P RAISE FOR S AMANTHA M.

B AILEY

A Friend in the Dark

“Suspenseful, twisty, and addictive. A Friend in the Dark is smartly written
and deliciously chilling. I couldn’t put it down. This is Bailey at her best! I
paused an episode of Below Deck: Down Under to finish this book. That’s
how invested I was.”
—Jeneva Rose, New York Times bestselling author of The Perfect Marriage

“Wow! Chilling, riveting . . . and page-turningly edgy. The oh-so-talented

Samantha M. Bailey has created a twisted (and steamy!) world of power,
passion, and vulnerability. This seductive thriller with its deep
understanding of psychological trauma and the heavy secrets of the past is
brave, original, and haunting. Fans of Gillian Flynn and Lisa Unger will
cheer this must-read author.”
—Hank Phillippi Ryan, USA Today bestselling author of The House Guest

“Samantha M. Bailey never disappoints! A Friend in the Dark is one of the

most intriguing and surprising books I’ve read in a while. You think you
know where it’s headed . . . but you don’t. This thriller shocked me to the
very end.”
—Samantha Downing, internationally bestselling author of My Lovely Wife

“With A Friend in the Dark, Samantha M. Bailey has crafted what’s

destined to be one of the most binge-worthy, buzzed about thrillers of the
year. Wholly propulsive with twist after mind-blowing twist, richly layered
characters, and an intricate plot, Bailey is at the top of her game and
delivers not only a spine-tingling thriller but also a potent examination of
the complexity of female desire and the terrifying, dark side of online
relationships. A Friend in the Dark will have you glued from its first page
to its explosive conclusion. An absolute masterpiece from the master of
suspense!”
—May Cobb, award-winning author of A Likeable Woman and The Hunting
Wives
“A tautly written story of twists, deception, and long-simmering desire, A
Friend in the Dark is a thriller that consumed me from start to end.
Samantha M. Bailey is a master of surprise endings and complex
antagonists, and each chapter of this story flew by. Do not miss this one!”
—Elle Marr, Amazon Charts bestselling author of The Family Bones

“A sexy treat of a thriller loaded with twists and hairpin turns! Fans of
Colleen Hoover should love A Friend in the Dark. It will keep you guessing
and up way too late.”
—Daniel Kalla, bestselling author of Fit to Die

“When you sit down with a Samantha M. Bailey novel, you expect to be
nailed to your seat for the duration. A Friend in the Dark does that and so
much more: this electrifying, layered, and psychologically acute thriller
examines female desire, marriage, and motherhood while sweeping you off
on a twisty ride all the way to its visceral, explosive finale. Bailey expertly
crafts dark history and human foibles into an addictive narrative cocktail.
Welcome to your next book hangover.”
—Damyanti Biswas, bestselling author of the Blue Mumbai series

“A Friend in the Dark, by Samantha M. Bailey, is a knockout punch of a

thriller. This wild ride starts with a marriage in freefall, then twists through
a series of escalating and creepy turns before careening to a stunning
conclusion. I read this one in a day and so will you.”
—Darby Kane, internationally bestselling author of Pretty Little Wife and
The Engagement Party

“Several lives burdened with tangled histories of desire, fear, cruelty,

revenge, and murder are on a collision course until they intersect brilliantly
in Samantha M. Bailey’s A Friend in the Dark. Eden Miller finds herself
suddenly without her husband, at war with her daughter, at a crossroads she
never anticipated when, vulnerable and eager for attention, a long-ago
flame reenters her life, igniting a forgotten passion. This is a sexy, dark, and
twisty tale from a master of the genre. Highly recommended!”
—Jon Lindstrom, author of Hollywood Hustle, and four-time Emmy-
nominated actor and award-winning filmmaker
“Clever, sexy, and compulsively readable, A Friend in the Dark is a pulse-
pounding thriller with one jaw-dropping twist after another. Samantha M.
Bailey has created a compelling cast of characters, a dark and layered
mystery, and an insightful look at marriage, motherhood, and female
identity.”
—Robyn Harding, bestselling author of The Drowning Woman

“Savage secrets and desires collide in Samantha M. Bailey’s A Friend in the

Dark. Bailey is a master of misdirection, spinning twists and building
tension until there’s nothing to do but race to the knockout finish. A Friend
in the Dark is a fierce, gutsy thriller, and Bailey is unstoppable.”
—Tessa Wegert, author of The Kind to Kill

“Samantha M. Bailey’s A Friend in the Dark simmers with palpable desire

and twists that’ll have readers gasping. Just when you think you know the
direction of her story, you get knocked sideways with twist after jaw-
dropping twist. This is a must-read for any thriller lover!”
—Heather Levy, Anthony-nominated author of Walking Through Needles

“Sexy, fast-paced, and deliciously twisty, A Friend in the Dark is Samantha

M. Bailey at her suspenseful best. An unpredictable thrill ride that packs an
emotional wallop, readers will be hard pressed to stop turning pages until
they reach the spine-tingling conclusion. A compelling, addictive must-
read.”
—Laurie Elizabeth Flynn, bestselling author of The Girls Are All So Nice
Here

“This sexy, heart-pounding thriller is everything a reader craves. Brilliant

plotting and misdirection and mind games will have you flipping pages at
warp speed. With twists and turns galore throughout, this is a one-sit read
that will leave you shocked. A compelling look at fantasy versus reality, A
Friend in the Dark is sure to stand out as a fan favorite of 2024.”
—Jaime Lynn Hendricks, bestselling author of I Didn’t Do It

Watch Out for Her

“Yet again, one of our most beloved thriller writers brings us a story with
the heart of a family drama and the pulse of an edge-of-your-seat spine
chiller. Filled with foreboding from the very first page, this one will keep
you up all night—and have you checking the locks!”
—Marissa Stapley, New York Times bestselling author of Reese’s Book
Club Pick Lucky

“Shows that Bailey is no one-book wonder. It’s as tightly plotted and

skillfully written as her first, with a great backstory to carry it off . . . Bailey
builds the suspense here with excellent pacing and clues that drop at exactly
the right times. This is a great book to take on that summer holiday or the
cottage weekend when all you have to do is chill, eat, and read.”
—The Globe and Mail

“Bailey is a strong writer who keeps the reader turning pages . . . A

cautionary tale about the fine line between diligence and obsession and the
dangers of doing the wrong things for what we believe are the right
reasons.”
—Toronto Star

“A cleverly written, twisty, and brilliantly creepy thriller. With compelling

characters intertwined with obsession, lies, simmering menace, and secrets
at its heart, this is a page-turner that drew me in and kept me hooked. A real
must-read!”
—Karen Hamilton, internationally bestselling author of The Perfect
Girlfriend

“A tense and claustrophobic thriller in which Bailey makes you question

whether the heart of a family is a place of safety or danger. Paranoia,
obsession, and secrets ensure a twisty read.”
—Gilly Macmillan, New York Times bestselling author of What She Knew

“Creepy, surprising, and relentlessly tense, Watch Out for Her is so much
more than a thriller; it’s an unflinching exploration of the roles we allow
women to fill. With dark secrets and cliff-hangers galore, this thrill ride will
keep you up long past your bedtime. I couldn’t put it down.”
 —Andrea Bartz, New York Times bestselling author of Reese’s Book Club
Pick We Were Never Here

“A hair-raising, suspenseful page-turner [that] will have one watching their

back wherever they go, but what really gets to the novel’s heart is the
unexpected and chilling ending . . . The narrative is so well written and
joined together it flows effortlessly.”
—The New York Journal of Books

“Samantha M. Bailey’s latest thriller is as propulsive as her sizzling debut.

Two troubled women enter into a complex relationship that could shatter
not only their lives but also the lives of everyone they touch. A page-turner
in the most literal sense of the word—I could not put this book down until
the final shocking twist.”
—Robyn Harding, bestselling author of The Perfect Family

“An irresistible story about what happens when we take our obsessions too
far. Propulsive, electrifying, and sinister, I could not tear myself away from
the narrators, two women each hiding dark secrets from their families.
Bailey’s assured prose delivers as enthralling a tale as her stellar debut.”
—Stephanie Wrobel, bestselling author of This Might Hurt and Darling
Rose Gold

“Addictive and relentlessly twisty . . . Nobody else writes a propulsive,

family-centered mystery quite like this: Bailey is queen of the domestic
thriller for a reason. Watch Out for Her masterfully deals with the shifting
power of obsession and the secrets we keep from our loved ones . . . and
ourselves.”
—Laurie Elizabeth Flynn, bestselling author of The Girls Are All So Nice
Here

“A compulsive and chilling exploration of trust, obsession, and voyeurism,

Samantha M. Bailey knocks it out of the park with this intricately plotted
domestic thriller. With dark secrets and surprising twists, this one’s sure to
be a new favorite!”
—Christina McDonald, USA Today bestselling author of Do No Harm
“Wow! Relentlessly tense and incredibly twisty—Watch Out for Her proves
the amazing Samantha M. Bailey is the queen of family suspense. With
authentic emotion and complex and heartbreaking relationships, Bailey
shows her brilliance in revealing the destructive power of love and the
intensity of the need to belong. I flew through the cinematic pages, riveted
and completely immersed in this propulsive and original thriller. Everyone
will be talking about this—do not miss it!”
—Hank Phillippi Ryan, USA Today bestselling author of Her Perfect Life

“An addictive read from start to finish, Samantha M. Bailey’s talent and
skill are on full display in this well-crafted domestic thriller. Watch Out for
Her will have you second-guessing everyone you meet and rooting for
characters you don’t trust—and there is nothing more fun than that.
Absolutely riveting.”
—Jennifer Hillier, bestselling author of Little Secrets and the award-
winning Jar of Hearts

“This insanely addictive, utterly propulsive, and unbelievably tense thriller

will consume you. With intoxicating, scalpel-sharp prose and gasp-worthy
twists, Bailey has crafted a fresh and deeply unsettling take on obsession
and voyeurism. Reading Watch Out for Her is like pulling a pin from a hand
grenade and waiting for it to detonate. This is destined to become the most
talked-about, explosive thriller of the year.”
—May Cobb, author of The Hunting Wives

“A deep dive into a world of secrets, where no one is who you think they
are and everyone has something to hide. Bailey’s deft hand at ratcheting
tension makes this an exquisite read. It will suck you in, and you’ll love
every moment of it!”
—Amina Akhtar, author of Kismet and #FashionVictim

Woman on the Edge

“A debut that’s tough to resist.”
—Toronto Star
“A remarkable thriller.”
—Morning Live

“One woman’s struggles with motherhood and another’s desperate desire to

be a mother collide in this explosive debut. Woman on the Edge is a white-
knuckle read that welcomes a bright new talent to the world of
psychological suspense.”
—Mary Kubica, New York Times bestselling author of The Good Girl

“This is the page-turner you’ve been looking for! Bailey’s writing is

gripping and emotionally resonant at once, and her debut novel, perfect for
fans of Lisa Jewell and Kimberly Belle, will keep you on the edge of your
seat until the final sentence.”
—Marissa Stapley, New York Times bestselling author of Reese’s Book
Club Pick Lucky

“A fast-paced, twisty roller-coaster ride in which a desperate widow, a guilt-

ridden new mother, and the secrets of the past collide—with a baby’s life
hanging in the balance . . . I couldn’t race to the end quickly enough! An
exciting, binge-worthy debut.”
—Kristin Harmel, bestselling author of The Winemaker’s Wife and The
Room on Rue Amélie

“Begins with a bang and takes the reader on a tense, emotional journey of
love, betrayal, and loss and straight into the heart of a mother willing to do
anything to protect her child. Infused with riveting, hold-your-breath
suspense, this masterful debut needs to be your next binge read. A knockout
page-turner.”
—Heather Gudenkauf, New York Times bestselling author of The Weight of
Silence and Before She Was Found

“Exhilarating and evocative . . . Woman on the Edge had me gripped. This

book effortlessly ticks all the boxes: wonderful world-building, realistic
characters, and a gripping plot that made me keep flipping the pages. It’s
about obsession and madness, motherhood and trauma. This is a debut
you’ll want to slip straight to the top of your to-read pile!”
 —Christina McDonald, USA Today bestselling author of The Night Olivia
Fell

“With the narrative acceleration of a runaway train, Woman on the Edge

kept me at the edge of my seat for its entire zigzagging ride; I had to remind
myself to breathe. Bailey’s confident prose and dark satire enrich the
ingenious plot, and her authentic characters—whether damaged, yearning,
or downright diabolical—make this compulsory reading for fans of
suspense. An exceptional debut!”
—Sonja Yoerg, Washington Post bestselling author of True Places

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OceanofPDF.com
OTHER TITLES BY SAMANTHA M.
BAILEY
Woman on the Edge
Watch Out for Her

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OceanofPDF.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places,
events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or
are used fictitiously. Otherwise, any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2024 by Samantha M. Bailey

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system,

or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written
permission of the publisher.

Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

www.apub.com

Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of
Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

ISBN-13: 9781662513541 (paperback)

ISBN-13: 9781662513558 (digital)

Cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa

Cover image: © Jupiterimages / Getty Images

OceanofPDF.com
 For my Beach Babes—Josie Brown, Eileen Goudge,
Francine LaSala, Meredith Schorr, Jen Tucker, Julie
Valerie—through all the ups, downs, and in-betweens, it’s
always us.

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 CONTENTS

START READING
PROLOGUE
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
PART TWO
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
PART THREE
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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 Every time I hear your name
Floodgates open, blood it rains
I can see where I went wrong
But you can’t leave while I’m not strong

“Run & Hide” by the Watchmen Lyrics by Joey Serlin

OceanofPDF.com
 PROLOGUE

The back of my head slams against the wall with a ferocious crack. The
pain is excruciating, but I can’t give into it. My attacker’s hands move
from my shoulders down to the strings of my damp hoodie, twisting
them around my neck until I’m choking.
My phone in my hand drops to the wooden floor. Blinding sheets of
black slide across my vision until everything, even the lights flickering
in the creepy chandelier hanging from the ceiling in the entryway, goes
dark. I’m about to pass out.
I want to kick, to punch, to scream, but I know that no one who can
save me will hear me. No one even knows where I am.
I bite my tongue until I taste blood. I need to stay conscious,
because if I close my eyes, my life will end right here. Bitter, salty tears
roll down my cheeks and into my mouth. They might be the last thing I
ever taste.
And it’s all my fault.
The pressure on my throat eases. I sink into a heap by the front
door, but there’s no way I can escape.
My eyes won’t stay open any longer.
I’ve made a deadly mistake.

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PART ONE
EDEN

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 CHAPTER ONE

I’m sick of being the good girl.

