Soulmates (3 page)

“You've got to be kidding me,” I said. “How can you know anything about Ethan's life without seeing where he worked and ate and slept?”

“Well, ma'am, we can't get someone in there, at least not someone who is employed by Sagebrush County. But that doesn't mean a regular citizen couldn't stay there as a guest.”

I thought I detected a little wink in the sheriff's deadpan. “Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?”

“I'm not suggesting anything,” Lewis said, sans wink. “I'm just bringing you up to date on the current status of our investigation.”

“I see.”

“My number is 575-555-7849. If you find yourself here in Sagebrush County, or if you think of anything that might be pertinent to our investigation, please give me a ring.”

I was so surprised by the sheriff's suggesting I should stay at the retreat that all I could do was say “Okay.”

I looked down at my phone. I couldn't actually go out to the place where Ethan died, could I? I pictured the ample hair on his arms falling out and scattering in the desert wind, his body disintegrating and melding with the sand. My eyes blurred with tears and I doubled over. I cast the phone aside
and sprawled out on the floor, crying so hard I thought I might throw up.

I stayed on the floor for a long time, even after I stopped crying. I turned on my side and propped my head on my hand, then started tracing the lines between the wooden floorboards. The physical occupation calmed my mind. Did I still love Ethan, present tense, like I'd told Sheriff Lewis? Even after all those bitter years, all those hours logged in therapy? Hadn't that affection been talked out of me?

Maybe it didn't matter. I moved my hand from the floorboards to the moldings, tracing the old-fashioned detail with my pointer finger, flicking off dust that my cleaning lady must have missed. I never would have missed that dust were I cleaning myself.
Ethan's gone now,
I thought,
so whether I love him, or I loved him, is irrelevant
.

I tried to focus on what did matter. Part of what made me a good litigator was my ability to zero in on the details that would help build a case, and the companion ability to discard the information that didn't help me. What mattered was that Ethan, even in death, was possibly being accused of a crime there's no way he committed. I knew it in my soul.

So what did I care? I cleaned the last mite of dust off the moldings and sat up. I looked around the apartment, which had seemed spacious when I left it in the morning but now felt like it was suffocating me with its familiarity. Despite everything that had happened between Ethan and me, I could not allow him to go to his grave labeled a murderer. That's not who
he was. I wasn't someone who would have married someone capable of that. I needed to go to New Mexico.

I jumped up to my computer to make arrangements. According to the Zuni Retreat's website, the easiest way to get there was to fly into Albuquerque, rent a car, and drive. The sound of a babbling brook auto-played on the site, which was light blue and white and had perfectly lit photos of the serene, treeless grounds and the spare but luxurious rooms.

Those six-hundred-thread-count sheets didn't come cheap. If I wanted my own room, it would cost $400 a night. If I was willing to share a room with a total stranger, it was $225. If I was willing to sleep in a bunk bed in a big open room, European hostel style, it was $100 a night, but the website was clear that it “cannot guarantee a bottom bunk.”

I opted for the room share. I didn't want to blow several thousand dollars going to some godforsaken corner of the desert filled with people who described themselves as “spiritual, but not religious.” I figured I could handle one stranger for a few nights—I did it for a whole year in college. And it occurred to me that I would get a better sense of Ethan's life by mixing with the other people there as much as possible.

I booked three nights there, then the flights and the car. I looked at the clock—by this time it was about nine
P
.
M
. I called Matt Lewis. “This is Dana Morrison . . . Powell. I've booked a stay at Zuni. I'll be in Sagebrush County by tomorrow evening,” I told his machine, leaving my cell phone number.

I called Phil to tell him I had a family emergency and would be out for the rest of the week. He picked up on the first ring
and wasn't thrilled. “Dana,” he said, “we're in the middle of this case and I really need all hands on deck.”

I wasn't going to tell him what was going on, at first, because I didn't think it was any of his business. But after that insensitive dig I decided I just didn't care what he thought. “Phil, my estranged husband was murdered. I'm taking the rest of the week. If you have a problem with that, you can bite me.”

