She had a gold bracelet on one wrist, and she was walking fast.
Her eyes were locked on Dillon like a hawk’s on a field mouse.
“Natalia,” Dillon said.
It was barely a word.
“Natalia, baby, what are you doing here?”
“I was on the crew bus,” she said.
“I’m the spa manager.”
“You told me I was the first person you’d ever told about her.”
She jerked her chin toward me.
“You said she left you.”
“You said you’d been alone since the spring.”
“I never said—”
“You did.”
“You said it in Santorini, on the balcony, with a glass of wine, and you cried.”
She held up her wrist.
The bracelet was a heavy gold band with tiny screw heads set around it, a Cartier Love, bright as a wedding ring.
She turned it so the light slid across the inside.
“D and N,” she read.