But I don’t know who I’m supposed to be. I’m no longer a wife,
since Dave asked me for a divorce six weeks ago in the parking lot at the
University of Michigan, our alma mater, mere minutes after we’d said
goodbye to Ava for the start of her freshman year. And with no child to
care for at home anymore, I don’t feel like much of a mother.
I’m in agony, and I can’t tell if it’s from heartburn or heartache.
Instead of making a wish, eating red-velvet cheesecake, and opening
meaningful gifts, I’m alone and drunk on my forty-fifth birthday in my
pitch-dark living room, with only an empty bottle of prosecco and my
phone for company.
The sparkling wine was a gift from Jenna and Natalie, my closest
girlfriends since we met at U-M in sophomore year. I’d burst into tears
in the middle of an introductory psychology class because I’d received a
C on our midterm. They’d taken me outside and hugged me until I
stopped crying. The three of us couldn’t have been more different: Jenna,
loud and unfiltered; Natalie, self-assured and protective; and sensible,
agreeable me, who never wanted to disappoint anyone, especially my
parents, both professors, who I knew would be furious that I’d almost
flunked an exam.
Even though my parents passed away two years ago, I still don’t
want to disappoint them. My broken family is the first thing I’ve ever
actually failed at, and a hug from Jenna and Natalie can’t make it better.
They tried to drag me out tonight to celebrate, but I don’t want them
to see me like this—a miserable, pathetic mess of a woman who should
be in the prime of her life.
I don’t deserve to feel this bad. I’m not the one who tore our family
to shreds. I didn’t see the end of us coming at all.
 “I’m not who you need me to be, Eden. I’m so sorry. You deserve
better,” Dave whispered raggedly in that parking lot as we stood between
our cars, which only a few hours earlier we’d packed up with Ava’s
things, following his carefully designed guide of what should go where.
Dave’s been the most efficient packer since we moved from Ann Arbor
to Grosse Pointe twenty-three years ago.
The bedding and all Ava’s clothes were stuffed in my blue Camry.
In Dave’s gray Range Rover went Ava’s guitar, books, and posters, and
of course, our daughter drove with her father. Even an hour alone with
her mother was apparently too much for Ava. Twenty years of marriage
was clearly enough for Dave, who, like his daughter, seems to think I
have standards that are too high for everyone to meet.
I was blindsided. The man in front of me was a stranger and not the
person who’d been my rock and best friend for almost a quarter of a
century. The only certainty I’d had in life was Dave.
“Is this about your dad?” I ventured, desperately hoping, once
again, that Dave would let down the wall he’d constructed around
himself since March, when his father, Chuck, died suddenly of a massive
stroke while playing squash at our local private club.
I expected him to finally break down in my waiting arms, but like it
had every time I’d tried getting through to him since Chuck’s death,
Dave’s face shuttered, locking me out of his private turmoil. “It’s about
me.”
And without another word or a chance for me to respond, Dave
opened the door of his car and slid inside. I saw his shoulders shake as
he drove away, and I knew he must have been keeping it all in until Ava
was safely in her new home. It took a good half hour before I could drive
to our silent house; I felt ill from the shock and rejection. I still do.
I had assumed Dave and I would be together forever, like we’d
promised. Divorce was never an option for me. For Dave, it seems to be
the only option. And I don’t understand what I did wrong or how the
man who once blushed and stammered every time he spoke to me could
give me up without a fight.
I rub my breastbone, where the gnawing ache of grief never goes
away, and shiver at the haunting shadows in the living room from the
gnarled branches of the sugar maple tree outside the window. Every
creak and moan of this big house is so loud when I’m alone.
 My phone pings with a new Facebook notification. It’s almost
midnight, so I’ve given up on a message or call from Dave, who appears
to have forgotten it’s my birthday. All I got from Ava was a quick HBD
text a few hours ago, which took me a moment to figure out means
“happy birthday.” Apparently, I don’t matter enough for a full sentence.
My head throbs from more alcohol than I’ve consumed since my
early twenties, and my middle-aged eyes burn from reading my screen
with no light. Reaching over, I flick on the silver floor lamp and look at
the notification. It’s a new post on my page from Natalie, who’s tagged
me in a photo.

You look exactly the same as in college! Love you!

I laugh sadly at the picture of me and Jenna sitting on the Diag with
a crowd of people. It’s from senior homecoming. Jenna does look
exactly the same, with her long, thick, pin-straight strawberry blonde
hair streaming over her shoulders, but she no longer wears crop tops or
has a diamond pierced into her navel. I don’t look the same at all.
I’m in yoga pants and a long-sleeved black shirt that I’m sure she
and Natalie told me to wear; I knew nothing about fashion then and am
only marginally more stylish now. And though my fine blonde hair
doesn’t hang limply anymore, thanks to layers, this Eden is prettier than
I ever felt I was. She was also flush with the radiant glow of youth and
hope that’s disappeared with age and responsibility. This naive Eden had
no idea that close to the end of that year she’d meet Dave Miller, a nerdy
law student in wire-rimmed glasses who awkwardly flirted with her by
telling terrible jokes. Two decades later he would smash her life into
pieces.
I don’t want to think about Dave right now. He’s cut me out of his
life as though he’s simply snipped us in half, while I feel like he’s
stabbed me in the heart with the scissors.
I like the post and bring the screen closer, hit by a wave of nostalgia
as I carefully examine the photo. I remember this day so well. It changed
senior year for me. My whole life, actually.
Natalie’s behind the camera, as she always was back then. She
snapped me and Jenna sitting on the grass with a crowd of students, right
in front of the stage set up at the far end of the Diag, where the
Screaming Demons, the hottest band on campus at the time, were
playing. Natalie had captured Jenna’s wicked laugh as she caught me
staring hungrily at the shirtless drummer who was clashing the cymbals
so hard that sweat dripped down his tattooed biceps.
When Natalie sat down to join us, Jenna said to her, “Our Eden has
a thing for bad boy drummers like Justin Ward. I had no idea.”
Neither did I. But the moment I laid eyes on Justin, I was a goner.
Not even Jenna’s warning that he was a player who’d hit on her in a bar
a few weeks earlier could deter me.
I had no clue Justin was in my contemporary English literature
course, which topped out at two hundred people, until a week after the
concert. As I was heading out of class, I overheard our professor
suggesting Justin get a tutor to help him write essays or he might fail the
course.
Usually shy, I offered right then and there. And for the rest of senior
year, Justin was the object of my every inexperienced sexual and
romantic fantasy. I wasn’t allowed to date in high school, and I’d only
kissed two boys in college. But for an hour twice a week in a secluded
carrel at Shapiro Library, I sat beside Justin Ward, aching to trace the
colorful ink on his sinewy forearms while he chewed on a pen, wrestling
with getting his thoughts onto paper. I struggled with how to flirt, never
having done it before in my life. But I was hopeful that he liked me, too,
when after our final tutoring session together, he invited me to a
graduation party at a frat house. It was the last time we ever spoke.
All these years later, I can still vividly recall awkwardly standing by
myself in the hallway of the Sigma Chi house, my ankles chafing in my
new cherry red Doc Martens—which Jenna had made me buy when she
realized I was going to the party whether she liked it or not. The
aggressive beat of Rage Against the Machine shook the floors while I
searched for Justin among the crowd of already-wasted students. Self-
conscious, I debated leaving, when through the smoky haze, he strode
toward me. It was like something out of a movie. He handed me a red
Solo cup filled with a foul-smelling alcohol and playfully tugged a
strand of my hair. I was so out of my element that I downed half that cup
in one nervous gulp. Almost instantly, I felt like I’d lost total control of
myself, overcome by the alcohol, the music, the crowd, and most
importantly, Justin.
 I didn’t care that we were in full view of everyone. All I cared about
was the overwhelming desire and excitement coursing through me. After
nearly a year of sitting next to him, imagining what his lips would feel
like against mine, his skin under my fingers, I couldn’t wait any longer. I
crushed my mouth against his, ran my hands over his chest, arms—any
part of him that I could reach. The only reason I didn’t lose my virginity
to him right there against the wall is because as he slid his hand under
my denim skirt and his fingers pushed aside my underwear, I felt a burn
in my throat and the undeniable churn in my stomach.
I ran from him, straight upstairs to a bathroom. That was the end of
us before we began. It was Dave who found me passed out in the
hallway and took me home.
Justin was the first man I ever loved, the first person to destroy my
heart, though I’m not sure he ever knew that. Until the day I saw him on
that stage at homecoming, my focus had been school. I’d been raised to
believe that achievements took precedence over emotions. I didn’t know
how to handle my all-consuming love for Justin—or my unbearable pain
when he ghosted me after that frat party.
Of course I’ve checked him out online over the last twenty-three
years, but I always stopped myself from reaching out. There was no
point in dredging up the past. He’d made his decision to let me go when
he didn’t respond to a single call after that night. A couple of months
later, I moved on with Dave, who loved me more than anyone had and
made it clear that I was the only woman for him. Now he doesn’t want
me either.
I’m sure Jenna and Natalie would be shocked that I’m even
contemplating reaching out to Justin considering how much I’d cried
after the party. If they were here, they’d take my phone away from me,
just like they begged me to stop leaving him messages and held me back
from showing up at the house he shared with his band. They sat me
down with a bowl of mint-chocolate-chip ice cream—our cure-all then—
and gently explained that if Justin were interested, he’d find me. He
never did.
Sighing, I curl into the corner of the beige linen couch, where until
six months ago, Dave would lean against the arm, my head in his lap, as
we read whatever books we’d chosen for each other that month. Books
were our initial connection—we’d met when he’d come into the off-
campus store, the Book Nook, where I worked in college. After Chuck’s
funeral, the cozy spot on the couch became cold and uncomfortable as
Dave and I sat on opposite ends, silently watching reruns of The Office,
neither of us feeling like reading much anymore.
I type Justin’s name into the Facebook search bar. His page pops up,
and I immediately navigate to his photos.
“Jesus,” I say out loud, sitting up straighter. The first picture is of
Justin in a fitted gray Henley and jeans that hang low on his hips,
standing on a construction site, the same mischievous glint in his
mesmerizing green eyes, and the thick, messy, dark hair I once ran my
fingers through. He still makes me feel like a thousand butterflies are
flapping their wings in my stomach.
I’ve barely been touched in months, so it’s no wonder this photo of
Justin sets my whole body on fire. Dave has spent the last half year
rebuffing my every advance, claiming stress and fatigue. I saw the
circles under his eyes and the almost manic energy he poured into taking
on more pro bono cases at the corporate law firm he’s helmed for fifteen
years and hosting barbecues and brunches for his staff of ten while I
made sure the food was perfect, the bar was fully stocked, and Ava was
as charming as possible, when she was actually around. Dave seemed to
be doing everything he could not to be alone with me.
No matter what I did, everyone got his attention but me. Eventually
I gave up trying because feeling unwanted is worse than no intimacy at
all.
I’m lonely. It’s not Dave who I miss, necessarily, because it’s hard
to miss someone who’s been emotionally absent for months. But I do
long for the comfort and security of my family all together in this house,
which has been unbearably quiet without Ava slamming her bedroom
door and Dave trudging heavily upstairs.
What do I have to lose by sending a friend request? I hover over the
Add Friend button, close my eyes, and press it.
Not even three seconds later, I have a new notification.

Justin Ward accepted your friend request.

Oh my God. My heart crashes against my chest and my hands

shake. “Get it together, Eden,” I say aloud, because I can.
 It’s just a casual connection on social media. We’re both adults now,
presumably more mature, who both happen to be awake at midnight on a
Friday. I wonder if Justin’s still a musician; if he still stays up all hours
performing or jamming with friends. If he just got home, saw my
request, and simply clicked Accept.
I should go to bed like the responsible adult I am. Usually I’m
asleep by 10:00 p.m. at the latest, even on weekends. I’ve got an open
house tomorrow morning, and I cannot be hung over. Sylvie Greenwood,
the elegant, whip-smart owner of Greenwood Realty, where I’ve been a
Realtor for three years, is in her midsixties and wants to bring me in as a
partner. I can only do that if I have the cash to invest—and if I show up
on time and sober. But I don’t move from the couch. I want to send
Justin a message. I have so much to ask him.
I never got the closure I wanted. Maybe the way forward is by
going backward. Or I’m a glutton for punishment. Either way, I can’t
stop myself. I rap my knuckles against my palm, running ten different
sentences through my head. Finally, I type:

Eden: Long time! I can hold my alcohol better now.

This is obviously a lie, because after I press the blue arrow, I burp. I
don’t know how to playfully banter. That’s more Ava’s domain. I
immediately want to undo the lame message. I toss the phone onto the
couch and put my head in my hands. I’m such an idiot. He might not
even remember me.
Ping.
I snatch up my phone.

Justin: Eden Hoffman. This is a blast from the past!

My heart rate speeds up. I’m already sweating. What should I say? I
keep it simple.

Eden: My friend, Natalie, posted a shot of your band on my

wall, so you came to mind. How have you been all these
years?
 Justin: That’s a lot of years to catch up on. Up and down, like
everyone, I guess. It’s great to hear from you.

Eden: Do you still play the drums?

Justin: Sadly, no. Shoulder injury. A toolbox fell on me at a

site a few years ago. I miss playing. It’s like I lost a part of
myself.

I’m sad for him. Oh, how many shows I went to in seedy dive bars
once I started tutoring him just to watch his band play. Only seeing him
an hour twice a week wasn’t enough for me. I’d beg Jenna and Natalie to
come, then make them lurk in the shadows with me at the very back
tables so Justin wouldn’t spot me salivating over him.

Eden: You were a fantastic musician. I’m sorry. I always

wanted a passion like that.

Justin: Do you like working in real estate?

My pulse spikes. He clearly checked me out too. But I blow out a

breath to calm down. I don’t want to seem like I’m still the insecure girl
who was obsessed with him, even though I feel like her right now.

Eden: I do. I love it. But I’ve never had a talent or hobby that
drives me like music did for you.

I had taken on so many roles in high school: volunteer at the local

homeless shelter, president of the social justice committee, reporter for
the school newspaper. Of course, all this extra work was forced on me by
my parents so I could be “well rounded” for my college applications.
And then once I was in college, all the extracurriculars fell away so I
could focus on my studies. Getting pregnant with Ava at twenty-seven
set me on the path I felt destined for: becoming a mother and a wife. Yet
here I am at forty-five, with no real purpose.
 Justin: I used to get so nervous before a show. I don’t miss
that.

A flash of one of our conversations in the library carrel comes back

to me. He told me that every time before he went onstage, he was sure
that this would be the moment everyone found out he wasn’t good
enough. His unguarded admission lasted only a few seconds, but I saw
through his dimpled smile.

