EPILOGUE
THE SUN IS now high in the sky and the cold waves roll across her feet as she relishes the salty air and solitude for an all-too-brief moment, though she reminds herself that soon, it will be just her again. Wyatt is back at the table with Fernando and Mercedes, a couple they’ve been spending a lot of time with lately. They’re young and beautiful and extremely rich, like everyone else in Ibiza. Nadia didn’t think that could ever get boring, but she’s now craving something more rustic. Not a farm—she will never be ready for another farm—but a place with more green and gray than blue and gold. A place where every third car isn’t a Lamborghini. Scotland, maybe.
“Everything all right?” She doesn’t flinch even a little at the sound of his voice. He doesn’t scare her, even after what she discovered a week ago. She doesn’t believe Wyatt would ever hurt her, despite what she’s now all but certain he did to Phoebe.
“I’m fine,” she says. “Just wanted a little air.”
“Dessert’s on its way.”
“Thanks. I’ll be back up soon.”
He kisses her shoulder before returning to their table. Fernando and Mercedes are having an influence on him. They’re affectionate in a way that should be obnoxious, but they somehow make it cute, and Mercedes just announced her first pregnancy over dinner, which put immediate stars in Wyatt’s eyes. It’s why Nadia had to step away.
She glances about a quarter mile up this beach to study a house that has fascinated her since their arrival in Ibiza. It’s the concrete fortress of a dubious merchant who is likely a drug cartel member. The security is far beyond any she’s attempted to skirt before. Electric fencing, cameras everywhere. And that’s before you get to the human and canine guards. But she wonders, if she did make her way inside, what little trinket she would take. What dark secrets she might find. It isn’t the first time she’s had these thoughts about a house since setting out to see the world, but the more she detaches herself mentally from Wyatt’s orbit, the more regularly those thoughts visit. So does the quiet but persistent voice reminding her that the curious little thief inside her never went away, and she won’t be satisfied much longer in this narrow box Nadia has stuffed her into. She knows herself well enough to believe this would be true even if she were still ignorant about Wyatt’s deeds. Her heart quickens as she imagines the collection of stuff she might amass on a solo backpacking adventure across Europe.
Don’t let that feeling go again. The more you ignore it, the more numb you’ll get.
After spending last week making tentative plans, though still feeling indecisive, their friends’ pregnancy announcement—or more accurately, Wyatt’s reaction to it—helped seal the deal. She pulls out her phone and loads her travel app. Five minutes later, she’s booked a flight to Edinburgh leaving tomorrow morning. A single ticket, one way. The next thing she does is a bit more complicated in its reasoning, but equally as compelling as sneaking off to Scotland in the wee hours.
She opens a message draft she typed out a few days ago, mostly just to see how it would make her feel. The words made her a little woozy then, and they do now too, but there’s something else under that. A heart-pounding rush she used to get before she broke into a haze, or when she decided to strike out for Lake Forest to meet her sister. Pure anticipation.
Callahan Farms in Monticello, IN. You’ll find a blue car nearby. Also check the livestock pits. To that she adds Phoebe’s final email to Wyatt, the location of the knife (she’d returned it to the block on the kitchen island), and one more very important detail: a certain picture she’d told Wyatt she’d deleted, but hadn’t quite. She erased it from her phone, yes, but not from the email she’d backed it up to. Because as Wyatt so accurately said, nothing is safe in the digital age, especially with people like her around. He might have done the same, but it doesn’t really matter now.
When she’s satisfied with the message, she adds the recipient: Detective Bob Kelly. The farm is out of his jurisdiction, but she’s sure he can make something happen. Her thumb hovering briefly over “send,” she reminds herself that if she does this, she’s doing the equivalent of lighting a match to the life she once tumbled into a pile of dead pigs to claim.
And can she really do this to Wyatt? They had each other’s back, and it was starting to seem like there was something real between them. Then she remembers Vicki, and the way he pushed every button and pulled every lever to bring her to the brink. Jake too, for that matter. They both paid a price. Wyatt should too.
She sends the message. Her heart doesn’t quicken even a little, as if she’d finally found peace at the precipice. Perhaps she’ll also have to answer for her sins one day, but they’ll have to work harder to catch her first.
If Nadia has learned anything about herself in the last year, it’s that she’s pretty good at replacing old lives with new ones. Her sister’s was fun while it lasted, but it’s time to give it back—minus a few dollars and souvenirs, of course. She’s been siphoning off a little cash here and there for a rainy-day fund. It’s currently stashed in a pair of boots in her closet. There should be enough time to add to that between now and when she fully slips into her next to-be-determined identity. Maybe she’ll make a quick trip into town for a few groceries and a sizeable withdrawal.