With that, I turned my phone off, took an Ambien, and got into bed. As I drifted into the brief, trippy nether region before an Ambien-laced pass-out, I saw Ethan's face smiling serenely at me. Usually I would dismiss this as a drug-addled hallucination, but that night I took it as a sign that I was doing the right thing.

I woke up with a start and squinted at the clock, which read 6:07. That's when I woke up for work, and it took me a minute to remember that I wasn't going to work, that Ethan was dead, and that I needed to pack and get a cab to LaGuardia. I checked the weather for Sagebrush County's only town, Ranchero. It would be in the eighties during the day and the fifties at night.

I rifled through my wardrobe to find some appropriate clothes. I wanted to fit in at the Zuni Retreat. I searched for leggings and colorful tank tops, anything that resembled what those yoga girls had been wearing in their Instagram pictures from Zuni. I found a long wrap sweater that Beth bought me for Christmas a few years ago that had been languishing in the back of my closet.

That reminded me that I should probably tell Beth where I was going.

“Dana, are you okay?” Beth said before I could even say hello.

“I'm fine,” I said tersely. I didn't want her sympathy right now; I felt like it would slow me down, make me sad instead of determined. “I'm calling because I'm going to New Mexico today so that I can talk to the police about Ethan in person.” I didn't tell her my ulterior motive. Beth would lose it completely if I told her that I was going to creep around the retreat where Ethan had lived. Visiting his final home was about fifteen levels up from just Googling him obsessively.

“Why the fuck would you schlep all the way out there? Don't they have Skype?” Beth could sniff out the obsessiveness in this trip, of course, even with my trying to hide it.

“They think Ethan killed Amaya,” I explained. “And I know that's not possible. That's not Ethan. I think it will be more convincing if I go out there in person and tell the police everything I know about who Ethan really was.”

“So you're going to tell them that he's a coward who left you as soon as things got a little difficult?” Beth asked. She was always so tough on me.

“I knew you'd be like this,” I said, trying to keep myself from yelling. Fighting with Beth always made me regress to our childhood dynamics of screams, tears, and threats. “I wasn't going to tell you I was going because I didn't want to hear this shit. But I didn't want you to worry.”

Beth sighed and said nothing for a few beats. Then she said much more gently, “I get it, you're grieving.” She paused again, then said, “And I guess I don't think Ethan could kill someone, either. But I just don't think this is the right thing for you to be doing in this moment.”

“I understand where you're coming from,” I said, trying to be conciliatory. “But it's something I need to do. I'm doing it for Ethan, but I'm also doing it for me. I want to know more about his last days. For closure.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I know that arguing with you isn't going to work, so I'm saying okay because I don't want to fight with you. But I want to go on record saying that I think this is a bad idea. I thought you were finally getting over Ethan, and now you're going to plunge back into all that old news. Are you sure you're doing this for closure, or is it because you don't want to think of yourself as someone who could have loved a killer?”

“Tell me how you really feel, Beth,” I said, stung.

“I won't say it again. But I wanted to put it out there. Have a safe trip; call me if you need me.”

“I will,” I replied, and I even half meant it.

The Zuni Retreat was a little more than three hours' drive from the Albuquerque airport. Everything in the landscape looked bright and white and new. The desert sky was clear in a way it rarely is in New York or Minnesota, and the sandy hills reflected the sun so it was constantly blinding me. I kept adjusting and readjusting my visor in the rental car to keep the glare out, but it was mostly futile.

I was in a daze anyway. I kept turning Beth's words over while I drove, to the point where I imagined the proper, female British voice that came out of my GPS telling me, “This is a bad idea.” But I snuffed down my doubts. I wasn't coming out
here to obsess about Ethan. I was coming here to do my duty as a citizen and to help with an open murder case. There was nothing wrong with my wanting to make sure the Sagebrush County Sheriff's Office got a clear picture of the man Ethan was. There was something noble about it.

At least that's what I was telling myself as I saw the sign:
ZUNI RETREAT
:
ALL SPIRITUAL TRAVELERS WELCOME
. I made the turnoff. The road to the retreat was well-paved and wound through a small valley. I could see the dusty brown hills rising on either side as I drove along.