Eden: I have a daughter who’s studying music. I don’t know if

she’s ever nervous before a show. She doesn’t tell me much.
She just started freshman year at U-M.

Justin: Hard to believe you now have a daughter in college.

And at U-M. Full circle. How old is Ava?

Eden: Seventeen going on twelve going on thirty-five.

It’s not until I send my response that I realize he knows Ava’s name.
I upload photos of Ava but can’t tag her. Even if I could, she’d never
want us socially connected online in any way. She won’t even follow me
back on Instagram.
There’s a loud knock. I jump. It’s just a branch banging against the
window, but I don’t want to be in the living room by myself. Even with
the curtains drawn and everything locked up, I feel exposed and
vulnerable. But I also don’t want to stop talking to Justin. With the
phone glued to my hand, I head to the kitchen, turn on the lights, and
grab an Advil and a glass of water. But it’s more depressing to see
spotless counters and no plates covered in crumbs and icing to scrape off
and load into the dishwasher.
I lean against the counter and respond.

Eden: How did you know my daughter’s name?

Justin: It’s on one of her baby photos you uploaded.

 I rear back from the screen. Is this the same guy who never finished
a single book on our syllabus? I’m amazed he would investigate my
pictures so thoroughly. I don’t know what to say next, how to keep the
conversation going. But the kitchen, where I insisted on sitting down at
the table together for dinners at least twice a week, even when it was
clear that neither Dave nor Ava wanted to be there, isn’t the place to do
it.
On the way back to the living room, I stop in the hall, where across
from the stairs hang our family photos in a collage. I linger on the last
one Dave had put up before he’d left me. It’s a picture of Ava onstage at
her high school graduation, where she strummed the guitar that’s like her
appendage. Her long, silky golden brown hair with purple streaks flows
over her small shoulders, and she sports her half smile—the one I both
love and loathe in equal measure because it frustrates me with its
ambivalence. It’s the smile that proves I did something right by raising
such a fierce, confident young woman. Yet it’s also a smirk that feels like
it’s aimed directly at me for never being the mother she wants me to be.
Under the lights, her skirt is transparent, as I’d known it would be.
“Is that what you’re wearing?” I asked before we left the house that
evening. I thought it was too risqué for a high school performance, but
the second the words were out, I wished I’d kept my mouth shut.
Ava’s jaw tensed. “I can wear whatever I want. Don’t shame me.”
“I wasn’t trying to. I just thought maybe for the photos and your
teachers . . .” I stopped talking.
Dave shrugged. “I think it’s fine. She’s expressing herself.”
If Chuck had been at Ava’s graduation, I’m sure Dave would have
been the one to gently suggest that Ava change into something that
wasn’t see-through, because her grandfather certainly would have
balked. With his mother, Marsha, in a care facility for dementia, Dave
only had his father left to impress. But with Chuck gone, Dave did
nothing when Ava stole bottles of our alcohol or racked up obscenely
high charges on our credit card at Sephora. I had to be the one who took
away her phone and easy access to our money. I just didn’t want our
daughter to make mistakes she’d regret.
Leaving my family behind, I consider going upstairs, but it feels
uncomfortable to talk to Justin in the bed I shared with Dave, even
though it’s all mine now. So, I flop back on the couch and pull the white
microfiber blanket around my legs for comfort.
Thinking about Ava and the mistakes I made the last time I saw
Justin heightens my worry for her, away on her own at college, not
understanding the devastating consequences when limitless alcohol is
available. That frat party had long-lasting repercussions. My friend—
everyone’s friend—Tyler Yates, vanished from the Sigma Chi house
sometime during the night. He was reported missing the next afternoon,
and by that evening, posters with his surfer-boy shaggy blond hair and
sweet smile were plastered across campus. He’s never been found.

Eden: Ava starting at U-M makes me think a lot about Tyler. I

saw you at his vigil.

I stood in the twilight, in the crowd of hundreds of sobbing

students, faculty—every person whom Tyler Yates’s kindness touched—
still hopeful for any evidence or leads about where he could possibly be.
Even now sometimes when I hear leaves crunch, I think of the dry grass
crackling under my feet while Jenna, Natalie, and I huddled together,
crying, each of us holding a candle.

Justin: I could have used a friend that night at the vigil.

Eden: You were with his parents. I didn’t know you and Tyler
knew each other.

Justin: We went to high school together. Our moms are

friends. Were you friends with him?

Eden: We worked together at the Book Nook on South State

Street. But Tyler was nice to everyone.

I’d met Tyler in junior year when I’d gotten the job at the small
used bookstore. We bonded over how much we both loved smelling the
pages of the novels as we sorted and shelved them. I still feel the loss of
such a vibrant person and think of Tyler whenever I smell almonds,
which is what the scent of old books has always reminded me of. Now
they remind me of Dave, too, whom I never imagined losing.
I push away thoughts of Dave and focus on the only person I’ll talk
to before my birthday ends.

Justin: I think a lot about the what ifs of that night. What if I’d
talked to Tyler instead of smoking a bong with my band?
Could I have stopped him from disappearing?

Eden: I wish I’d never gotten so drunk. I’d never lost control
of myself like I did with you that night. Everything that
happened, honestly, was so unlike me. I blacked out.

The next day, I thought I remembered hearing Tyler say my

name while I was sick in the bathroom, but the police said I
was too drunk to make a reliable account. I felt awful about
that.

Justin: I feel awful that I didn’t know you were sick. I thought
you were rejecting me. That maybe I did something to hurt
you. To me, you were the one who got away.

I almost drop my phone. Could the entire trajectory of my life have

been different if rather than Dave taking me home, I’d have spent the
night with Justin? Would Justin and I have been eating breakfast together
a few days later? Instead, I was being questioned by the police while
Natalie and Jenna waited outside the interrogation room for me, racked
with guilt because neither of them had come to the party with me and I’d
been there alone. Would Tyler be with his family, maybe married with
children? I can’t answer any of it.
I’m not sure what I’m hoping to accomplish by contemplating that.
But I like pretending I can have a do-over, go back to the twenty-two-
year-old with her whole future ahead of her instead of the woman whose
life is half over.
 Eden: So why didn’t you reach out to me after the party? You
didn’t even call me back. That did hurt me.

Justin: I wanted to. I was afraid to talk to you.

Eden: Well, I definitely didn’t reject you. But that’s in the past,
I guess.

Justin: Your photos are nice. You’ve grown up.

Does he mean I look older? Quickly, I click back to my page,

scrolling through the photos to see how I might look to him now
compared to the young woman I was. My eyes, a mud brown with flecks
of yellow in the sun, are deep set; my skin isn’t as smooth as it was, of
course, and there are lines fanning out at the corners of my eyes. In
every photo, my clothes are tailored pantsuits, button-up shirts, loose T-
shirts, and elastic-waist pants—the outfits of a working mom. I realize
how utterly drab they are. How much of myself I’ve hidden underneath
them.

Eden: Like what you see?

I send the message before I can change my mind. No response. I’ve

gone too far, and I want to unsend it. I don’t even talk like this. But it’s
exciting to be someone different, cool, flirtatious, a little reckless—if
only for tonight. It’s like I’m the person I wish I could have been with
him years ago. The person perhaps both Dave and Ava wish I were.

Justin: Definitely. Has your life turned out like you wanted it
to, Eden?

I’m so surprised by his question that the sob I’ve tightly held back
all night breaks free. I don’t know how to answer. But I need to talk to
someone, and maybe it’s best it’s a person who doesn’t know me
anymore, whom I’ll likely never speak to again. And this conversation
doesn’t feel real, almost like I’m talking into a void.
 Eden: Not exactly. I’m recently separated.

Justin: Me too.

A confusing mix of relief and sadness flows through me. It’s odd
we’re in the same place in our lives, yet I wouldn’t want anyone else to
face the same crushing shock I do when I wake up every morning and
realize over and over that my marriage has ended and my life is my own
now. To some people, that might be exhilarating. To me, the endless
possibilities are terrifying. I’ve always had a checklist: receive a college
degree, get married, have a child, build a home, be settled. It soothed me
in its predictability; Dave soothed me by being my trusted partner in the
chaos of life. Not knowing what comes next makes me feel adrift.
I clearly don’t know where to begin, since I’m drunk-messaging my
former college crush in the middle of the night.

Justin: It’s hard to be all alone, isn’t it?

An unexpected cry releases from my mouth. He’s succinctly

described exactly how I feel. And I have no one else to talk to about it.
Of course, Jenna and Natalie support me. The moment I texted them
after I’d gotten home from leaving Ava at U-M and Dave leaving me,
they showed up at my door, bearing food and wine, offering to move in
—whatever I needed to get through the next little while. I wanted to be
alone with my misery, embarrassed that the perfect life I’d created
wasn’t so perfect after all. Jenna, a pediatrician with her own practice, is
a happy single mother to her ten-year-old son, Ryder; Natalie is the in-
house accountant for a marketing company and has three strapping boys
she’s raised with a firm but loving hand and a husband who adores her.
Only I have failed at love. And there’s no method to help me succeed
because I don’t know what the expectations are now.

Eden: Yes. I’m lonely.

Justin: Well, now I don’t feel so lonely anymore.

 I draw in a sharp breath. His comment provokes a visceral reaction
right in my core, awakening a part of me that’s been paralyzed for
months. But I question if Justin is being honest or if he’s still a player,
like Jenna always said he was.
I glance at the time on my phone. It’s almost 1:00 a.m. While this
has been intoxicating and weird and bittersweet, entirely different from
my usual Friday night of watching whatever show Netflix chooses for
me and falling asleep in front of the TV, this won’t go anywhere beyond
fun, flirty nostalgia.

Eden: I’d better get to bed.

Justin: Alone?

I swallow hard.

Eden: Yes.

Always, I don’t write.

Justin: Sweet dreams, Eden. Happy Birthday.

I put my phone under the pillow so I don’t respond. And I tuck the
throw blanket around me to sleep on the couch. I don’t want to break this
bubble of happiness by going upstairs to my too-big king-size bed,
brushing my teeth, getting into pajamas. I don’t want to do anything but
savor my conversation with Justin. I doubt he and I will message again.
Still, I smile as I close my eyes.
I haven’t felt this alive in a very long time.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER TWO

I open my eyes. The living room is out of focus. When I run my tongue
along my teeth, my mouth tastes like fur. I barely slept, because I
replayed every word of my messages with Justin all night long as I pored
through my memory like a lovesick teenager.
I pad to the kitchen, a ridiculous grin stretching my cheeks. I’m
happy for the first time in six weeks, because of Justin. Longer, if I’m
being honest. This morning I’m not going through the motions, trying so
hard to pretend everything is okay. I’m wide awake. Even if Justin and I
don’t speak again, last night was like therapy, and I’m grateful.
Talking to Justin was easier than with Nancy, the therapist I went to
twice about three months ago. I suggested couples counseling to Dave,
but he refused, insisting that he just needed time to process the loss of
his father, Ava leaving soon for college, and at forty-eight, his own
mortality.
But frustrated and frightened by all the nights anxiously lying next
to him, hoping for a kiss, touch, or whispered confidences that never
came, I finally decided our lack of intimacy and connection had to be my
fault. I couldn’t talk to Jenna and Natalie about it. They love Dave, even
though they’re both angry with him for leaving me right when Ava was
leaving home. It felt like a betrayal to talk about him with people who
know us both.
Nancy explained that everyone grieves differently. When my
mother passed away of congestive heart failure two years ago at eighty-
four, two months after my father had died of liver failure, I cried, but not
much changed in my daily life. My father, a quiet, cold man, and I didn’t
speak much, and my mother and I only had lunch three times a year.
She’d regale me with her latest pieces published in academic journals
and stories about the conferences where she and my father were still
invited to be keynote speakers. She’d inquire about my life as though
checking it off a list. I was a commitment, not a fulfillment, for her.
Chuck’s loss hit me harder. I wanted to discuss it with Dave, work
through it together like we had every health scare, emergency room visit
with Ava, her heartbreaks with friends, then girlfriends, and our job
stresses. But he’d retreated into a shell.
Nancy suggested patience. So, I continued pretending everything
was fine, grasping on to the only control I had by throwing myself into
making endless lists for Ava to complete to get ready for college, which
she ignored. I cooked Dave’s favorite curry dishes, watched the action
movies he loves that I hate. It was all useless, because we weren’t
talking or touching. I stopped seeing Nancy, and I definitely didn’t want
to go back to her after Dave asked me for a divorce, because there was
nothing that I could do to fix us anymore.
While the coffee brews, I tap in my password—Ava’s birthday. Ava
rolls her eyes at my old-school ways when it comes to technology, but I
don’t want to use my fingerprints or face to unlock my phone. It feels
creepy. I open the Messenger app to reread my conversation with Justin.
I blink. There’s an unread message from him.

Justin: Good morning, sunshine. I couldn’t sleep. I thought

about you all night. It was really good to talk to you again.

He sent it at 6:00 a.m.

