Searching for Sylvie Lee (37 page)

I reach out my arms and he goes into them. We hold each other for a long moment. I breathe in his smell of cigarette smoke and Earl Grey tea. I mutter into his shirt, “I just want to make it clear that you were never my type.”

He breaks into a surprised chuckle. As we separate, we both have tears in our eyes. The air between us feels lighter now, as if a great weight has fallen away.

There is a thickness in my throat as I ask, “Did you ever tell him? I mean, you’re Dutch, for goodness’ sake. You live in Amsterdam.”

He rolls his shoulders and blows out a series of short exhales, as if to regain control. “Everyone except Lukas knows. I made it very clear to him once. We were the last ones in the locker room in high school and we’d just gotten out of the showers. He looked so beautiful, with the water crusted on his eyelashes, I just—” Filip breaks off and sighs. He works his jaw. “I made it perfectly obvious how I felt about him and he was horrified.”

I lay my hand on the silky fabric of his tuxedo. “I’m so sorry. He was young.”

He places a hand over mine and gives it a warm squeeze. “I know. We weave our own webs. Then they trap us. After that, I tried hard to convince him, myself, and my family that I was not gay, that the incident had been a joke. I married a wonderful woman. But it never works when you deny who you truly are. You know what she said to me when we got divorced? She said, ‘Lukas is your French Revolution. Once you loved him, everything in your life fell into a before and after. Nothing would ever be the same.’”

Filip looks me directly in the eyes. I shiver under the weight of his stare. He leans in close and whispers to me, “Lukas was my French Revolution and Sylvie was his.”

Text Message

AMY:
I just spoke to Filip and a lot of things are clearer now. Okay, I’m sorry, I have a stupid question. Is Lukas your boyfriend?

ESTELLE:
Oh, honey. Absolutely not.

AMY:
But you always kiss him on the lips. You hold each other.

ESTELLE:
I am physical with many people. Mothers kiss their children that way here. It does not mean anything. I am not the one for Lukas.

AMY:
Sylvie.

ESTELLE:
Yes.

It’s late when I get home, and Helena and Willem have already gone to bed. I have bitten all of my nails to the quick. My mind has been churning the entire trip over everything I’ve learned from Filip and Estelle. Could Lukas possibly have something to do with Sylvie’s death? Jealousy? I think about his wild eyes, his enormous hands. Was that why he didn’t want anyone to find the body? If there were any marks on her, we’d never know since the police refused to do an autopsy. Or was it something with him and Jim? But Jim has no real motive. I remember all the talk about the gold. Helena suspected Sylvie of faking the burglary. What if Lukas had deliberately cast the suspicion on her so when she disappeared, Helena would assume she had taken it? Could he possibly be such a good actor? But I can’t believe Lukas would have hurt my sister. If what Estelle and Filip said is true, then Lukas has been lying to me and everyone else about his relationship with Sylvie—but confronting him directly will only alert him to my suspicions.

I tiptoe into the unlit house and know what I have to do. I’ll search Lukas’s apartment while he’s gone. I wedge the door open with my foot so the outdoor light illuminates the key rack that hangs in the entryway. One key is labeled
LUKAS
. Probably so his parents can look after Couscous and his apartment when he’s traveling. Easy.

I take a deep breath. My fingers are numb with fear but I have to do it now while I have the chance. I take the key and gently pull the front door closed behind me. Half of the moon hovers suspended in the hollow sky, the other half obliterated by darkness. The sharp white stones paving the front lawn glint in the moonlight like bones. I take a step toward the converted garage but freeze as I catch sight of Lukas’s scooter parked in the driveway. The lights flick on inside. He’s back.

I stomp my foot on the hard earth, but a part of me is relieved as well. I rake my fingers through my hair and turn around, defeated for now. I whisper into the night air, “If only you could tell me what happened to you, Sylvie.”

Chapter 27

Sylvie

Friday, April 29

M
y grief and disappointment overwhelmed my system. I was listless with despair. The sharp edge had been dulled. I felt as if I were carrying a great weight on my back that dragged me toward the earth. Now that Grandma was gone, I had no excuse to stay any longer—unless Lukas asked me to, and I was not going to hang around waiting for him. He had not given me any indication that he felt the same way now that he had in Venice. I thought of that night over and over, but it was, in the end, nothing but a kiss. Who would want me now? I was a broken woman saddled with the prospect of a messy divorce.

When evening fell, I packed my things, took my cello, and went to Lukas’s apartment to tell him I was leaving the next morning. He could return the cello with its case to Filip for me. I rang the doorbell. No one answered. His bicycle and scooter were parked in the driveway. He was probably working and could not hear me.

I used my key to let myself inside and set my cello beside his front door.

“Lukas?” I called out.

I heard a faint noise from the back of the studio, where he had his darkroom. I walked toward the double-hinged doorway and knocked on the door. This time, he said something indecipherable from inside. I cracked open both doors and waited behind the dark curtain.

“Who is there?” he asked.

“Me. The lights are off. You do not need to worry.”

His voice grew warm and intimate. “Come in. Let me show you what I am doing here.”

In the glow of the overhead red light, I could just make out his tall figure. He stood beside one of the large washbasins. The scent of chemicals tickled my nostrils. He was hanging a photo to dry on a line. The darkroom was covered with pictures. I squinted to see but as I recognized them, let out a shaky breath. Perhaps I had not been as delusional as I had thought.

I stepped up behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist. “These are all of me. That one is my weak eye.”

His voice was husky. “I love your eye.”

It was a tight shot of my right eye, probably taken during our time in Venice: the almond shape, the long fine lashes, the iris lit up by the sun and ever so slightly tilting outward toward a landscape no one else could see.

