Page 58 of The Awful Truth

SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER

It had taken one glance, one tiny moment that could’ve just as easily not happened if one or the other of them hadn’t looked at that exact second. One locking of eyes through a storefront window, and Winslow was madly in love. He was on a vacation in Barcelona, and had been standing inside a Louis Vuitton, trying to decide if he wanted a charcoal leather messenger bag, when he noticed a young man with a deep bronze tan and thick, black hair peering into the shop’s window. It was a cool, cloudy day and Winslow had ducked inside the shop when it started to drizzle. He didn’t need a messenger bag. He didn’t need anything, but he had just broken up with Vlad, a man who he thought was the love of his life, so his solo trip to Spain was meant as a little pick-me-up. He had intended to escape the dreary English weather and spend every day at the beach, getting drunk on sangria while he worked on his tan. But like so many things in life, it didn’t turn out the way he had hoped, the gray skies following him like an orphaned baby duck.

Miguel was wearing a white T-shirt and jeans, his hair and shoulders wet from the rain. Winslow’s face heated up when he noticed that the young man was smiling at him, and at first, he thought perhaps he was looking at someone else. Surely that grin must be reserved for some hot young store clerk he hooked up with the night before. Winslow quickly glanced over his shoulder to see who this gorgeous specimen was actually looking at, only to discover it was, in fact, him.

He swallowed hard, then held up the bag with a question on his face. The young man shook his head, then pulled open the door and marched inside, his light brown Prada driving shoes squeaking on the marble floor. “That’s too boxy for your frame. And no one can tell it’s even from Louis Vuitton.” Lifting a bag with the designer’s signature monogrammed canvas, his accent slid more toward Cuban than American as he said, “This says you finally made it.”

“And who says I want to look like I finally made it?” Winslow asked. He was playing it cool, or more accurately, doing his best to act like someone who knew how to play it cool, even though his heart was pounding like he’d just done three lines of coke. Not that he did coke anymore. Coke was for Ivy League college kids. Not for someone who was getting to the age when his doctor would soon ask him to turn his head and cough.

“Everyone wants to look like they made it,” Miguel answered. He gave Winslow an appraising once-over, then said, “But you haven’t just arrived, have you? You’ve been here your entire life.”

“Here in Spain?”

“No, here,” he said, gesturing around the store.

Winslow put the bag down, no longer in need of retail therapy. “I rarely shop.”

“But you’ve always had the means to do so.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad one in your books?” Winslow asked.

Miguel’s lips curved upward on both sides, allowing the most attractive dimples to pop out as if gifting Winslow with one of nature’s greatest treasures. “It depends on if you’re one of those old money men who hoards it or if you’re the type to show a guy a good time.”

“Is that your way of getting me to ask you out?”

“Would it work?”

“Not if you were anyone else.”

“There’s a braseria a few blocks from here where they dry age the beef for sixty days. I heard it’s amazing.”

“Well then,” Winslow said, a voice in the back of his mind already saying, Vlad who? “We should go find out if the rumors are true.”

THE DAY AFTER THE INCIDENT

“If a man truly loves you, you’ll know. If he doesn’t, you’ll be confused.” ~ Unknown

1:56 P.M

PETRA

The Director was walking faster than normal which made his limp more noticeable. It was from an old injury he sustained while chasing a suspect through a mechanic’s shop. The suspect picked up a wrench and flung it back at him like it was a Frisbee. It broke his kneecap and tore some of the ligaments. “But don’t worry, Petra, I got the guy,” he said every time he told the story (which was at least once a year, and how did he not remember he’d already told her several times? Or maybe he did know, but he just didn’t care since he loved that story and she was being paid to listen). He had gotten the guy by having his partner wait for him at his house while The Director (who was not a director in those days, but a lowly constable), was laid up in the hospital awaiting surgery. The patella had healed nicely but the ligaments would never be the same. And now, when he tried to walk quickly or, God forbid, had to run, he did so with a limp.

He was coming back from wherever he had gone. Petra knew it must have something to do with the mysterious yacht death— that’s what she was calling it for the moment. She’d spent the better part of the last hour trying to think of the perfect name for this season of Luka’s podcast (because that’s what a helpful podcaster’s wife would do), but so far that was the best she’d come up with. She wondered if The Director had gone to meet with the chief of staff in the prime minister’s office. He had that same sweaty look he got whenever he had to go over there.

He stopped at her desk. “I need you to book me a room in Mali Losinj for tonight. Use my name but not my rank. And don’t tell them I’m there for work. I don’t want to make a big deal about this.”

She paused for a second, all sorts of questions flooding her brain that she dared not ask. “How many nights should I book you for?”

“Better make it three, but check that they can accommodate me if I need to stay longer. I don’t want to have to change hotels while I’m there. I’ll be very busy.”

“Of course. Would you prefer a hotel room or an apartment?”

“I don’t care so long as they have a hot tub. My knee is acting up.”

He turned and went into his office, this time leaving the door open. Petra quickly did a Google search for accommodation with hot tubs, then a brilliant idea hit her. She pulled out her new phone and texted Luka. The Director wants me to book him a room in Mali Losinj. I was thinking I could book him into the same place as you, so you can ‘accidentally meet him.’ Where are you staying?

Her heart pounded as she saw the three dots appear on the screen to show he was already typing back. She glanced around to make sure no one was watching.