I run my hand through my tangled hair, and my wedding ring—I
haven’t been ready to take it off yet—snags a few long, dirty-blonde
strands.
I slide the ring down my finger and place it on the marble counter.
It glints in the sunlight pouring through the window over the sink that
faces the backyard.
My finger is bare for the first time since Dave put the ring on me
twenty years ago. I took it off only when I was pregnant with Ava,
because my fingers swelled like sausages and I was afraid it would cut
off my circulation. There’s a smooth band of skin a few shades lighter
than the rest of my finger. I wonder how long that will take to fade.
Whether I’d ever want another man to slide a different ring there.
 “Slow your roll there, Eden.” I laugh at myself. Why can’t I be me
and single? I don’t need a plan. Or at least, after the high of last night, I
want to be more spontaneous and live in the moment. I’m just not sure
how.
I don’t want to misinterpret Justin’s early morning message and our
late-night exchange of confidences as anything more than a reconnection
with someone I used to know, but a part of me wants it to be more. The
mere idea of having feelings for anyone other than Dave, but especially
Justin Ward, overwhelms me, and I need caffeine to absorb it. I fill a cup
and catch my pasty reflection in the small mirror attached to the side of
the fridge. There are crease lines on my face from my pillow and deep
bags under my eyes. I look awful. At least Justin didn’t ask to FaceTime
with me.
I turn to open the fridge door so I don’t have to see myself anymore,
and I grab the milk, pour it into my WORLD’S BEST MOM mug that Dave
gave me for our twentieth anniversary in July—Mother’s Day, sure, that
would have made sense, but an anniversary? It was a gift that epitomized
how he saw me: a nurturing caregiver, not a sexy, desirable woman he
couldn’t wait to come home to, like when Ava was little. Every day,
Dave would rush through the door at 5:30 p.m. on the dot, wrap his arms
around me, kiss me, no matter if I was covered in jelly or finger paint. I
don’t have a recent memory of Dave kissing me with more than a
perfunctory peck.
Last night I felt desired.
But I’m not young anymore, and I have to be at my listing by 9:15
a.m. for the open house at 10:30 a.m. My job is the only thing I have
holding me together. I’ve never led an open house on less than eight
hours of sleep, especially not one as important as today’s on Lakeside
Drive, which could be my biggest sale yet. I need to sell this home.
I don’t want alimony from Dave or his financial help at all. He
asked for a divorce, not a separation, but as far as I know, he hasn’t
retained an attorney. Neither have I, because I’m not at all ready to face
the legal end of us. I think it’s fair that he continue to pay Ava’s tuition
for the time being. His lawyer’s salary at his own firm meant that we’ve
always been comfortable—my income felt like a bonus. I’d been a stay-
at-home mother until Ava was in freshman year of high school and she
didn’t need me as much. Or it felt like that, anyway, so I decided to do
something productive with my time and design skills. My parents paid
my tuition and living expenses until I met and moved in with Dave. I’ve
never truly been responsible for myself, and it’s daunting.
Yet instead of showering and getting dressed, I sit at the kitchen
table with my coffee, wondering what Dave would think about my
surreal conversation with the drummer for the Screaming Demons, if
he’d be jealous at all. If I want him to be jealous.
While of course Dave knew who Justin was, like everyone at U-M
did, I don’t think they ever crossed paths. Dave was in law school; Justin
and I were undergrads. I know that Dave only came to the Sigma Chi
party because of me. Tyler invited him. It was the last conversation Tyler
and I ever had.
“Your boyfriend is here again,” Tyler called out good naturedly the
day before the party, like he did each time Dave walked into the Book
Nook. Tyler and I were wearing our dorky blue vests with our name tags,
always ready to help the students coming in looking for used textbooks,
novels, or the pens and stationery that we kept by the cash register for
quick purchases.
I never needed to help Dave—it seemed like he came in every time
I was working, and he always knew what he wanted. Tyler loved to joke
with us because there was clearly some kind of energy between me and
Dave that he picked up on. Tyler was like that; he could sense things
about people.
I liked Dave well enough as a friend, but I was fixated on Justin. I
never corrected Tyler, because he was so sweet, and I didn’t want to
embarrass Dave. I figured if Dave liked me, he could ask me out and I’d
say yes to a casual coffee.
As I was ringing up Dave’s Post-its, Tyler came behind the counter.
“Hey, you two, there’s a party at my frat this Saturday night. You should
both come.” Then he winked at me.
I’d confessed to Tyler earlier that week that I had a crush on
someone. Clearly, he assumed it was Dave. He didn’t know that Justin
had already invited me to the party. I simply nodded. Dave adjusted his
glasses, thanked Tyler, and tripped over the carpet on his way out of the
bookstore.
Tyler had always been ready to have a good time, and I was glad, in
a way, that he invited Dave that night too. In fact, I was lucky. Because
of Dave, I got home safely. With Tyler disappearing that night, who
knows what could have happened to me, considering how drunk and out
of it I was.
I never told Dave about making out with Justin. Why would I? After
Dave carried me down the stairs to his car and drove me to my
apartment, he insisted on sleeping on the couch to make sure I was okay,
even though Jenna and Natalie were both home. It endeared him to all of
us, and he consoled me through the difficult weeks that followed with
the investigation into Tyler’s disappearance. He’d already passed the bar,
so he stayed with me through the police interviews and held me when I
cried. He assumed I was devastated over Tyler, which of course I was,
but I was also heartbroken over Justin. When a month, then another went
by with no phone call or any kind of communication from Justin, I
finally saw Dave for who he was: a stable, kind, good-hearted man who I
believed would never crush me. When Dave got a job as an associate
attorney at a corporate law firm in Grosse Pointe, I moved with him,
leaving the past in the past. Until now.
I open Messenger, about to write Justin back, when a memory pops
up in my notifications. It’s from a year ago, a gorgeous, crisp fall day,
when Dave and I had convinced Ava to join us for a hike at Paint Creek
Trail near Rochester. None of us are particularly sporty, but time together
in the fresh air, only the three of us, seemed like the best way to
reconnect after the busy start to her senior year of high school and our
jobs.
I loved this photo because the brightly colored leaves stood out
against the cloudless blue sky, our cheeks are rosy with health, and we
look like a happy family. I think we still were then, because though I
recall Ava complaining the whole time that her feet hurt, Dave and I had
held hands as we always used to when we walked anywhere, and we’d
even had sex when Ava went to sleep that night. It was gentle and tender,
as it had been between me and Dave since the very first time we slept
together, the night we lost our virginity to each other. I wasn’t
necessarily saving myself for marriage, like my mother told me nice
girls should, but I definitely couldn’t fathom anyone I didn’t love inside
me. Dave has always treated me like I’m made of glass. But maybe I’m
not as delicate as he thinks I am.
 I chew my lip, debating what tone to convey in my message to
Justin. I go with breezy, casual.

Eden: Good morning. I had trouble sleeping, too.

Justin: I’m sorry if I’m the reason you couldn’t sleep. You have
an open house today.

I furrow my brow, scrolling through our messages once again to see

if I told him about my listing. I didn’t. I do post them on Instagram, and
my profile is public, though when I check, I see Justin hasn’t followed
me there yet.

Eden: Are you always this attentive?

Justin: Only when I’m interested in someone.

Fear and excitement hit me at the same time. I have trouble

believing anyone could want me when my husband so clearly didn’t.

Eden: Do you chat with a lot of women online?

What if Justin does this all the time and I’m simply a new
plaything? Tomorrow, he might not message me at all. It would devastate
me if someone else easily lets me go.

Justin: Not like this. You’ve always been important to me.

And when you lose someone you care about at a young age,
it makes you realize how short life is. We found each other
again. I don’t want to waste time.

Eden: You mean you lost Tyler?

Justin: Yes. And then my drumming career. But if I’m making

you uneasy, we can stop talking.
 Eden: No. I want to keep talking, but I feel guilty.

Justin: Why?

Eden: Because I wasn’t the one who ended my marriage. I’m

not sure if I’m ready to move on.

Justin: Why feel sad if you don’t have to?

He’s right. I have nothing else, besides my job, making me happy

right now.

Eden: I’m also scared.

Justin: You’re safe, Eden. No one else is here but me and you.
You can be free with me. What do you have to lose?

Eden: I’m afraid to get hurt again.

Justin: We always had a strong connection when we were

young. Why not explore it as adults, if we can?

Whenever I’ve thought about Justin over the years, that kiss has
always been at the forefront. But it’s true that we had a connection. Now
I vividly recall a winter afternoon, a storm raging outside, and us cozily
tucked into our library carrel. Justin had snuck in hot chocolate with
marshmallows for both of us—he seemed so young in that moment, a
man sipping a children’s drink. While he tapped a pen on the table like a
drumstick, he told me that he was scared to fail, which was why he
procrastinated on his essays. The youngest of four brothers, the only one
who didn’t play team sports and struggled in school, Justin wanted his
mother to be proud of him. She didn’t see his music career as an
achievement, only a distraction that wouldn’t put him ahead in life. In
turn, I told him that being an only child put pressure on me to fulfill all
my parents’ expectations.
 I’ve forgotten how easy it was to be myself with him. I miss having
a man to talk to.
I should be getting ready for my open house; my phone is blowing
up with reminders every ten minutes. I ignore them all because I don’t
want to leave this bubble.

Justin: Tell me something I don’t know about you.

Eden: Sometimes I feel unlovable.

I close my eyes and click to send the message, trying not to care
how pitiful that makes me sound. Because it’s true.

Justin: I feel the same. It’s difficult to feel good about

yourself when the person you’ve given your life to treats you
like you’re nothing to them.

Tears well in my eyes, blurring the creamy-white walls in the

kitchen, the first room that Dave and I renovated when I was four
months pregnant with Ava.

Justin: For what it’s worth, you’ve always meant something

to me.

I’m exhausted from watching my every word, so I tell him what

I’ve wanted to for over twenty years.

Eden: I was mad for you in college.

Justin: I love hearing that. Can I tell you something?

I bite my lip.

Eden: Please do.

Justin: I dreamed about you last night.

 Eden: What did you dream?

Justin: That we didn’t stop at the party. That we went to the

back of my van.

I laugh. I fantasized many times about being with Justin in the back
of his white van, the Screaming Demons logo emblazoned in red and
orange on the side, a place where I was sure he had taken other girls. The
whole band had groupies.

Eden: That’s classy.

Justin: What I want to do to you isn’t classy.

My hand twitches so hard my coffee spills all over the table and my
skin. I leave the spill be and quickly wipe my hand on the sweatpants
I’m still wearing from last night.

Justin: Do you want me to continue? Say no if you don’t.

My face flames like I’m having a hot flash. I blow out a breath and
type.

Eden: Continue.

Justin: I’ve thought about your soft skin many times. I’m
turned on thinking about it.

My jaw drops. The humming of the fridge seems very loud. Is

Justin sexting with me?
My head knows I should stop the outrageous turn this conversation
has taken before I do something I’ll regret; yet my body and heart can’t
resist Justin’s provocative pull or the impulse to be someone else for a
brief moment. Jenna hooks up with guys she meets on Tinder all the
time, has no shame about no-strings sex. Is that who I’m going to be,
now that I’m single? Is that what I want?
 Justin: Will you touch yourself for me?

I’ve never done anything like this. The only visual I’ve really had of
steamy sex is in books and movies.
And what if he shares or posts the messages? Screenshots are so
easy to take—once Ava showed me what to do, I’ve used the feature
regularly to help with listings. I don’t know what Justin’s true intentions
are.

Justin: Don’t overthink it.

How did he know I was analyzing every possible fallout?

Shouldn’t I try it, at least once, in real life? No one has to know.
And this is what I wanted from him in college. Take the lead and teach
me all the things I was too scared to do. I lean back in the pale-yellow
upholstered chair as the light pours into the kitchen from the backyard,
and I see my next-door neighbor Tom whacking at the weeds on his lawn
at 8:00 a.m. Our yard is already choked with weeds, because that was
Dave’s Saturday chore, and I haven’t bothered to take it on myself.
As I reach over and close the blinds, I know a part of me wants to
prove to Dave—and myself—that someone desires me. I know all this,
but somehow, I still can’t resist, no matter how stupid and risky this is.
And I’m angry. Angry that Dave wouldn’t help me fix what went
wrong in our relationship, that Ava dismisses me. Angry that they only
see me as the nagging mother and wife with the schedules and checklists
instead of the person who wants her daughter to reach her full potential
and her husband to pay attention to her. I deserve more.

Eden: I’ll touch myself for you.

I send the message, my heart banging against my ribs, lust pulsing

through every nerve ending.
I’ve never gratified myself during the day. Only in bed late at night
when Dave had a dinner meeting. And even then, with Ava right down
the hall, it felt reprehensible, like something a mother shouldn’t be doing
or need to do.
 Right when I’m about to go for it, my phone buzzes in my hand.
Shit.
My heart in my throat, shame scalding my skin, I scramble to
answer the call before it goes to voice mail. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Miller? This is Julia, the hall director at Bursley.”
Am I still Mrs. Miller? I haven’t thought about changing my name
back to Hoffman. But that’s not important right now, because anxiety
clenches my stomach. Why is the director calling me on a Saturday at—I
glance at the clock on the stove—8:15 a.m.?
I focus my full attention on Julia, who informs me that Ava was
caught with three other girls in her dorm room last night, bottles of
vodka strewn on the floor, music pumping from the speakers. Two
broken ordinances: noise and alcohol. My seventeen-year-old daughter
was drinking. Damn it, Ava.
“I’m sorry to hear about your, um, recent family difficulties. Ava
seems to be struggling with it a bit,” Julia continues. “She explained that
she’s maybe acting out to deal with it.”
I slump. “Yes, it’s been a hard time. I’ll definitely speak to Ava.
What are the consequences?”
“Well”—her voice is gentle—“I have to write her up as a first
strike. But I won’t put her on probation, because of the extenuating
circumstances. Plus, Ava is like a mentor to other LGBTQIA+ students
and always available to talk. She’s a great person, and I don’t want to
penalize her too heavily for a first offense.”
Tears prick my eyes. Ava is a great person. Maybe not to me very
often, but her strength, sheer will, and unwavering conviction that her
talent and brains make her invincible are inspiring. But even away at
college, she’s still trying to punish me by defying the rules, wanting me
to feel guilty for the separation. It’s her father she should be upset with,
but I’d never say that to her.
I thank Julia, then stand up and grab a sponge to sop up the coffee
from the table. I have to get it together. I call Dave. It goes straight to
voice mail. For a moment, I wonder if he’s with a woman. He’s been
adamant that there’s no one else, and I shove the bizarre image away.
What—or whom—Dave does has nothing to do with me. Knowing
Dave, he’s probably still asleep with Do Not Disturb enabled on his
phone. Plus, there’s someone else who seems to want me in ways Dave
hasn’t for a very long time.
I dial Ava’s number. She doesn’t pick up either. Of course she
doesn’t. But still light-headed from my conversation with Justin, I
consider if perhaps I’ve been too hard on Ava, put too much pressure on
her to be perfect, the way my parents did to me. My mother was forty-
one when she had me; my father, forty-three. My parents were so busy
striving to publish lest they perish that my needs were largely neglected.
Have I ignored my daughter’s real needs? Or coddled her so much that
without me there to cushion her landing, she’s unaware of how much
trouble she can get into?
Yearning for the security from the family I created and once relied
on, I walk upstairs to shower. Ava’s room is to the right of the stairs. Her
door is closed, as it always was even when she lived here. The moment I
turn the knob, I’m hit with the cloying scent of her peach body spray still
lingering in the air. I’d given her one of the vanilla candles that I use at
my listings, but of course she didn’t want it. Besides the fruity aroma,
the room feels so empty without her guitar in the corner under the
window, her desk covered in papers, and the graffiti-type posters and
prints she tacked up all over the walls. My little girl is gone. And I don’t
know how to reach the almost-adult daughter I have.
I leave Ava’s room, and while I shower, I remember what she said
to me when Dave and I broke the news to her about us a week after
she’d started at U-M. Though he’d asked for a divorce, it was separation
he used when he sat on her dorm room bed, while I stood behind him,
watching my baby girl crumple. She let Dave hug her, but when I tried,
she said, “You’ve become really uptight since Grandpa died. I
understand why Dad doesn’t want to live with you anymore.”
It shot me in the heart, because it was so unfair. I wanted to go back
to the time when I’d burst out laughing during karaoke nights and Ava
would cringe when Dave and I danced in the kitchen while making
dinner. But one of us had to be the responsible parent who didn’t let our
daughter get away with everything. Dave had checked out.
So, it’s fun I’m aiming for when instead of reaching in my drawer
for my usual plain black bra and underwear, I take out the white tissue
paper shoved at the back. I gently unwrap it to reveal the red lace push-
up bra and thong I’d bought to surprise Dave with after we got home
from dropping off Ava.
Instead, I came home to an empty house, and he drove to a condo
he’d already rented without telling me. He’d secretly packed a suitcase
of clothes—they’d been in the back of his car, and I’d never noticed,
since he was in charge of packing.
I was embarrassed when I bought this lingerie, hiding it on the sales
counter under a flannel pajama set, even though I knew the clerk would
have to ring it up.
There’s time to fix what’s broken in me.
I slip on the bra and panties and look in the full-length mirror
hanging next to the dresser. I like my curves, which suddenly seem sexy
to me.
My phone pings.

