Page 50 of The Expat Affair

The sky starts spitting water, fat, freezing raindrops that splatter the pavement, the parked cars, our clothes, and skin. The wind is picking up, too. I know what those frigid gusts mean, and so does Willow. She checks the map, then gestures for me to follow her further up the street.

“The point is, I found you in like five minutes flat.”

“And the park?”

Her gaze flits away for a second or two, then lands dead on mine. “Okay, fine. I may have planted myself in your path, but I swear to you—Iswear—it’s only because I wanted to see you face-to-face. To look you in the eye and see if all those things people are saying about you online are true.”

“And?”

“And I think you’re telling the truth. I do. I think you are an innocent bystander in another man’s tragedy, but you should know that doesn’t mean you’re off the hook. Xander’s killer is still out there. If he didn’t already know you were asleep in Xander’s bed when he came through there, he does now. And I’m pretty sure he knows where you live.”

An icy shiver dances down my spine. I think about the break-in, and Willow is right. I’ve made myself far too easy to find.

Still.

“Why, though?” I ask. “You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about me. Why do you care?”

“Because Xander worked for my husband. He was a friend.” She pauses to frown. “Was he a friend? I don’t know. He was self-absorbed and cared way too much about what other people thought of him, and his behavior rode the knife edge of what is socially andmorally acceptable. We bickered like siblings. He drove me up an absolute tree. But he was also exceptionally kind.”

A sudden sadness pings me in the center of the chest. “Sokind. When we were texting, I mentioned in passing that I’d murder for some Nerds Gummy Clusters, and he brought a pack on the date. He got them at that store on the Leidsestraat. He hadn’t even met me yet and he went to all that trouble.”

Willow looks over with a smile. “That sounds exactly like something he’d do. Last year, he sent me flowers on Mother’s Day after I told him I don’t have the best relationship with mine. He learned sign language so he could crack jokes with my son. As annoying as his behavior could be, he made up for it in a million little ways. I’m going to miss the guy.”

I nod. “Me, too.”

“So anyway, after I spoke to you in the park, my curiosity morphed into concern. I wanted to make sure you understood the danger you were in. I’d hate for what happened to Xander to happen to you, too.”

We walk in silence for a bit while I try to process all this. Try to process Willow tracking me down, following me around town, leaving me notes of warning simply because she was concerned for a stranger’s safety. If it were the other way around, would I have done the same thing? Would I have worried for her?

Maybe. It’s possible.

Because suddenly I’m thinking about the time I trailed two Americans around the Albert Heijn simply because hearing their chatter felt like home. Or when I introduced myself to some random lady on the street simply because she was holding a copy ofUSA Today. Maybe I’m lonely in my new expat life, but there’s a spark of truth in Willow’s words. There’s something about meeting a fellow American so far from home that conjures an instant and automatic connection.

“Lemme ask you this,” I say as a raindrop smacks me in the forehead. I flip up my hood and wipe it away with a sleeve. “If you were me, what would you do?”

“Hire security. But assuming you can’t afford that...” She pauses, looking over just long enough for me to shake my head. “I don’t know. Be really, really careful, I guess.”

Her words echo Detective Boomsma’s parting shot:Two people are dead,and I’d really prefer you not be the third. I think of the man in the ball cap and beanie who’s found me twice now, and helplessness presses down on me like a hot, lead blanket.

Suddenly, the skies open up, dropping icy rain on our heads in a solid, soaking sheet. Willow squeals and takes off for the first shelter she sees, a café across the street with an awning just big enough to cover a sliver of sidewalk. I race behind, dodging the puddles and bikes and parked cars.

We press ourselves to the building for a second or two, shivering and watching the downpour, then Willow points a finger at the door. “Drink?”

“God, yes.”

Willow

Everything about Rayna is a surprise. Seeing her step out from that curtain of branches outside Xander’s funeral, the shock mingling with fear on her face when I told her I found her in five minutes flat, her enthusiastic yes when I asked if she wanted a drink. We’ve been here all of twenty minutes, and already, she’s on her third glass of wine.

“I’ve never seen a dead person before, and Xander was...” She winces, her entire body giving a hard shudder. “His neck. His hand. Every time I close my eyes, I see him just... lying there.”

I think back to the articles I’ve read, the gruesome descriptions of the zip tie wrapped around his neck. I don’t remember reading anything about his hand.

“What happened to Xander’s hand?”

She leans into the table, too tipsy to bother to lower her voice. “His finger was gone, Willow. They chopped it off, presumably to get in the safe. It worked on biometrics.”

My stomach twists, and I try not to picture it. The image is too awful to even contemplate.

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