According to his profile, Sal Iberra was an artist, located in Monterey. His last location had been San Jose, so he hadn’t gone all that far. At least he hadn’t skipped the state. Which made her wonder why.

She found her answer in one of the screenshots that Daisy had made of Iglesias’s old Instagram account. The photo showed a woman in profile, hands cupping her pregnant stomach. The photo was captioned, My beautiful wife, Felicidad. It was originally uploaded six years ago.

“Yes,” Liza whispered aloud. Sergio Iglesias had a good reason for staying close by.

Liza knew she had to tell someone what she’d found, but she didn’t want the man to feel like he needed to run again. He had a family. Sending him running again seemed cruel.

She’d contact him first. If he had no relevant information, she’d let it go. If he could tell them who had gotten the Eden tattoo, she’d pass that information on to Tom.

On finding the tattoo parlor’s website, she was pleased to see that they had an online appointment tool. “Sal Ibarra” had openings the next afternoon. According to Google, Monterey was about a three-hour drive from Sacramento. She requested a three o’clock session.

She could leave after giving Abigail the reading lesson she’d promised and be back before dinnertime. Hopefully with information.

And maybe a new tattoo. She had an idea now of what she’d like.

She cleaned up her dinner dishes, then took her laptop and a spiral notebook up to her bedroom. Pulling on her pj’s, she stared at the place on the bed where Tom had so carefully perched that afternoon.

It hadn’t been the first time he’d come to her room. He’d brought her chocolate once when she’d had cramps so bad that she couldn’t get out of bed. Another time he’d brought her some of Irina’s chicken soup when she’d had a cold. And more than once he’d come crashing through her door when he’d heard her scream while having a nightmare.

The nightmare. The one where all of her friends bled out while she fruitlessly tried to save them. She’d woken those nights to find herself in Tom’s strong arms, his murmurs in her ear. He’d asked her to talk to him about the nightmares, but she hadn’t wanted to and he hadn’t pushed. At the time she’d been relieved.

Now she wished he’d pushed. She could have told him about Fritz. About how she’d married him. About how she hadn’t loved him like she should have. How Fritz had been a substitute.

At the time she’d worried that it might make Tom think less of her, that maybe he wouldn’t want her. Now she wanted him to know. It was wrong for her to keep Fritz a secret. He’d deserved so much more than that.

She crawled under the blankets, able to hear Tom working. His home office was adjacent to her bedroom. Muted strains of Pavarotti made her smile sadly. Pavarotti was his “thinking music.” She’d mentioned once that she could hear it and he’d immediately offered to turn his music down. She’d told him that was ridiculous, that the music soothed her.