooms and my phone that still hasn’t buzzed with a follow-up threat. I told Martina we’d be eating out tonight and sent her home early.

At just before three, I leash Ollie, heave him into the front of my cargo bike, and pedal through the lingering puddles to school. Sem spots us and skids to a stop, frowning across the pavers.

The parkI sign.

His face breaks into a grin.

For days now, Sem has been a bear, whining about the tag on his sweater that was scratching his neck, about the milk that tasted funny so I’d squirt in some extra chocolate, about Ollie knocking over the Lego tower he’d spent all of five seconds building. He’s a sensitive kid, and not just because he’s overly attuned to nonverbal cues, facial expressions and body language and eye contact. Ever since Xander, his radar has been going full tilt. This park outing is as much for him as it is for me, to allow both of us to blow off some steam.

“What do you want for dinner, my love?” I say once he’s closeenough, pulling his beanie down over his ears. It may be sunny but it’s bitterly cold, and the icy wind isn’t helping any.

Sem throws up both arms, two little fists punching the air. “Pannenkoeken!”

There’s not a kid in this country who doesn’t beg for pancakes for supper, and in Holland it’s a real thing, though the Dutch version is more crêpe than fluffy pancake. Sem likes his with ham and cheese and topped with powdered sugar andstroop, a syrup made from sugar beets.

And why the hell not? Thomas is in Antwerp, and Sem and I are on our own for dinner more often than not these days.

I get him settled with Ollie in the front of the bike and pedal the short distance to the park. It’s only a few blocks from the school, and both Sem and Ollie know the drill. Through the gates of the Emmastraat entrance, dodge the chaotic flow of people and dogs coming from town, slow at the wide stretch of grass across from the fountain. That’s our spot. Ollie sees it up ahead and lets loose one excited bark. Like Sem, he’s eager to stretch his legs.

I park at the edge of the grass, then help them both out and unclip Ollie from his leash. For Sem, I produce a grubby tennis ball from my coat pocket. “You want to practice your throws?”

With a squeal, Sem snatches the ball from my fingers and takes off across the grass, Ollie sticking close to his heels. The ground is still drenched from the week’s rain, scarring the field with a mix of muddy grass and half-frozen puddles. We’ve been here all of five seconds and already Sem and Ollie are filthy, but again: Who cares? It’s not like Thomas is home to complain.

I buy a cup of coffee from the vendor’s cart on the path, sink onto a bench at the edge of the field, and keep an eye on my son while I watch the path. The park is packed, the Dutch as a whole well used to braving the cold. Runners and walkers and commuters whizzingby on bikes, mothers like me getting dragged by kids and dogs, the occasional stoner sucking a fat joint on a park bench. I clock every face that passes by.

Fifteen minutes later, I spot her up ahead, a runner with a red ponytail swaying in time with her stride. Rayna on her first of two loops around the park—a runner’s paradise that, considering she lives only a few blocks from here, might as well be her backyard. And unfortunately for her, she was far too easy to find.

For months now, Rayna has been cataloguing her life on Instagram and TikTok, and though since Xander she’s set her pages to private, there are still plenty of pictures floating around online, most of the images easy to place. There were the typical touristy shots of canals or other picturesque spots, flower markets and famous buildings in the city center, must-see spots listed on every tourist’s guide. I concentrated instead on the ones in the museum quarter, the shopping streets and cafés clustered around a few square blocks. And tons of the P.C. Hooftstraat—thanks to all the designer boutiques, one of the most recognizable streets in all of Holland.

And all those snapshots of her working or lounging or drinking tea in a sad beige room? Enough of them were geotagged on a building smack in the middle, a block of rent-controlled apartments above the Mont Blanc store.

Rayna shops at the Albert Heijn under the museums. She spends the mornings with her laptop at Joe & the Juice the next block over. She buys flowers at the stall across from the tram stop, and for the past three afternoons at around this time, she’s made two clockwise loops through the Vondelpark.

And if I can do it—find her, watch her, learn her habits and patterns—then so could anyone else.

I watch her head bobbing in the crowd on the path, and I’m not quite sure how to play this. It’s not like I can just walk up to her and introduce myself. What would I say?Hey girl, I know you don’tknow me, but you’re in danger.She’d think I’m insane. She’d think she was in danger fromme.

Maybe I could toss Ollie’s ball her way, let my overly enthusiastic dog make the introductions. If I can manage to chuck the ball close enough for her to stumble over or even bend down and pick up, Ollie will be impossible to ignore. Or maybe I should go get another coffee. If I time my trip across the path just right, I could accidentally on purpose bump into her.

“Mama,kijk!”

I turn back to Sem, holding both hands high in the air, his palms and fingers dark with dirt. He might be half American, but he’s a Dutch kid on Dutch soil, which means my attempts to make English his preferred language are a lost battle. He’s telling me to look at his filthy hands.

I wrinkle my nose. “Is that dirt or poop?”

His adorable face splits in a wide grin. “It’s dirt! Ollie gave it to me.”

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