Justin: Dave’s a fool.

I whip around, immediately covering my breasts with my hands, as

if he can see me through the phone. Then I roll my eyes. I’m so out of
practice with dating—or whatever this is. While Justin’s interest makes
me apprehensive, it’s also flattering.
I’m on a precipice. I can remain the lonely woman Dave has
abandoned or leap into the unknown with a man who makes me feel like
the sensual, vibrant, desirable woman I want to be.
I want to leap even if it scares me to death.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER THREE

I lock the door behind me and get in my car to head to Lakeside Drive, a
route I could normally do with my eyes closed. Today, though, once I’m
on Charlevoix Avenue, I’m confusing left from right. All I can think
about is Justin. As much as I want to be a different person, I can’t stop
my mind from jumbling with worry and dread that he’s playing me. For
what purpose, I have no idea. But I have a hard time believing I’m the
only woman he’s chatting with. He’s too smooth and practiced at it. How
quickly he moved us to sexting.
Maybe I’m not used to a man openly telling me what he wants from
me. Dave and I were each other’s firsts for almost everything, and it
wasn’t sex and passion that kept us together. It was our deep admiration,
love, and commitment, until he threw that all away.
Justin could have scrolled through my page and intuited how thirsty
I am for anyone to pay attention to me, a middle-aged mother in sensible
clothes, one whose most exciting posts are fabulous chicken recipes and
the latest book I read. Maybe I’m more insecure than I want to admit,
because the second Justin opened the door to raunchy sexting, I raced
through it.
I shiver, imagining him touching me, tasting me, and almost blow
through a stop sign. Thank goodness no other cars are on the road. Once
again, Justin Ward is consuming me. Even though I have doubts, I decide
to ignore them, at least for now. I don’t know if he’s someone I can
actually develop a real connection with as an adult, but the high of
talking to him feels too good to stop. I don’t want to come down,
because if I do, I’m left with my desolate house and a hole in my heart
that has only gotten bigger every day since Dave discarded our life
together to seek out whatever it is he needs to find without me.
 But I have a job to do, and I can’t afford not to give it my all.
“Focus,” I berate myself as I stop in front of Pages, my favorite café /
used bookstore on Kercheval Avenue to grab another coffee and peruse
the shelves for a few minutes to get my bearings. I need to be in the kind
of place that has always brought me peace, and I still have time to put
my signs at the intersections along the way to Lakeside Drive.
I try to lose myself in the warm, cozy ambience of worn armchairs
and dark wood shelves, lined with beautiful books, dog eared and full of
history from previous readers’ fingers touching the paper. I hear a girl’s
laugh and turn to the cash register, where a young woman in her early
twenties shoves her male coworker’s arm. And I’m hit with a rush of
nostalgia and loss.
I didn’t need a job at U-M; I wanted to work at the Book Nook. I
was very close to Jenna and Natalie, but a natural introvert, I sometimes
needed to be in a space that felt like it belonged only to me. And Tyler,
during our four-hour shifts, was also only mine. We shared the cleaning,
our snacks and meals, and made-up zany backstories about our
customers. The first time Dave came in, Tyler whispered to me, “That
guy is a spy for the CIA.”
I laughed so hard that I snorted, and Dave looked over. He smiled,
then looked away immediately. Tyler made it his mission to get us
together after that. He saw a spark between us that I didn’t pay much
attention to until Justin was out of my life. And then, so was Tyler.
Tears fill my eyes. I don’t want them to be red and swollen at my
open house, so I shove away thoughts of Tyler and Dave and scan the
shelves for a book to buy. My gaze lands on a battered copy of The
Unbearable Lightness of Being. I pull my favorite Milan Kundera novel
from the shelf, even though I still have mine from college. I flick
through the yellowed pages, smoothing my fingers over the pencil notes
in the margins. And I’m right back in my college memories, because the
themes in this book were the topic of the last essay Justin and I worked
on together.
By that point, I’d convinced myself he’d make a move if only I
weren’t such a sexless nerd. So, I borrowed one of Jenna’s strappy little
dresses, which came just above the knee on me, and twisted my hair in a
claw clip, determined to make Justin ask me out on a date. It was a warm
April afternoon, the sunniest day we’d had in months, so instead of in
the library, we sat on the Diag.
“You look pretty,” Justin said as he stretched out his long jean-clad
legs on the grass.
I hung on to that compliment like a lifeline. And when he flashed
his dimpled smile, I could barely focus with how desperate I was for him
to give me any indication that he liked me as more than just his tutor and
friend. He pulled the novel from his battered black backpack. “It was a
good book.”
“You read it?” I was surprised, because usually I’d have to give him
the summary, and we’d cobble together a decent essay.
He laughed. “I watched the movie.”
I giggled, though if it were anyone else, I’d be disappointed. “Do
you identify with Tomas?”
Justin grinned, but I saw sadness flash across his face. “Because
you think I sleep with a ton of girls?”
It is what I meant, but I didn’t want to offend him in any way. “I
meant is there power in sex for you?” My voice shook on the word sex.
He caught it. “Are you pure like Tereza?”
“I don’t know about pure, but a virgin, yes.” I felt slightly
embarrassed after I admitted this, but for some reason I felt safe around
him, and I hoped my honesty was attractive.
My eyes were glued to his long fingers as he ran them through his
hair. “I think it’s sweet that you’re waiting. I’m not sure the girls I sleep
with really care about me.” His hand lightly brushed my arm.
“I’m waiting for love,” I said, but what I really wanted to tell Justin
was that I loved him.
He held my gaze. “Tereza was my favorite character. I’d bring her
home to my mother.”
Then he invited me to the Sigma Chi party.
Before the party, I analyzed that conversation with Jenna and
Natalie to decipher his true feelings, as I did with every single moment
that Justin and I spent together. As always, my two best friends humored
me while shooting worried looks at each other—maybe they thought I
didn’t notice, but I did. They knew I was in love for the first time and
how much it scared me.
 They were both happy when I started dating Dave, because he was
such a nice person and took care of me. When he picked me up from our
apartment for a date, he’d bring flowers, chocolate, or a novel he thought
I’d like, holding my hand as we went down the steps and opening the car
door for me. Ava used to roll her eyes at Dave’s gentle treatment of both
his girls, telling him she could open her own damn door. But I loved
feeling special.
Natalie was relieved my obsession with Justin had finally come to
an end. She told me I wasn’t wired to take on a bad boy. Jenna thought
his charm was disingenuous, and she sensed a dark edginess in him that
she didn’t think I could handle.
Now I roll my eyes at my naivety. Justin must have been amused by
my innocence, yet he never did take advantage of it.
I return the book to the shelf, buy a coffee that I don’t need, and
quickly leave the store, about to get in my car when something triggers a
prickle on the back of my neck. I turn. I feel like someone is watching
me. But there are only a few pedestrians, none of whom are looking at
me. It’s probably the lack of sleep, the sexting, and the book that are
making me twitchy. But I’m tense as I start the car and drive away from
the store, looking over my shoulder at each intersection that I stop at to
prop up my signs.
I’m calmer when I pull up outside the stunning five-bedroom, four-
bath Dutch Colonial I’m showing. After unlocking the powder blue front
door, I go through all the rooms, grateful for Rebecca, my expert stager,
who’s created a modern rustic vibe with farmhouse-style tables and
chairs, eclectic hanging-light installations, and soft white and gray rugs
and pillows. I place my signature candles in the living and dining rooms,
inhaling the rich, delicious scent of vanilla and nutmeg. But I’m not
actually taking anything in. Justin is all I can think about.
As potential buyers and their Realtors file through the house,
oohing and aahing over the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the
lap pool in the immaculately designed backyard, the barn-style doors,
and the exquisite wood paneling in vibrant red, yellow, and green on an
accent wall in every room, my attention is on his tempting words, his
emotional intelligence, and how he makes me want to constantly run my
hands over my body. Not the angles and planes of only a mother, but of a
sexual woman hungry to feel aroused.
 While a trio of well-dressed agents from one of the largest
brokerages in Grosse Pointe shows their clients the kitchen, remarkable
with weathered wood beams and stone floors, I decide I have time to text
Justin. I want what I’m feeling to be mutual, but my heart is still so
vulnerable—how does anyone get over a marriage? How can I avoid
getting hurt again?
Leaning against the distressed, dark wood island, I dig my nails into
my palm, then type:

Eden: Are you being real with me?

Justin: Yes. Whatever this is between us is all I can think

about.

Eden: Me too.

Justin: So, why don’t we let ourselves fall into it?

Eden: Because I don’t want to live in a fantasy.

Justin: I have every intention of making it a reality. But you

need to trust me, Eden. You have to be real with me, too. I’m
as vulnerable as you are.

One of the agents smiles at me as she and her client leave the
kitchen. I wonder if she has a life full of color and intrigue, a secret
that’s hers alone. I like having something—someone—who belongs only
to me. Justin’s created a sizzling blaze under my skin, like my veins have
been sliced open, exposed. I don’t want to give that up. It makes
everything difficult in my life seem easier. But I can’t keep writing these
messages. It’s not enough for me.

Eden: I’m at my open house. Can we talk on the phone after?

I’d feel more comfortable, and I want to hear your voice.
 I see he’s read my request, but my phone is silent. Did I move too
fast? I never even dated anyone before Dave. I don’t know how to do
this.
Finally, he’s typing. I hold my breath.

Justin: I’ll call you. What time works?

Eden: 2 pm. 313-555-7628.

Justin: Talk soon.

I put my phone back in my purse, thrumming with anticipation of

how his voice will sound after all these years, what we’ll actually say to
each other. One of the two remaining agents in the kitchen fiddles with
the collar of her blue button-down. And I decide to do something so
perilous that if I don’t do it right this second, I’ll change my mind.
I leave the agents and their clients in the kitchen, sneak into the
powder room off the front door, and lock it. Placing my phone on the
white marble counter next to the vessel sink and angling it to get the best
shot, I slip off my black blazer, undo my black silk blouse, and snap a
photo of myself in the red lace bra. I’d kill Ava if she did what I’m about
to, but I’m a grown woman, and it’s only for one person’s eyes.
I zoom in on the picture. I love how seductive I look—nothing like
my usual self. I’ve never taken any kind of shot like this. I barely glance
at my own breasts in the mirror at home. The rush is staggering.
I silence the voice in my head warning me how foolish this is,
exhale a shaky breath, and share the photo with Justin through the
Messenger app.
His response takes less than a second.

Justin: You’re so damn hot.

No one has ever spoken to me like this. I think women are supposed
to hit their sexual peak in their thirties, but I’m bubbling with what feels
like true exuberance rather than faking it so everyone around me won’t
know I’m struggling. I quickly run water over my wrists to cool off, like
I taught Ava to do when she was eight and upset when her then-best
friend excluded her at recess. I’m unable to keep my grin at bay as I exit
the bathroom. My phone pings again. I look at my screen.

Justin: I haven’t wanted someone as much as I want you in a

very long time. Hope you like this. I’m older than I was in
college, of course.