Why had I waited so long? I leaned my cheek against his back, so broad and strong. I felt him strip off the thick rubber gloves and rinse his hands. He turned around and I was in his arms again, where I had always wanted to be without ever knowing it.

I leaned my forehead against his chest and took a deep breath. I had to say it. “My flight is tomorrow. I just finished packing.”

He stiffened and gripped me by the shoulders so hard it hurt. “What? No. Sylvie, what about us?”

I shook my head, my hair brushing against his hands. “Lukas, you do not know everything about me.”

He growled, low and urgent, “I know enough. When you came back and I saw you again at the airport, I felt like I had been struck. Every piece of my life fell into place in that moment.”

My voice was so small, it almost squeaked. “Why did you not come to me that last night in Venice?”

He sighed and pulled me close to him again. His large hand stroked my hair. “I was afraid you were not ready. You were newly separated from your husband. You were seeing him everywhere. And then we returned and Grandma—it did not seem the right time. I suppose I still was not sure you wanted me instead of Filip.”

My legs were weak and I felt the tears behind my eyelids. “You have to understand. I ruin everything.”

“Not true.” He rested his cheek against the top of my head.

I put my heart on my tongue, wise or not. I laid my trembling hand against the side of his neck. I had to give him the chance to say no to the real me. “I always try so hard and yet, it all goes wrong. No one really likes me. Not after they know me, anyway. One colleague took me out to lunch just so she could let slip that everyone thought I was sleeping my way to the top. When you are a woman, people always assume success comes from your bedroom and not your boardroom skills.” Despite myself, my voice cracked. “Before then, I had thought I was getting along well with people at work. I believed I had friends.” How I wanted that to be true. “After that, I learned to keep my distance.”

Lukas drew back to look at me. His eyes were tender.

“Then my marriage went down the drain.”

He caressed the side of my face with his callused palm. “Did you really think any of this would matter to me?”

Despite myself, I sniffed and sagged against him as I struggled to find the right words. “My own parents did not want me, Lukas. I never fit in anywhere. The only people who ever truly cared about me were Grandma and Amy. Now Grandma is gone and Amy is grown. She no longer needs me. Amy got the love and I got the success, but I do not have anything anymore.”

He bent down, his lips a breath away from my own, and said in a hoarse whisper, “You have me.”

Chapter 28

Amy

Monday, May 16

M
a and Pa are scheduled to arrive this afternoon. I pretend to have a migraine from all the stress to avoid picking them up from the airport. It’s not far from the truth. In the bathroom mirror, I see that my eyes are sunken into their sockets, the skin around them red and abraded from my constant rubbing. My lips look as if a layer of white wax has melted over them, now flaking off. Lukas will accompany Helena and Willem. This is my chance to look through his apartment without anyone around.

As soon as the car leaves the driveway, I race over to his apartment with the spare key in my hand. I decide to start my search upstairs. I am surprised by how neat it is for such a shaggy, unshaven person. I head for the desk, which supports a massive monitor attached to a laptop. I hesitate before opening the first drawer. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I’ve broken into my cousin’s apartment and suspect him of having something to do with Sylvie’s death, maybe even of murdering her. I am ridiculous.

Frantic with energy, I search his desk anyway—cables, an old cell phone, flash drives. Papers that look like invoices he’s sent to people, with his name in big black letters in the letterhead. Everything’s in Dutch. One drawer’s filled with receipts filed in different folders. If I were a real detective, I would figure out something clever from this. He still has a thick paper agenda. I flip through it but can’t read a word. Then I open the laptop and try a couple of passwords: Sylvie’s name and birthday. But they don’t work.

Why did I ever think I could accomplish anything by coming here? Ma and Pa will arrive soon and then we’ll leave for New York and we’ll never know how Sylvie wound up at the bottom of the Amsterdam-Rhine Canal. I choke back a sob and press my hand against my chest. How can this be real?
Pull it together, Amy. They’ll be back soon
. I tackle the agenda again, this time going through it page by page, checking the days when Sylvie was here.

There, wedged deep into the inner crack of the book, is an irregular slip of yellow notebook paper. It looks like it’s been torn from a larger piece. I pull it out gently with my fingernails and gasp.

It’s Sylvie’s angular, clear handwriting. It’s just her signature, as if this is the end of a note she wrote, but instead of
Lee
she’s signed her name as
Sylvie Tan
. Lukas’s last name.

So it’s true. It had been Lukas and Sylvie all along. She must have really been in love with him to pretend his last name was hers. She hadn’t even taken Jim’s surname after they wed. Perhaps this was a tiny bit of proof. No wonder he’d looked so distraught. I tuck the slip of paper into my jacket pocket and go through the other papers more carefully. I don’t find anything, so I return to the computer.

I’m startled by a soft scuffle and then a meow from downstairs. Could it be? I type in
Couscous
. The laptop unlocks. I immediately go into his email, but again, everything seems to be written in Dutch. I don’t know what I’m expecting. That he wrote a confession in English and sent it to someone? In the
Sent
folder, I see what must be dozens of emails to Sylvie. None of them have a reply. I pick a few and send them to myself. I can try a translation program on them later. I’m afraid he’ll be back at any moment so I quickly go through the rest of his laptop. The Dutch documents are equally mysterious and, with a sigh, I click the computer closed.

I scan the room. A cello is propped up against the corner, next to its black-and-blue case. A sharp pain shoots into my heart—had that been Sylvie’s? I spot an enormous messenger-style bag next to the broken coffee table. The edge of what looks like a portfolio peeks from underneath its gaping flap.