Free The Vesuvius Isotope (The Katrina Stone Novels) by Kristen Elise Ph.D. Page B

hung up the phone and then stared at its screen for a moment, wondering if John knew something I did not about my husband. If so, doctor-patient confidentiality would prevent him from sharing it.
    Speaking to John reminded me once again that I had told no one I was leaving San Diego. John’s was not the last concerned phone call I would receive following the sudden disappearance of both Jeff and me. So I began preempting the calls.
     

    “Oh, that’s wonderful !” The perpetually cheerful tone of Jeff’s mother was a welcome respite. She glowed across the miles as if travel was a rare treat for us.
    “Well, Kat, you two have a fabulous time in the Bahamas! Give my son my love. And bring back tons of pictures, OK? I want to see all of them!”
    “I will, Mom,” I promised, choking on tears. “See you soon.”
     

    My own mother has Alzheimer’s. Her live-in nurse assured me that all was under control and that she would call me if necessary but that it would not be necessary. I found myself marveling that my mother was so much easier to handle than Jeff’s. If only we could all forget the past.
     

    Our respective laboratories and offices were also easy to deal with. I diverted both with brief e-mails sent from our iPhones, offering no explanation as to our whereabouts other than “out of the office.”
     

    Then I stared for a moment at the speed dial functions programmed into my phone. I had called all of them except for two.
    The first number, of course, would reach the other phone in my purse. I avoided the temptation to dial it just to hear his voice.
    I also avoided the phone number of my older sister. Because calling Kathy would mean having to tell the truth.
     

    The cacophonous chatter of my small collection of loved ones was reverberating maddeningly through my head. I clawed at my hair and scalp for a moment as if to physically contain the uproar.
    What happened to him?
    As I struggled to connect the disparate pieces of information I had before me, a notion struck. I reached into my purse and withdrew Jeff’s phone once again. I clicked into his Internet browser.
    It was all right there.
    Jeff had our bank accounts bookmarked. The more I rummaged through them, the more I understood of my husband’s final actions. In recent weeks, he had sold stocks collected since he was eighteen years old. He had withdrawn enormous sums of money from our long-term investments as well as our liquid accounts. He had obliterated our retirement funds. Jeff had not wiped out our finances entirely, but he had plundered them for millions of dollars.
    Who is Alyssa Iacovani? And what has she done to him?
    Please, God, please, let me find the truth about my husband, and let me find a truth that preserves all that I cherish of him.

 
     
     
    See Naples and die
     
    -Anonymous

Chapter Seven
    A soft breeze gently rocked the boats in the Bay of Naples, and the golden rays of sun converging upon their decks began to dance. The image was all too familiar. And then something dawned as if for the first time.
    He is gone. Really. Forever.
    Having just stood up from the small bistro table, I sat down again, heavily. I buried my face in my hands and began to cry. Once I began, I sobbed unabashedly. I could not see. I could not breathe. And I could not stop crying.
    When my sobs finally faded to sniffles, I could barely remember where I was. My head was throbbing, and I could feel the puffiness of my face. In a daze, I looked around. The check had been in front of me. I was sure of it. But now the bill was gone, and I did not remember paying it.
    I wiped my face on my napkin. There was a tall glass of water in front of me that I also did not remember. I closed my eyes and took a long deep drink. When I opened them again, there was a young man sitting across from me.
    “Are you feeling better now, signora ?” he asked in a thick Italian accent.
    “Ah, yes—um, thank you.”
    “Do you need some help? I could call you a