He’s in only a white towel wrapped around his trim waist. I gawk at
his well-defined stomach, and heat shoots through me. His rich, dark
waves are mussed and wet, and his arms are as strong and sinewy as I
remember. On his left bicep, he has a new tattoo since college, the head
of a griffin.
How could a man this hot want me? And his insecurity that he’s not
as youthful as he was when we first met tugs at me. It’s that vulnerability
I saw in him during our tutoring sessions: self-doubt I’m not sure anyone
else recognized in him. I’m about to type back how much hotter he is
now, when a husky female voice fills the hallway.
“This is a beautiful house.”
I jump and immediately turn my screen face down. A tall brunette
in fitted black trousers and a white sweater is in front of me. I hope my
cheeks aren’t as flushed as they feel. “The view from the balcony off the
master is incredible. Have you gone upstairs?”
She shakes her head. “I just got here. I saw your sign and popped in
for a peek.” Her eyes travel to my chest, and smiling, she gestures with
her fingers. “You might want to fix that.”
I look down at myself. Jesus. My shirt is buttoned wrong, so the
edge of my red bra is visible. Quickly, I turn away and redo the top three
buttons, laughing nervously. “I left my house quickly.”
She grins, her bright-blue eyes a striking contrast to her brown hair.
“Happens to me all the time.”
I smile back. “Thank you for telling me.” I smooth my jacket,
trying to appear professional, though inside I’m quaking. I can’t believe
I just sent a sexy selfie from the bathroom of my open house. Shame and
a rush of dopamine hit me simultaneously. Maybe this is what being an
addict feels like. I crave more.
 I clear my throat to regain my equilibrium. “If you’re interested,
I’m Eden Mi—Hoffman.” I shake her hand, trying out how my former
name feels. It’s definitely weird, but not as upsetting as I expected.
“Lila Cavanaugh. Nice to meet you.” She glances at my pantsuit as
though searching for a pocket. “Do you have a card I can take with me?”
I nod and lead her down the expansive hallway to the kitchen,
where brochures about the house, neighborhood, and nearby schools are
in a neat pile next to my business cards. I’m still trembling when I hand
her one, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
“Great.” She tucks the card in her pants pocket and glances around
the kitchen. “I’m going to look around, if that’s okay. It’s even nicer than
it appears from the outside.”
“Please go ahead. I’m here if you need anything.”
“I’ll let you know.” She smiles again and exits the kitchen.
I blow out a breath, embarrassed to get caught not being as present
and professional as I normally am. I don’t even usually look at my phone
when I’m at work. I’m happy when the last person exits the open house.
I text Sylvie to let her know the showing went well and there was some
genuine interest I’ll follow up on tomorrow. I’ll also order new business
cards with my old-new last name. Taking that concrete step forward is
jarring, but I can’t hold on to what I’ve already lost. Dave wants a
divorce, not even a trial separation, no matter what we told Ava. He
doesn’t want me back. He barely wants to talk, even if I’d be willing to
work on us.
I have fifteen minutes to make it home for my call with Justin, but
as I turn my key in the ignition, my phone rings.
My adrenaline spikes as a number with 734, the Ann Arbor area
code, flashes across the screen, and for a moment, I have trouble
catching a breath.
“Hi,” I answer after putting in my earbuds so his voice is closer to
me, my own voice an octave lower than usual. I roll my eyes at how
inane I’m acting.
“Hey. After seeing your photo, I couldn’t wait any longer. Do you
have time to talk now?”
I’m parked right outside my listing and should drive home before
speaking to him, but I’m disoriented by the reality of his voice in my
ears compared to the memory of what he sounded like twenty-something
years ago. I remember his distinct low growl, yet his tone is gravellier
now, even deeper, which makes me realize we’re starting over and aren’t
young college students anymore. I need to separate the Justin I knew
from the man I want to believe he’s become. I want this escape from my
sadness so much.
Tongue-tied, I turn off the car, not sure how to start. I clear my
throat. “You sound different.”
“Different good?”
“Yes. A man. Not a boy.”
He laughs a deep rumble. “I forgot how sexy and sweet you sound.”
I’m warm all over. No one’s ever told me my voice is sexy. Shrill is
what Dave has called it on occasion. Shrieky is how Ava describes it.
“What’s sexy about my voice?”
“You sound innocent, but there’s a mischievousness to it.”
I laugh. “I don’t know if mischievous is a part of me at all.” But
inside my car, where I drive to and from listings, grocery shopping, and
appointments, I want to be exciting for once. “Maybe I can be, though.”
“Oh yeah? How?”
My heart quivers as wildly as the leaves on the chokecherry tree on
the front lawn of my listing. “I want to continue what we were doing this
morning.”
There’s a pause before he asks, “Now, on the phone?”
I don’t want to leave this spot and ruin the moment or give myself
any time to overthink.
“Yes.”
“What are you wearing?”
With a mix of embarrassed excitement, I answer Justin’s question
honestly, unsure of how far I want this conversation to go.
“A black pantsuit.”
“When was the last time someone touched you?”
“Months.” The tightly wound coil of misery inside me unwinds. I
clamp my lips together so the relief of it won’t fall from my lips. It’s too
much to release in a parked car outside the house I’m trying to sell. I
also shouldn’t be here talking to him like this, but there’s no way I can
stop now or I’ll shut down and maybe never get the courage again. I turn
the question back to Justin. “How about you?”
 “Touched me how I want to be? Years. You’re giving me something
I’ve been missing for so long.”
“So are you,” I whisper, hesitant to let him inside my heart, my
soul, me. “But I’m really nervous.”
“I am too. This is new and different for me. But I’ve got you, Eden.
Tell me what you want.”
The cold air coming through my open window does nothing to
smother the heat flaming my cheeks. What I want is for him to make me
savage with lust, feel his hands and mouth all over me. I stifle the
automatic giggle bubbling in my throat. I seriously don’t know if I’m
doing this all wrong. “I want to lose all control with you like I did in
college.”
His groan tells me it was the right thing to say. “Mmm. That sounds
delicious. Unbutton your pants.”
His demand tightens me with need, and I immediately obey. I need
Justin to make me wild and uninhibited more than I remember wanting
anything. I don’t care that I’m technically still at work, that anyone could
look out their window and see me. In fact, the danger of it turns me on
even more. I want them to watch me. I lick my lips. “Okay, I’ve done it.”
“You’re safe with me. I want to unlock every part of you, Eden.”
When Justin says my name, dots of sweat bead between my breasts.
I’m fully aware that what I’m doing is wrong and illicit. It fuels my raw
desire, so fierce that it wins out against any guilt or reason. I’m at his
mercy, under a spell when I grab my bag from the passenger seat to put
over my lap and slide down farther in my seat.
“Imagine I’m in the car with you. I slide my hand into your suit
jacket.”
I moan out loud at the same time I feel eyes on me. I glance out the
passenger’s side window. A woman at the house next door to my listing
has appeared in her garden with a trowel. She darts her eyes toward my
car before turning back around. She must have heard me. The fantasy of
getting caught and the reality of it are different. I quickly close the
window and duck farther down in my seat so she hopefully can’t see me.
There’s no way for me to resist Justin. I’m too far gone.
“I rub my stubbled jaw over your skin. I suck on your bottom lip,
and you open your mouth for my tongue to devour you. I want to taste
every inch of you.”
 I’m almost hyperventilating. Dave and I never spoke to each other
like this.
“Do you want more, Eden?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
He chuckles softly and says things I’ve never even imagined a man
saying to me.
“Please don’t stop,” I tell him, because this is the freest, most
passionate I’ve ever felt, and I don’t want it to end.
Justin continues his commands. It takes only ten seconds for waves
of ecstasy to rock my whole body, and I vibrate, an odd sensation of
delirium and discomfort coursing through me. I’m still pulsing when I
hear a car door slam. I jump, and through my rearview mirror I see Dave
striding toward me.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER FOUR

“I have to go. I’ll text you later,” I say frantically to Justin, and then I
pull my earbuds out and wipe my hand on a Kleenex in the console. My
heart’s beating so fast that I can’t calm it before Dave knocks on my
window.
I toss my bag on the passenger seat, open my door, and put a leg out
to keep it from slamming shut. “What’s going on? Why are you here?”
I’m speaking too quickly and furtively look at my phone resting next to
my bag, wondering if I missed Dave’s call while I was getting myself
off.
Dave bends and leans into the car, a cup from Beans, our favorite
coffee shop in Grosse Pointe, in his hand. “I saw your missed call after
Julia called me. So I called and texted you a bunch of times, then I
checked your listing schedule online.” He cocks his chin at the FOR
SALE sign with my smiling, though pinched, face posted on the front
lawn. “I wanted to catch you before you left. I thought we should go to
Ann Arbor and talk with Ava together about what happened at the
dorm.”
My chest flutters painfully with panic over the terrible risk I’ve just
taken. And it twinges at how casual Dave is with me, like I’m an
acquaintance and not the woman he proposed to in Paris, his hands
shaking as he slipped the ring onto my finger before I’d even said yes.
I’m not sure how I feel about him anymore. I’ve been so hurt and angry,
forcing myself to go numb so I won’t collapse from the agony of losing
my best friend. All I can muster right now is slight exasperation as I
watch him put the cup on the roof of the car, then take off his glasses to
clean them with the bottom of his light-blue long-sleeved shirt. It’s such
a familiar habit of his, and I’m glad I don’t have to see him do it every
five minutes anymore.
 I step out of the car, peering down at myself. In my frenzy to hide
my salacious actions from Dave, I only did up the top button on my
pants and neglected to zip them. I button my suit jacket as fast as I can
and tug down the bottom of the jacket, hoping Dave can’t see my red
underwear through the open fly.
He gets the cup from the top of my car and hands it to me. I don’t
need a third cup of coffee today, and irritation shoots through me when
his eyes roam my face like he’s assessing me. He squints. “You’re all
flushed. You sick?”
I touch my heated face. “Just a busy morning with my showing.” I
feel someone else’s eyes on me. The neighbor is back outside, has
stopped her planting, and is hooked on our every word. Did she know
what I was doing in my car? What must she think of me? I don’t care. Or
don’t want to, at least. People do wicked things all the time. This is the
only time I’ve ever done anything that could be considered illegal. It’s
my new life, and I can’t let it pass me by as though I’m in a coma, like I
have for months.
“Can we talk at home?” I cough. “I mean, why don’t you follow me
back to the house?” I avoid his searching eyes, because whatever Dave’s
opinion is of me right now shouldn’t matter. I don’t belong to him
anymore.
“Sure,” he says, but he draws it out slowly.
His confused tone forces me to make eye contact. He’s still looking
at me carefully.
“What?”
He shifts from foot to foot. “You look good.”
I scoff. “You just asked me if I was sick.”
“On closer inspection, you seem . . . different.”
I laugh out loud at the transformation my life has undergone in less
than a day.
“Are you okay?” He pauses. “You’re acting weird. Have you met
someone?”
I look for any sign of jealousy or hurt, but his face is unreadable.
This is not my Dave, whom I loved for almost half my life. That Dave
had two moods: light and agreeable; tired and irritable. His feelings were
always pretty easy to decipher, or so I believed. But he’s pulled so far
away from me that I question how long he might have been wearing a
mask. If our issues are only about his grief. I don’t know how to broach
it, if I even want to right now, when I’m still on a high from my
conversation with Justin. So, I simply ask, “Would you care if I have?”
“I want you to be happy.”
“Are you happy, Dave?”
He just gives me a blank stare that I can’t interpret, so I give up.
“You look good too.”
He does. He’s cut his light-brown hair, so it’s a bit spiky on top, and
his hazel eyes are gold in the sun. But I’m not attracted to him like I am
to Justin. I never wanted to tear Dave’s clothes from his body and lick
every inch of him.
Is that because our relationship was solid and safe, while with
Justin, I was always on edge, anxious about what he truly felt about me?
Or did our marriage run its course, and I refused to accept that until
Dave forced my hand? I don’t regret any of our years together, though.
Without Dave, I wouldn’t have Ava, and no matter how much she seems
to dislike me a lot of the time, I love her more than anyone in the world.
Dave gets back into his car and tails me to Ivy Court, through the
leafy, serene residential streets, past the middle school Ava attended and
the field where she played soccer in elementary school—all these sights
as familiar to me as Dave is unfamiliar in his cold distance.
After we both park, I grab the full cup of coffee to throw it away
inside and walk up the four uneven steps to the porch—the ones we kept
putting off getting fixed. It truly sinks in that he doesn’t live here
anymore.
“I’ll change, and we can go. Sit for a minute.” I point to the chair
swing with the orange pillows, where I nursed Ava and where Dave and I
waited for her when she broke curfew every weekend over the summer.
When I insisted on accountability, I’d overhear Dave whisper, “I’ll talk
to your mother,” pitting Ava against me so he would look like the good
guy. Now that she’s in college and Dave and I are no longer together,
I’m not sure how we’ll handle anything, where the boundaries lie.
He awkwardly does what I ask, pulling on his left ear, a nervous tic
he’s had since college, and gestures at the front door. “There’s a package
for you.”
I look down. A pretty light-pink box with a white ribbon is propped
against the doorframe. There’s no card attached. I wonder if Jenna or
Natalie left me another birthday present. I hide my smile. Because of the
prosecco they gave me, I found Justin again. Without it, I might never
have messaged him.
I pick up the box. “I’ll take this inside and change, then we can go
to Ann Arbor.”
I leave Dave on the porch and head inside, where I put the present
on the small white table in the entryway. I’ll open it later. I want to get to
U-M as soon as possible and deal with our daughter.
“Where’s the extra key?”
I yelp, not realizing Dave followed me inside. “Where it always is.
Under the middle cushion on the swing.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not there.”
I roll my eyes. “Why were you even looking for it? I’ll find it in a
minute.”
“I worry about you on your own here.” He stoops a bit, like he
always does when he’s talking to me and he doesn’t want his six-foot-
three height to overpower my five-foot-four frame.
I huff a dark laugh. “Sure, Dave. You’re so worried that you ended
our marriage in a parking lot. You don’t get to play the nice guy here.”
He winces but as usual doesn’t respond. He only pulls his sleeves
down and looks at the floor.
I head toward the stairs to go up and change, when he starts walking
to the kitchen. Leaning over the railing, I ask, “Now what are you
doing?”
He turns around, flicks his eyes away from mine, and shoves his
hands in the pockets of his beige chinos. “I need the credit card bill. I
assume you have it. We still have a joint card, and I’m paying for it.”
That annoys me. “Because you don’t want to discuss what we’re
going to do about everything. Do you have a lawyer? Will I get surprise
divorce papers on the doorstep?”
He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”
I gape at him. “Dave. Come on. I don’t even know you anymore.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispers and looks at his feet.
It’s clear he’s suffering but equally as clear that he’s not ready to
talk to me. I can’t fight someone who doesn’t want to engage in battle,
so I just say, “I’ll get my own credit card. We can put Ava’s stuff on the
joint one.” Then I snort. “Seriously, Dave, can you get your statements
online already, like everyone else?”
He smiles at that. “You know I like to have things on paper so I can
file them. They should be coming to my new place anyway. I rerouted
everything, but the bill never arrived.”
His condo, he means, that I’ve never seen. Now, when I’m
reminded of how much he’d planned behind my back, I’m enraged. But I
want this day to go smoothly—the quicker we leave, the quicker I can
get back to Justin.
After changing into my usual simple black bra and underwear, a
pair of black leggings, and an emerald green sweater, I find Dave
shuffling by the front door. “Get the bill?” I ask.
He nods, and I glance at the pink gift box on the table. “I’ll open
that, then let’s go.”
I undo the ribbon and lift the top off the box. I gasp. And for a
second, I wonder if it’s from Dave, a peace offering, a surprise, a way to
make amends.
“You love that book. Nice gift,” Dave says.
Not from him then. And my chest skitters, because inside the box is
a battered used copy of The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Quickly, I
flip through the pages, which have pencil markings in the margins like
the book that I was looking at in Pages today right before I went to my
listing.
He points at the book. “Who’s it from?”
“I’m not sure,” I answer honestly, because I don’t know what else
to say. I had thought of my conversation with Justin about that book all
those years ago but never mentioned it aloud to him.
“Someone left a box at the house, and you don’t know who?” He
sounds skeptical and narrows his eyes. “Is there a card?”
I shake my head. Maybe there’s an inscription inside the book—but
if it is from Justin, who knows what he might have written. I open it to
the first page, angling my body away from Dave. Nothing.
“It was probably Jenna or Natalie. For my birthday.” I look sharply
at him.
He hangs his head. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I didn’t forget your
birthday. I didn’t know if you’d want to hear from me.”
 I’m not sure if I did, either, because a meaningless greeting does
nothing to salve the wound he opened.
“It doesn’t matter. Why do you care who left me a present?”
He lifts his head. “I’m just concerned, okay? The extra key is gone,
and now you’re telling me someone anonymously left you one of your
favorite books on the porch.”
“You love this book, too, if I recall correctly.”
He tugs his sleeves down again. “Eden, I only loved it because you
recommended it to me.”
Against my will, I soften. “That was a long time ago.”
Turning so he won’t see the sadness I know is evident on my face, I
walk onto the porch. He follows, and I lock the front door. I also don’t
want Dave to know how rattled I am about the book. Could Justin have
looked up my home address and dropped it on my porch? But how could
he possibly know it’s the same book I picked up off the shelf a few hours
ago? Is it even the same book? Was he the person I felt watching me
outside the store? No, that’s ridiculous. Maybe he was thinking about
that same conversation on the Diag I was.
I don’t know whether to be alarmed or touched that Justin might
have somehow discovered how much this book means to me, that it’s
always reminded me of him. Or is it just a weird coincidence? Jenna or
Natalie could have just as easily gotten it for me.
While Dave heads down the steps, I shoot them a quick message in
our group thread.