As I followed the road up to the retreat, I saw five young women walking in a line, all wearing lululemon. Their perky butts encased in black Lycra reminded me of the rich housewives I'd see leaving SoulCycle on my way to work, with their huge diamond rings glinting in the early-morning light. Some of the young women here in New Mexico had their arms linked, deep in conversation. Others were just smiling gently at the horizon, where the late-afternoon sun was still beaming on the hilltops. I couldn't tell if they looked relaxed or lobotomized. Their identical demeanors made me anxious about fitting in, an ungainly ten-year-old on her first day of sleep-away camp. Did I have the wrong clothes? The wrong hair?

I parked in a lot near the main lodge, which was surrounded by three outer buildings, all of them done in a tasteful mission revival style: all courtyards and gentle arches. From the website I knew that one of the buildings was for guest rooms, one was for classes, and one was for dining.

As soon as I stepped out of my car, I nearly collided with a man. He was so close to me I could smell him. He had the
clean musk of someone who had recently showered but didn't wear deodorant. I hadn't seen him walk over. It was almost like he'd been spawned by the asphalt, and this silent approach startled me. I registered his gender only because right before I bumped into him, I noticed his hairy toes sticking out of leather thong sandals. Even in the empty space here, I was momentarily claustrophobic.

“Whoopsie-daisy,” he said. “Gotta watch out for you!” Then he laughed a pleasant chuckle with his mouth open wide. I could see that his teeth were blindingly white, like a reality TV starlet's veneers. Maybe they looked so bright because the rest of him was so tan. He had an unusual, attractive face, with hazel eyes that were slightly saffron-colored and thick, dark lashes. I wondered if he was part Indian, because his features suggested a perfect mixture of Eastern and Western forebears. His light-purple robe complimented his corporeal color scheme.

I stuck my hand out to introduce myself, but he had already started to bow toward me. “I'm Janus,” he said. “I'm on staff here. Welcome to your first stay at the Zuni Retreat.” He radiated a contented warmth.

“I'm Dana,” I said. “How did you know it was my first stay?”

“I try to keep up with all of our students. Unless I am devoted to our children, I won't be able to help them progress. And besides, you're the only one checking in today.” He grinned at me. “Let me help you to the Ganesha desk. We call our reception area the Ganesha desk because Ganesha is the Hindu god of beginnings.”

I nodded. The lingo sounded ridiculous to me (“
our children
”?), and the theological references seemed to be a polytheistic
muddle. But at least the retreat seemed to be offering a lot of personal attention for the expense. While it wasn't what I was really looking for, I imagined that personal touch was what the other guests were paying for, and what made them come back. “I'm just going to take my bag out of the trunk,” I told him.

Before I could move, Janus waved his hand. “It's my pleasure to help you. Allow me.” I watched him hoist my bag from the trunk in a swift, fluid motion, his defined arms flexing ever so slightly with what seemed to be minimal effort. “Let's go!” he said, cheerfully. “I can't wait to help you begin this journey.” He carried my bag into the lodge and put it on a trolley near the entrance before bowing again. “Namaste, Dana. Have a blissful experience.”

“Namaste,” I said, bowing. The word felt strange in my mouth, but I guessed I'd have to get used to it.

When I turned toward the reception (“Ganesha”) desk, I was startled. At first I thought it was Amaya standing there. The clerk had the same shade of dirty-blond hair and supple skin. But as I got closer I saw that her nose and mouth were completely different, though there was something similar around the eyes. I couldn't tell if it was an actual likeness or just a shared expression.

“Namaste,” said not-Amaya, whose name tag read
BAIKA
. She put her hands in prayer pose and bowed gently to me. “Do you have a reservation?”

“Yes. Dana Morrison.” On the plane to New Mexico, I had decided I wouldn't tell anyone that I was Ethan's wife. There was nothing I hated more than fake pity from random people. My name didn't connect me to him anymore, and I assumed he
hadn't exactly crowed about the fact that he left me to be with Amaya years ago.