She returns to the table, where Fernando has begun singing a Spanish serenade to the new mother-to-be. A tray of coffee and cookies sits in the middle of the table. Nadia has seen and admired this service set many times before. The little sugar spoon in particular is her favorite, with the beautiful jade inlay in the handle. She reaches for the dish and uses the spoon to add some sugar to her coffee.
Wyatt notices this and gives her a funny look. “You’re taking sugar now?”
She shrugs. “Figured I’d try something different.” When he turns back to watch Fernando’s performance, and she’s sure no one else will notice, Nadia slips the spoon into her pocket.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For as solitary a profession as writing is believed to be, it’s impossible for one person to do all the work it takes to deliver a book to the hands of you wonderful readers. And you are the ones I would like to thank first, because without you, this book that so many incredible people helped midwife into the world would have nowhere to go.
I must thank my husband, Ken, who believed in me from the moment I told him way back in 2008 that I was ready to start writing stories again. Since then, he has given me the space, patience, and understanding it takes to live with someone whose mind is often consumed with the fictional lives of others. My kids, Nat and Elias, deserve many of those same props as well. Thank you for heroically dealing with your absentminded mom.
I would also like to thank the amazing staff at the Washington Township Starbucks, who eventually came to know me by name, thanks to the nice workspace and delicious espressos they provided when I was churning away on the revisions for this book. They had no idea what I was working on, but now they do.
Speaking of patience, my agent, Stephanie Rostan, deserves all the gold stars and more for bearing with me through the multiple drafts it took just to get this book ready for submission. She saw the diamond buried deep within a rough draft no one would recognize as the book you just read, and by some miracle, we managed to unearth that sucker so others could see it. And a shoutout must go to her lovely colleague Sarah Bedingfield, who came in with countless crucial assists and manuscript comments that made the diamond sparkle all the more. I can’t be more grateful for all the people at Levine Greenberg Rostan for making this whirlwind of a book sale feel completely manageable and streamlined. That includes Beth Fisher for all her work on the foreign rights side and Jasmine Lake at UTA on the screen rights.
But I can’t possibly talk about patience and diamonds without mentioning my jewel of a friend and my main beta reader for this project, April Gooding. She read every single draft (save for the final ones, because I wanted to keep some surprises
for her) with an enthusiasm that kept me going through my most discouraged points, and a sharp eye that kept me on my toes. My support team also includes Tiffany Kelly (and her husband, Bill, an ex-cop who provided the namesake for a certain detective in this story!), who kept me smiling and looking ahead during the long road of revisions and publication. And I cannot forget the tireless love and support from my parents, John and Lisa McWilliam. They taught me more than a little something about the importance of a good work ethic, and they always gave me room and encouragement to let my dark imagination unfurl itself.
I would like to thank Aja Pollock for her gimlet eye with the copyediting, and for reminding me how much I’ve forgotten about grammar since my school years. Thanks also must go to the incredible art department responsible for their stunning work on the jacket. Thank you also to the wonderful marketing teams at Putnam in the US and Sphere in the UK.
And finally, I must talk about the loveliest editorial dream team an author could ever hope for: Margo Lipschultz at Putnam and Viola Hayden at Sphere. From my very first phone conversation with each of them, I knew they were the ones who would be able to rocket The Other Mrs. Miller to the next level, and the way everything came together meant I had the immense privilege of working with them in tandem on this book. Watching these ladies enhance each other’s strengths, bounce ideas back and forth, and become friends during the process has been more rewarding than I can say. I hope a day comes when I can be with both of them in the same room, though I’m not sure the world is ready for that much concentrated awesome in one place.
If you had a blast reading this book, these people deserve so much of the credit. If you didn’t, or you found other errors, please send the blame my way. The people tasked with making me look good enough for the public are still human beings, and they were given a tough job. I cannot express enough how hard they worked, and how their belief in me inspired me to push myself to places as a writer I never thought I could go. I will never forget this experience.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Allison Dickson is the author of several independently published horror and dystopian novels. She has also written nearly two dozen short stories, both independently and as part of anthologies. Dickson lives in Dayton, Ohio, and when not writing, she is typically gaming, blogging, or exploring.
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The Other Mrs. Miller Page 29