Eden: Hi, ladies. Thank you so much for the prosecco. I’m
sorry I wasn’t up to going out. Maybe another time next
week? Also, did you leave a book for me on my porch today?

Jenna: Good timing! You caught me while I’m watching

Ryder play soccer terribly. Lol. Sorry, hon. It wasn’t me. And
yes to going out sometime next week. I’ll check my
schedule. I hope your birthday was okay considering
everything.

I don’t want to tell Jenna and Natalie about Justin, at least not yet.
We’ve only had a few conversations, and though they were racy and
something I should discuss with my best girlfriends, I’m afraid they’ll
warn me to stop before I get in too deep. Justin has explained why he
ghosted me all those years ago, but I know that Jenna, especially, never
trusted him. I don’t want to stop talking to someone who makes me feel
so good when Dave can barely even look me in the eye.

Natalie: I didn’t leave you a book either. Which book?

Eden: The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

Natalie: Dave?

Eden: No. I’m with him now. We’re actually going to see Ava.
She got caught drinking. I’ll fill you in later.

Jenna: Uh oh. Ava’s in trouble.

Natalie: Ugh. Is she okay, Eden?

Eden: Hope so. She’s having trouble dealing with the split.

Jenna: Understandable. Keep us posted on Ava and the

mysterious book fairy. Are you okay?

Eden: I’m okay. Talk soon.

I’m not okay. I’m not sure what I am. I put my phone in my bag and
stick my hand under the middle cushion on the swing. Dave’s right. The
extra key we’ve kept hidden there since Ava was a baby is gone. I
haven’t looked for that key in a long time. Ava might have taken it and
forgotten to tell us.
If the only odd occurrence today was the missing key, I’d let it go.
But between that, the feeling that I was being watched outside Pages,
and the same book mysteriously being left on my doorstep, I’m spooked.
I smooth my finger across my lips as though it will help me find the
answers. Then something Justin said from our phone conversation comes
back to me.
“Imagine I’m in the car with you.”
I told him when to call me. I never told him where I’d be when he
phoned.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER FIVE

Unsettled, I follow Dave to the Range Rover that he’s had for five years.
The only change he’s made is the U-M DAD sticker he’s pressed onto the
back window. While I’m having a torrid online relationship, his midlife
crisis, or whatever he’s suffering from that he won’t talk to me about,
seems as mundane as our marriage. I wish he’d have bought a flashier
ride or gotten a tattoo—something that indicates he needed a change in
his life and leaving wasn’t all about me, like Ava believes. Like I believe
too.
But Dave’s problems aren’t mine to solve, though I am worried
about him. And myself. I don’t recognize the person I’m becoming, but I
don’t want to go back to who I was before last night. I’ve never felt this
exhilarated.
I can’t tell if I’m looking for reasons not to trust what seem to be
Justin’s genuine feelings for me then and now, or if something is off.
Should I message and ask him what his intentions are or extricate myself
from whatever is happening between us before it gets even more out of
control? Do I ask him if he left me the book? If he has our house key?
No. I would sound insane.
“You okay?” Dave asks as he opens the passenger door for me. “I
was right about the key, huh?” He smiles, but it’s not condescending. It’s
a flash of my old Dave, who was enamored with my academic intellect
and amused by my sometimes-wandering mind. And it calms me down.
Before I get in, I say, “Maybe Ava took it to college with her?”
“She definitely took her attitude.”
I laugh, maybe to expel the bottled-up tension between us, and to
my surprise, so does he, his body folding like an accordion, like it used
to when we found joy in each other. I can’t remember the last time Dave
and I laughed like that.
 As he straightens, though, pain flashes across his face. I can’t stop
myself from lightly touching his arm. “I’m sorry if I wasn’t the wife you
wanted.”
He blinks, then takes off his glasses, which have filmed up a bit,
and cleans them once again with his shirt. Without looking at me, he
says, “It’s not your fault, Eden. I think you’re perfect.”
I don’t know how to take that. If perfect means boring, and I didn’t
excite him the way he needs. But he’s turned his back to get into the
driver’s side of the car.
Dave always does the driving. Not because it’s his car. He likes to
think he’s better at it than me. He’s not. He’s slow and overly cautious,
so cars have to honk before he realizes the light is green. But I’m too
keyed up to drive, too full of conflicting emotions that I won’t be able to
focus properly.
I reach to take the credit card bill in his hand so he can start the car.
He snatches it from me and puts it into the glove box. “Sorry. You know
I like to put things in spots myself so I remember where they are.” He
turns the key in the ignition and faces me again. “You look better
without me.”
It’s such a powerful gut punch of a statement. And it’s true. I feel
like I’m glowing, but I’m also wrestling with how reckless I’ve been. “I
think I like myself better too.” I give him a pointed look.
His face blanches. I meant to hurt him, but it doesn’t feel good.
Awkward silence fills the car, and I look out the window. There’s a
lot of traffic this gorgeous Saturday afternoon. It’s cool but the sun is
strong, and Dave squints to see the road. When he takes the ramp to get
onto the I-94 West, I pull out my phone. There’s no text from Justin. I’m
both relieved and disappointed. I don’t want to mention the gift until I’m
certain he’s the one who left it. Since it wasn’t Jenna and Natalie,
though, I can’t think of anyone other than Justin who might have.
If Justin was in Grosse Pointe, why not ask to meet me for coffee or
lunch? And he knew I was in my car when we talked. Is he hiding
something?
I must be restless, because Dave glances over.
“Do you have to pee?” he asks.
I can’t help smirking. “No, just getting comfortable.”
“Maybe it’s the lacy underwear making you uncomfortable.”
 So he did see my unzipped pants when I got out of my car. Was he
always this judgmental?
“I’m surprised you noticed,” I shoot back.
His neck muscles tense. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing, Dave.” I put my hands in my lap. “What are we going to
do about Ava? I’m really worried about her.”
“I am too. But she’s a firecracker, Eden. And we all make mistakes
in college.”
“Is that how it’s going to be?” I shock both of us when I slam my
palm against the door.
Dave jumps. “Calm down. I’m driving.”
That makes me even angrier. I’m tired of suppressing everything I
want to say. “No, Dave! This time I won’t lay down the law and you
brush off the fact that she’s on warning. It’s not fair.”
His hands tighten on the wheel. “Okay. You’re right. It’s just that
she’s having a hard time—”
“Which isn’t my fault, as you said.”
He cringes and nods. “We were going to buy her the Les Paul guitar
this week. What if we put that on hold until she can prove she’ll follow
the dorm rules and stay in line?”
“Now you’re asserting your parental responsibility with her?”
Dave’s hands curl tighter around the steering wheel. Being snarky
isn’t going to help, so I change tacks.
“Ava’s wanted that guitar for so long. We promised we’d get it for
her before the music faculty showcase next week. She’s going to hate me
for this.”
“I’ll lower the boom. I promise. If her record is clean, and her
grades are decent, we’ll get it in December for her birthday.”
I’m glad he’s offered to take the heat for this, but I know Ava will
still blame me. He’s right, though. Throwing money at the problem isn’t
a long-term solution.
We’re both quiet the rest of the ride, but the tension in the car is
heavy with all the things unspoken. As we pass Pierpont Commons, I’m
hit with a stronger sense of nostalgia than I’d felt when we’d dropped
Ava off. A mere six weeks ago, I reminisced about all the afternoons I
strolled from the English literature department at Angell Hall to get some
food at the student union. The day we brought Ava here, Justin wasn’t on
my mind at all. I was caught up with my discordant emotions: my
daughter leaving home; freedom from being a full-time mother; my
conflicting thoughts about my marriage, which became moot only a few
hours later when Dave asked for a divorce.
It’s shocking how quickly life splinters into before and after.
Dave keeps looking into the rearview mirror and pulling his right
sleeve down. His fidgeting makes me tense. “Why are you so restless?”
“I could swear the same silver car has been behind us since we left
the house. But it’s gone now. I think I’m on edge about Ava and that key
disappearing.” He glances at me. “You don’t have a stalker, do you?” He
laughs, but it’s nervous.
I flinch but belittle myself by snorting. “As if.” I hear the slight
tremor in my voice, though. “Do you?”
The twitch in his shoulders is lightning quick, but I notice it.
Suddenly, I wonder if Dave’s bizarre behavior over the last six months
and now his weird focus on the credit card bill have anything to do with
me at all. But he simply shakes his head.
Perhaps we’re both hiding something.
But after Dave pulls into the circular driveway outside Bursley Hall
and parks and we start walking a foot apart toward the dorm, I leave
behind my pent-up grievances and mixed-up thoughts about Justin. I put
my hand on his arm. “You’ll tell her about the Les Paul?”
“I promise.”
He promised to love me for better or worse, too, but for now, we’re
a team, here to support our child.
Dave reaches forward to open the door to the main entrance of the
dorm, then stops. “I’ll meet you up there. I forgot my phone in the car.”
“I can wait here.”
When he returns with his phone, we go together to Ava’s floor,
where outside her room, music bounces off the walls, but it’s not
unpleasant. It’s my daughter’s melodic, throaty voice accompanied by
the scratchy plucking of her guitar strings. It warms my heart and
pinches it at the same time. Ava is never happier than when she’s
creating and singing, and she’ll have to stop to face her parents about the
party in her room last night. Dave hesitates for too long, so I rap my
knuckles on the door. We need to rip off the Band-Aid.
“Come in!”
 I open the door, and there’s my baby, sitting cross-legged on her
single bed, strumming her guitar. It’s such a familiar sight in an
unfamiliar space. In a pair of pink sweats and a black Nirvana T-shirt,
her slim build looks slighter. Deep circles are etched under her usually
alert eyes.
She must see the concern on my face because she rolls her eyes to
the ceiling. But there’s also a tiny smile tugging her lips up that I can’t
make sense of.
“Seriously? It was one warning. I had two drinks. Ugh.” She swings
her long legs over the side of the bed. “I assume you’re coming in to
lecture me. Let’s have it.” She flicks her attention between me and Dave.
Quickly, I turn around and see Dave’s eyes soften as he looks at
Ava. I knew he’d have trouble giving her tough love. So, I harden as a
reaction, like always. I nudge him with my elbow. Ever the gentleman,
of course he lets me enter her room first, which is tidier than I expected.
At home, Ava’s laundry was piled so high that one of her friends could
have been living in between the sweaters and towels and I’d never have
known. But in her single room, the bed is neatly made, and her clothes
seem to be hung in the closet, since her floor is bare. Though I suspect
she might have cleaned up after getting caught partying last night.
When Ava was in high school, I envisioned dorm shopping with
her, laughing together while we chose funky art for her walls, a bold-
colored duvet, perhaps red or with bright geometric patterns. I even
started a list of records I wanted to surprise her with, along with a
turntable. When I suggested a day out together, though, Ava informed me
that she’d already bought everything she needed online. I never
purchased the record player because I worried it would only prove how
out of touch I was.
And as I look at the duvet that she must have recently bought
herself—jet black with a skull and crossbones—I know she’s right. I
don’t know my daughter or what she wants.
She follows my eyes, pointing at the duvet. “Too dark for you? Not
a good look for me?”
I was thinking that the all-black background makes her room seem
smaller. But I hold my tongue and say, “I like it. It suits you.”
“Whatever.” She flops back on her bed, covered in sheet music, and
crosses her thin arms over her chest. I want to ask if she’s eating enough,
but I have to choose my battles. She’ll be eighteen in December,
officially an adult, but to me she looks like a lost little girl. I want to both
hug and scold her at the same time. I want to ask her to forgive me for
any wrongdoings but also show her that I’m only trying to protect her.
What I also wish is to tell her that I’m as confused as she is by her
father’s decision to break both our hearts so she knows I understand her
pain. But I can’t, because driving a wedge between Ava and Dave isn’t
what I want for them.
“Honey,” I start, but Dave cuts me off.
“What’s going on, Ava Bug? We’re worried about you.”
I cringe inwardly—the best way to make Ava clam up is to tell her
you’re worried about her. And I thought our plan of attack was Dave’s
firm announcement that we’re not buying her the Les Paul until she can
show us that she’s taking school seriously. Ava winces too. Then she
glares at me when my phone buzzes in my bag.
“Work?” she asks snidely.
“Probably,” I answer curtly, hating myself for engaging with her.
But she always does this: makes me feel guilty for having a job and life
of my own. For a staunch feminist, Ava has some very patriarchal ideas
of how I should be.
Dave steps back toward the door. “I’m going to quickly tell Julia
we’re here in case she wants to speak to us.”
Dave leaves, escaping the confrontation we need to have. I’m sure
he’s hoping I’ll have solved it when he returns, which angers me. We
were supposed to be a united front, with him taking the lead, and now
he’s gone. Typical.
Ava and I stare at each other. Well, I gaze, trying to figure out what
to say as she glowers. I decide to wait for Dave to come back. I’m not
doing this alone. I pull out my phone. It is indeed a text from a buying
agent about my Lakeside Drive listing. There might be an offer with
contingencies. I text back quickly that I’ll call her in an hour.
My phone buzzes with another text. I look and wish I hadn’t.

Justin: I want to hear you scream my name.

