Page 29 of The Expat Affair

De praterlaunches a long-winded comparison of the shopping in Amsterdam versus her beloved Milan, living up to her nickname. I smile and nod and pretend to listen, but I’m distracted by sudden movement across the street. A flock of noisy females bursts out the door of Rive Gauche, filing down the sidewalk with a flurry of excited chatter, and thanks to nosy neighbor here, I don’t get a good look at any of them.

At least it’s not Thomas who makes his escape. I spot him through the front window, lingering behind a pretty sales associate reaching into the display. She untangles a jumble of necklaces on a padded bust, then pulls out a single chain, long and delicate and shiny. She holds it up for him to see, and he cradles the charm in his palm, leaning in to inspect it. He says something to the woman and she laughs. He hands the necklace back, and they disappear deeper into the store.

“...is really getting hit hard lately.”

There’s an awkward silence as Bianca—her name comes to me in a flash—waits for me to jump in on whatever she just said. She raises her brows, and her perfectly painted lips spread into an awkward smile.

“I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “I think I missed the first part.”

“I said, the news I read this morning said the police are no closer to finding the killer than they were days ago, and now they’re saying more diamonds are missing. Millions of dollars’ worth. Poor Thomas, he’s really getting hit hard lately, isn’t he?”

My gaze flits to the glass door across the street. If he comes out now, my entire cover will be blown.

And yet I can’t help but ask, “Hit hard how?”

“The news made it sound like this dead employee was involved in last summer’s theft. Those big stones that were taken from the vault, I mean. I can’t remember what they were called.”

“The Cullinans.”

“That’s right, the Cullinans. Is that why that man is dead, because the killer wanted them?”

I think about how to answer this, because Thomas was right. Even if he can manage to spin another believable story, it’s already too late for people likede prater. She’s already connected the theft of the Cullinans to Xander and the missing diamonds. She already thinks they’re the same stones, which... could it be possible? Thomas fired Xander. He accused him of theft. It’s not inconceivable to think Xander stole more than just some extra stones tossed in the Asian shipments. I happen to know he wasn’t exactly the most trustworthy person.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot movement behind the glass. I tap my phone to check the time. “Oh, shoot. Lovely running into you, but I’ve got to run. I’m about to be late for my appointment.”

“Want to grab lunch sometime soon? I could do next week.”

“Sure. Next week works.” I pull a ten from my bag and wedge it under my empty coffee cup, pushing to a stand.

“I’ll call you,” Bianca says, and with a quick hug goodbye, continues on down the street.

As soon as she’s gone, I fall back onto my chair, my gaze glued to the door. I don’t care about the Cullinans or any other missingdiamonds. I give zero shits about whatever story Thomas has spun to differentiate between the two. I only care about what my husband is doing in a store like Rive Gauche. I’ll sit here all day if I have to. I have absolutely nothing better to do.

It’s ironic, really. The kind of woman who stays in a €1000 room at the Conservatorium Hotel would expect more from a Prins than a cheap trinket of plated gold, and Thomas would give it to her, I know this for a fact. I’d known him for all of five minutes before he started tossing diamonds my way. Solitaire studs, a chain set with dozens of bezel-set stones, blingy bracelets and dangly earrings and diamond-encrusted pendants big as a silver dollar. Rive Gauche is no House of Prins, for crap’s sake. Whoever this woman is, I hope that necklace turns her skin green.

A few minutes later, he steps out the door, a tiny bag clutched in a fist. I hold my breath as he pauses on the sidewalk, turning left, then right, then left again. This is a man who grew up in this city, who except for the time he spent in boarding schools and business schools and in California getting his gemology degree, has lived here all his life. He’s roamed these streets since he was a child andstillhe gets turned around. Normally, this would make me laugh, but not today. Today I shrink behind the Buxus bush and pray he doesn’t spot me sitting here, watching him.

He settles on a direction and takes off down the sidewalk, and I wait until he’s turned the corner onto the Prinsengracht before I push to a stand. Thomas is headed in the direction of the Westermarkt; I’m guessing either to the tram stops or the taxi stand. Ihurry down the sidewalk, determined not to lose him.

Just past the Pulitzer Hotel, he stops dead. He whirls around and I freeze, but he’s not looking at me, standing half a football field away. He’s checking for traffic on the road. He waits to let a car pass then jogs across the street to a row of parked bikes at the water’s edge, stopping at one that looks like it’s been there awhile.

I frown, pressing my body to the building.

He hangs the bag on a handlebar of an old, rusty Gazelle, then keeps moving up the street, and now I’m more confused than ever. What kind of woman stays at the Conservatorium but rides an old, rusty Gazelle? I look back up the street, watching that ugly peacoat disappear into the crowd, a swarm of pedestrians and tourists heading to the Anne Frank House further up the street.

As soon as he’s out of sight, I jog across the street and pluck the bag from the bike.

It’s the necklace I watched him pick out through the glass, an upside-down heart decorated with tiny white stones dangling from a paperclip chain. Stones that are paste, and not even good paste. This is the type of necklace you’d give to a child—though the twins wouldn’t be caught dead in this cheap trinket. According to the receipt, Thomas paid a whopping €28.

I turn and stare up the street, the necklace still tangled around my fingers, half expecting to see... what? The owner of this bike? Why leave the necklace, even a cheap one, hanging on a bike for anyone to swipe? None of this makes any sense.

An icy wind sweeps up the canal, tingling the tips of my ears and fingers. Whatever the answers are, I’m not going to find them here, freezing my ass off on the side of the street. It’s a mystery to solve later, at home, when Sem is at school or playing outside, when Thomas is at work and Martina at the market, shopping for ingredients for dinner.

Because this necklace can’t be the only clue. There’s got to be more hiding in his desk, maybe, or tucked somewhere deep in a pocket. Maybe it’s a mistake, but I can’t bear staring down the evidence of my husband’s betrayal for another second. I toss it all—the box, the bag, the cheap costume necklace, and those ridiculous sunglasses—into the canal.

All I need is a few moments in the house alone.

Rayna