Page 52 of The Expat Affair

Except it definitely means something. I nod. “I wish I didn’t, but I do.”

“Well, shit. Now I really wish I had some of Xander’s diamonds.”

“What about the necklace?”

She frowns. “What about it?”

“You really don’t have it?” Her frown deepens and I quickly add, “That guy who’s tracking you around town? He’s assuming you do. You realize that, right?”

I don’t say what I’m really thinking, that any man who wouldkill Xander for the diamonds in his safe wouldn’t hesitate to do the same to Rayna. It’s why she’s still alive right now, why baseball cap man hasn’t slipped a zip tie around her neck and pulled it tight just yet, because he’s hoping she’ll lead him to the diamonds.

“But I don’t. Somebody’s already searched my apartment for it. The necklace is not there. I don’t have it.”

She doesn’t blink as she says it, doesn’t look away, doesn’t shift in her chair, doesn’t squirm or fidget at all. The truth, then. Rayna doesn’t have the necklace. This is not the greatest news for either of us.

That necklace I’ve been seeing all over the news. I want those diamonds too.

“You should probably find another place to stay,” I say, but I don’t offer up my guest room because what would I say? How would I explain it to Thomas, to Martina? I don’t need either one of them analyzing my invitation, why I’ve chosen to bring the woman the press has positioned as Xander’s killer into our home. It would summon up too many questions.

Rayna frowns. “The detective told me to stay put. He’s ordered extra patrols, and he says my street has more cameras than any other in Amsterdam.” She studies my face, and the lines in her forehead deepen. “You don’t agree?”

I shake my head. “If I were you, I’d disappear for a while. Just until things settle.”

She falls back in her chair, her expression crumpling. “I wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to disappear in this country. I don’t speak the language. I’m still learning how things work. And I’d need a thick wad of cash—cash that I don’t have—to even try.”

“The last one I can help you with. All we need is an ATM.”

“Willow. I can’t ask you to do that. I have no idea how I’d pay you back, or when. It would take meyears. Though I’d probably feel better if I could get my hands on a gun.”

“I can help you with that, too.”

We fall silent then, the gravity of the conversation hitting us both in a warm, boozy rush. Rayna would feel better with a gun. She’s an innocent bystander in all this, and now she wants a weapon, a deadly kind of protection. I think of Xander’s killer tracking Rayna around town, of Willem saying that Arthur’s men woulddeal with hersomehow, and she definitely needs a gun.

“Let me ask you this,” she says. “What does your husband think happened? Who does he think killed Xander?”

“Who the hell knows? Thomas doesn’t talk to me. We’re not exactly on the same page these days. I’m pretty sure he’s having an affair.”

Once again, the words fling themselves off my tongue before I can stop them. The wine and the warmth and Rayna watching me with that scrunched brow—it’s doing something to me, and it’s not like I have anyone else to say it to. The friends I’ve made here know me as a Prins, and they all have some kind of tie to Thomas—husbands who’ve known him since college days, the female halves of couples we see socially. Rayna has never met Thomas or his family, and it feels good, telling someone. Telling her.

“I don’t have proof,” I say, “not yet at least, but a woman knows these things.”

“Do we, though? Because I sure didn’t.”

“Well, I do, and I’ll tell you something else.” My cell buzzes against the table, but I ignore it. “If there’s another woman in his life, if he wants to be with her, then he needs to just come out and say it. Stop sneaking around. Stop lying about where he is and who he’s with. Who he loves. Because I’m not the kind of person who can just... close my eyes to it. I’m not the kind of wife who can keep acting like nothing is wrong, like I haven’t noticed that he’s checked out. Spiritually, emotionally, mentally. That his love has just... drained away.”

I say these things and I feel it all over again, the anger I felt when I spotted him coming out of the Conservatorium Hotel, the restless sense of urgency his betrayal has injected into my chest, my blood, my bones. I am married to a man who still comes home every night, still sleeps inches away from me in bed, still eats meals across the table and reads books beside me on the couch, still smiles and laughs and kisses me, but only when his mother is watching.

“Jesus, Willow, I’m so sorry.” She backtracks with a shake of her head. “I always hated when people said that to me when my marriage imploded.I’m sorryimplied that they pitied me, and Lord knows I was pitiful, but I didn’t want their pity. Pity just pissed me off even more than I already was. But I say it now to you because what you’re describing—I’ve been there and it’s awful.”

“You want to know the worst part? I kinda get it. I’m a totally different person than when we first met. I’m living in a country that is not my own, trying to express myself in a language that ties my tongue and makes it easier for me to say nothing at all. My four-year-old son has a better vocabulary than I do. Do you know how much smarter I am in English? How much funnier? Thomas has no idea. His family has no idea. They think I’m an idiot and a bore, and why wouldn’t they? Of course my husband fell out of love with me. I wouldn’t love me anymore, either.”

She gives me a closed-lipped smile, commiseration mixed with comfort. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

“Which part?”

“All of it. There’s a reason your husband chose you.”

“You’re right. There is. Because I got pregnant. Ours was a classic shotgun wedding, not that Thomas ever gave any indication he wasn’t thrilled by the news. He’s a better person than that. But before he chose me, likereallychose me, he chose Sem.”

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