Page 37 of Circle of Strangers
... It pains me that we can’t be together right now.
... When do you think we can meet up?
... Call me on your lunch break today.
I don’t have a chance to write down the phone number before the shower shuts off. Darkening his screen, I return his phone back to its spot on the nightstand and walk away before I do something I can never undo.
25
“Oscar?” His name slips out before I realize it, my voice cutting through the still night air as I pad across our driveway and cut through the side yard that leads to the Morenos’.
He’s sitting on the top step, a whiskey glass dangling loosely from his hand, shoulders hunched like the weight of the world is pressing down on him. His hair is a mess, and his eyes are bloodshot, the kind of exhaustion you can’t sleep off.
He looks up slowly, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s too drunk to recognize me. But then his lips curve into a sad, familiar shape—something between a smile and a grimace.
“Camille,” he slurs my name.
The smell of whiskey drifts toward me, mixing with his unfocused gaze.
“She’s been gone fordays.” His voice cracks slightly, dragging my attention back to him. “This isn’t normal.”
I sit down on the step beside him, the cool concrete pressing against my legs. “Did you contact the police yet?”
He nods slowly, his eyes fixed on some point far down the street.
It’s been two days since I found those texts between Will and “M.” Yesterday I managed to get the phone number when he wasn’t looking, only it was a Google number. Not linked to anyone. Virtually untraceable unless you’re law enforcement. While it would be easy to throw Will under the bus right now, until I know exactly what’s goingon and what I intend to do about it, I’m keeping this information to myself. The last thing I want is to get implicated in something I’ve got nothing to do with.
“Yeah. Filed a report this morning. They asked the usual questions.” He swirls the whiskey in his glass.
“What about your security cameras?” I point toward the one mounted by the garage.
A bitter laugh escapes his thin lips.
“Battery was dead in the driveway camera. Just my luck, right?” He takes another drink, the melting ice clinking softly against the glass. “They said they’d check with the neighbors, see if anyone else caught anything. Have they asked you guys?”
“Not yet.”
I watch him carefully. I’m not convinced this is an act anymore. Gone is the ominous, threatening Oscar I met in the coffee shop last week. The man before me looks defeated, downtrodden, weak.
“You think something happened to her?” I keep my tone gentle. “Or do you think she left on her own?”
Oscar’s breath hitches as he rubs his hands over his face, his wedding band catching on his stubble.
“I hope she left on her own because if something happened to her ...” He drags in a shaky breath. “I don’t know what I’d do.”
I study him, his slumped posture, the way he grips his glass like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
Lucinda was a fine actor. Any problem she presented, any emotion she displayed, felt undeniably authentic to those who didn’t know the woman who lurked behind her many masks. I don’t know Oscar well enough to categorize him as another Lucinda, but until Mara is found, I’d be stupid to rule anything out.
“Mara seems intensely loyal to you,” I say, careful to keep my tone neutral. “And very forgiving. If she left on her own accord, I’m sure she’ll come back.”
Oscar lets out a derisive snort I can’t interpret.
He drains the rest of his whiskey and shakes his head.
I lean back slightly, pressing my arms around my knees. “It’s not my place, but ... what’s your relationship really like? I heard Mara’s version, but it seems to be a little different from your perspective. I’m trying to understand the dynamic.”
Oscar shoots me a sideways glance, suspicion flickering in his eyes. “What are you, some kind of marriage counselor? What are your qualifications, exactly?”