I can almost see the sparks fly from my skin. Immediately turning
away from Ava, I put my phone in my bag and place it on Ava’s desk. I
can’t look at her right now with cheeks I know are crimson, so I busy
myself with straightening the papers next to her laptop.
“What are you doing?”
Ava’s voice, that text, make me jumpy, and I bang my head on the
shelf above the desk, knocking it askew. I try to right it, but it won’t
level. I point to it, relieved to have a distraction. “Dad can fix that. It’s
not safe. It can fall on your head.” I hold my own head and turn around.
“I want you to be safe. That’s all Dad and I want for you, Ava. To be
safe, healthy, and happy.”
She scoffs bitterly. “No, you want to control me.”
Before I can argue, Dave returns. He looks at me hopefully, like I
knew he would. I give a quick shake of my head and sit on the bed,
unsure whether to scoot closer to Ava or stay rooted to the end of the
mattress. Dave leans his back against the desk.
“Look, I’m sorry that I had a few girls here.” Ava pouts at Dave.
“But it wasn’t as bad as Julia made it sound. We were all fully clothed.
Yes, we drank. Yes, it’s against the rules and illegal. But I’m in college!
Of course I’m going to drink. Isn’t that how you and Mom met?”
Score one for Ava.
“Well, not exactly,” I say.
Dave chuckles, but I look sharply at him because Ava needs to
understand boundaries and consequences. I want her to love college, like
I did, but I also want her not to get kicked out in her first semester.
“Ava, my love, I was twenty-two when your dad and I were at that
party, so it wasn’t illegal like what you did.” She opens her mouth, but
Dave jumps in.
“Your mom and I actually met at the Book Nook, which was an off-
campus bookstore on South State Street. I went in once and saw her, and
I kept going back. I only went to the party because I knew she’d be
there.” He smiles at me. “I might not have had the guts to ask you out
without Tyler’s encouragement.”
I know Dave is trying to ease the strained conversation, but
reminding Ava how much her father once loved me isn’t helping. And
after talking about Tyler and the party just last night, it hits me again
how vulnerable Ava is away on her own with little adult supervision.
“Do you remember I told you about my friend, Tyler, honey?”
 Ava bobs her head. “Yeah, Mom. Everyone here knows who Tyler
Yates is. He has a whole memorial bench outside the athletic center. It’s
like an urban legend to scare us away from doing anything fun.”
I swallow my frustration. “Except that it really happened, Ava. And
he disappeared from the party where Dad took care of me and got me
home safely.” I debate how honest to be, whether to show my daughter
my flaws. I have to. “I got so drunk that I blacked out. Anything could
have happened to me. It was a wild party with a lot of very inebriated
kids. And Tyler vanished without anyone even realizing.”
“Or so they said,” Ava retorts.
Dave jumps in. “The point is, Ava, alcohol reduces your ability to
make good choices.”
“You and Mom splitting up involved no alcohol. So, shitty things
happen all the time.”
I hear Dave suck in a breath.
Then she regards me with those brown eyes that have always made
me feel like she can see straight into my soul.
“I have to rehearse for the music faculty showcase for homecoming.
Just tell me how disappointed you are in me, once again, so we can get
this over with.”
I rear back. “When have I ever said I’m disappointed in you?”
“You don’t have to say it. I feel it every time you look at me. You’re
always comparing me to you. How I’m not hardworking enough,
motivated enough, goal oriented enough. My clothes aren’t appropriate.
My room is disorganized. I don’t want to be anything like you, afraid of
what everyone else thinks.”
“That’s not true, Ava,” Dave says firmly. “Your mother wants the
best for you.”
I’m grateful that he’s actually defending me, but Ava’s assessment
of me cuts to the bone.
My mind whirs through memories of her from birth to now, like one
of those flip picture books she had as a kid. The faster you turn the
pages, the faster the characters move to the end of their stories. Is that
how she sees her childhood with me? A series of my parenting failures,
not the kisses on bruises and scrapes, the cheering at her soccer games
and music recitals, the laughter when I dyed the ends of her hair purple
when she was fourteen, because she asked me to.
 Have I viewed Ava as an extension of me, like my parents did? Still,
no matter how angry and hurt Ava is, her cruelty toward me is
unacceptable. “You’re going too far,” I say quietly, trying hard to keep
calm. “I’m sorry if I’ve ever made you feel like you’re not measuring up
to my expectations, because I think you’re amazing and strong and so
much more self-aware than I was at your age. But this is not the
conversation we came here to have.”
Her eyes narrow; her sudden coldness worries me. I’ve seen Ava
sever friends from her life faster than she changes socks. She’s tough,
and if you cross her, you don’t get to come back. I want a closer
relationship with her than I had with my mother, but I don’t know how
that’s possible now.
My parents’ absence in my life is more of a lost opportunity to have
a real relationship with them than a gaping hole. I never felt like a
priority to them, and I’ve never wanted Ava to feel that way. My love for
Ava is unconditional and almost painfully deep. And I don’t know how
to care for her right now.
“Ava, your mom and I are going to talk outside for a minute, okay?”
Ava shrugs like she doesn’t care, but I see the fear and also a flash
of hope cross her face. As defiant as she’s being, she almost seems happy
that we’re here.
I follow Dave into the hall, where we both wait for Ava’s door to
slowly thwack closed behind us.
He sighs heavily. “You’re an excellent mother, Eden.”
“I’m so much more than that. You and Ava just don’t see it.” A sob
breaks free. Justin does see that, and I wish I could escape into my little
world with him.
Dave shuffles, then scrapes his hand through his hair like he doesn’t
know what to do with himself. “For the record, you’ve never made me
feel like I’m not good enough. It’s that it can be hard for Ava to live in
the shadow of your dreams for her when she’s trying to find herself on
her own terms.”
I lean against the wall, for the support I can’t ask for from him.
“Are you talking about Ava or you?”
He flushes. “Ava.”
“Right. Well, she can’t get away with everything by turning us
against each other, Dave. Or blaming everything on our separation.”
Something about this visit bothers me, though. “Did Ava look a bit . . .
pleased to you?”
He squints. “What do you mean?”
“I think she might have wanted us to come here together.”
“Oh,” he says quietly. “To force us together, you mean?”
I nod. “Maybe. This is the first time we’ve seen each other since our
last visit here.”
“Look, why don’t you take a walk and let me talk to Ava alone
about last night.”
I hesitate, because I don’t want to run from our daughter. But the
combustible energy between me and her isn’t helpful either.
“Okay. And the Les Paul?”
“Yes.” He looks at Ava’s closed door. “I’ll tell her we’re not buying
her the Les Paul until her behavior improves.”
I move to open her door to say goodbye, and Dave says, “You left
out some stuff about that fraternity party.”
I turn around. “What do you mean?”
“That drummer douche you made out with in the front hall?”
I feel myself blush to the roots of my hair. “Douche? Really,
Dave?” I remark on his word choice to delay talking about this. But I
can’t. “I never knew you saw that.”
His cheeks go pink too. “Of course I did. I looked for you from the
minute I got there.”
I gawk at him. “So why didn’t you ever say anything?”
He smiles sadly. “Because you went home with me.”
I almost want to tell Dave that his leaving me has given me a
second chance with Justin, but I can’t hurt him like that. I don’t have it
in me.
Instead I say, “Hopefully if anything like that ever happens to Ava,
someone will be looking out for her.”
“And that she never meets someone who gets her wasted, then
ignores her.”
Now it’s my turn to squint at him. “What are you talking about?”
“The drummer. Whatever his name was.”
“Justin.” I clear my throat. I really don’t want to talk about him with
Dave, but I feel a need to defend him. “He’s not a douche. That’s not
fair. He didn’t even know I was sick that night.”
 Now Dave looks surprised. “How would you know that?”
Quickly looking at the floor, I say, “Because I never told him why I
left him, and I think he was with his band the rest of the night.” I shrug
like none of it matters.
Dave shakes his head. “You were completely out of it, so I don’t
know how you would remember anything, but he definitely wasn’t with
the band when we left.” He laughs. “I clearly remember seeing them all
in the living room, because the bass player gave me a thumbs-up, and I
thought I was so cool. Anyway, the point is, I hope Ava has good people
around her.” He turns the knob on Ava’s door.
My mind racing, I ask Dave, “Can I have the car keys? I might
actually take a drive. It’s been a while since I’ve hung out in Ann Arbor.”
“Reminiscing?” Dave asks as he fishes his keys out of his pocket
and hands them to me.
Nodding, I go back into Ava’s room and look for my purse. It’s not
on the desk where I left it. I see it on the floor. I pick it up and kiss Ava
on the top of her head. For a moment, I feel her relax.
“I’ll be back soon,” I say to the estranged members of my little
family.
Ava stiffens. “You’re leaving?”
“Do you want me to stay?” I ask hopefully.
“Will it change things with you and Dad?”
I press my lips together to stop the cry that wants to burst out of me.
“I think that’s a conversation for you and your father. I love you, Ava,” I
tell her and walk out her door, knowing exactly where I want to drive.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER SIX

I stand on the circular driveway outside Bursley Hall, looking at the

sprawling grounds of the north campus, memories washing over me. I
can vividly recall so many moments from freshman year all the way to
graduation. Only that one night at the Sigma Chi party is mostly lost to
me. So much I never knew, so many things out of my control. I wish I
could fill in the missing pieces.
Those aren’t the only missing pieces in my life, though. And once
I’m in Dave’s car, his familiar citrusy scent enveloping me, I do wonder
if Ava was hoping that her behavior last night would bring me and Dave
together. The only times that he and I have really talked over the last six
months were conversations about her. Even if they were arguments, they
might have been better than our silence for Ava, who not only has
embarked on a totally new stage in her life but has lost the stability she’s
always depended on.
It’s up to Dave right now to be more honest with Ava than he’s been
with me. I can’t keep trying to get through to him when all he seems to
want is to push me away.
I need to take care of my own needs too. So, I google Ward
Contracting—the company Justin owns, according to his Facebook
profile—and click on the Current Projects page on the website. There
are three renovations: a rental unit in Arbor Hills, a new build in North
Burns Park, and a home being completely gutted in Kerrytown. The
office is closed on Saturdays, and I don’t know if Justin’s crew works on
the weekends or if he’s on site. But the chance that I could see him today
sends a tingle through my whole body, despite what Dave has told me.
I could simply text Justin and ask to meet, but it’s more daring to
show up unexpectedly, demonstrate that I’m thinking about him, that I
want him. Then I’ll ask if he dropped the book at my house.
 I turn on the GPS, because I’ve never actually driven around Ann
Arbor, and navigate to the furthest of the three sites, in Arbor Hills.
Quivering with nerves when I stop at the curb outside a triplex, I see a
bunch of men in hard hats hauling wooden planks into a dumpster in a
driveway, but I don’t spot Justin.
I get out of the car and as close to the rental unit as I can. I don’t
want to actually go inside, but I can see into each of the large double-
hung windows on every floor. He doesn’t seem to be here. I don’t have
that much time, because Dave and I need to drive back to Grosse Pointe
and I’d like to speak to my daughter again before we do. I want to leave
in a good place, with her knowing she can talk to me about anything.
Just in case, I ask one of the men if Justin is around or where he
might be, but he doesn’t know. I have no luck at the next location either.
He’s either at the last one or somewhere else entirely.
Somehow, not seeing him makes me more desperate, and I make the
eight-minute drive to Kerrytown in five. When the GPS announces that
my destination is on the left, I park in the only spot on the street, at the
curb across from a house under demolition. In the steep, slanted two-car
driveway, there’s a big black truck with WARD CONTRACTING stamped
on the side in white block lettering. I hear drills whirring and hammers
banging, but I don’t see anyone.
Sweat pools in my armpits, and my pulse quickens. He could be in
that house, seconds away from me. Will he be happy I’m here? If he can
give me an orgasm with only his voice, hunt down my address, drop a
gift at my house—if it was him—surely I can stop by his worksite?
I pull down the rearview mirror to swipe on a bit of lip gloss and
mascara. I definitely don’t look twenty-two, but my eyes are shining, my
skin is glowing, and I’m more animated than I’ve been since Chuck died
and everything fell apart.
Blowing out a breath, I open my door and put one leg out as a man
emerges from the front of the house.
It’s Justin.
I lose all sense of space and time; my throat goes dry. My heartbeat
thrums in my ears, and I can’t move. He is the sexiest man I’ve ever seen
in real life. From his confident, cool stride down the driveway, to the
way his dusty black T-shirt hugs his taut biceps and broad chest and his
faded jeans hang low on his hips—I’m an inferno. It’s not just his looks
or that he exudes sex; it’s his allure.
I can’t seem to get out of the car. Instead, I watch as Justin pushes
his hair off his forehead—with the same casual flick of his long, slim
fingers that I remember from college—walks to the black truck, opens
the trunk, and rummages inside. His back view is as enticing as the front.
I don’t ogle every good-looking guy I see. I was married—technically I
still am—and though of course I have found other men attractive, I
haven’t fantasized about them. Justin is the only person other than Dave
I’ve wanted to touch me.
Now that I’m so close to him, I’m terrified. He slams the trunk, a
box of tools in his hand. I need to get out of this car.
I do and call his name. Quietly, at first, and when he doesn’t seem
to hear me, I say it louder.
He swivels and faces me, shielding his eyes from the sun. I smile
and wave.
He squints and doesn’t wave back.
I drop my hand immediately as my insides plummet. Maybe the sun
is blocking his view of me. On shaky legs, I step forward, crossing the
street to clear the space between us. He’s still squinting, but it’s not
because of the sun anymore. He looks confused.
He looks like he doesn’t know who I am.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER SEVEN

I’m shocked, then slammed with such a gale force of hurt and
humiliation that I need to grab the tree trunk next to me for support. I
don’t understand. Why doesn’t Justin recognize me? Do I look that
different in person from my photos? Am I not as attractive, and he’s
trying to find a way out of the relationship he’s started with me?
Up close, he looks older. His dark hair, once so black it was almost
blue, is flecked with silver; fine lines spider at the edges of his eyes
when he crinkles them in what seems to be bewilderment. It feels like
half an hour has gone by while I stand dumbstruck at the end of the
driveway, willing myself not to cry.
A crash from inside the house jolts us both. He doesn’t give me a
moment more of his attention. He hurries back up the driveway, toolbox
banging against his hip, and disappears inside the house.
I’m alone.
The impact of his rejection makes my knees buckle, but I keep it
together until I get back in the car, where I burst into tears. Guttural, raw,
they pour out of me, not only because Justin must have been playing a
cruel game with me, maybe back in college, too, but because no one
wants me. What’s so wrong with me that the people I care most about
don’t care about me at all? Why do I let them treat me like this?
Years of pent-up pain purge from my body in heaving sobs until I’m
exhausted. I rarely cry for me, and this deluge of tears is even harder
than when Dave drove away, leaving me alone in my car in the dorm
parking lot. When I was little, I was told to be resilient when I was hurt;
when Dave completely shut me out, I was told I was hovering and
everything was fine; when Ava reduces me to a control freak who only
cares about what other people think, I’m expected to be her human
punching bag. Justin saw me as the woman I want to be—erotic,
carefree, beautiful, exciting—at least that’s what I thought. But now, as
the sheen of this new relationship becomes tarnished, I realize it’s the
same thing he did in college: Catch and release. With me as prey.
I’ve been so caught up in the possibility of starting over with him, I
forgot how much he could hurt me. The times he didn’t bother showing
up for sessions, leaving me sitting in the carrel by myself, feeling stood
up. My obvious infatuation with him that he’d toy with while never
asking me out on a date or letting me know that he was truly interested,
until the Sigma Chi party. But then all the other sweet moments with him
flood back: how he’d look at me with awe when I’d coach him to write a
powerful opening line for his essays, helping him receive a B, his
highest grade in English ever, and the way he brushed my hair from my
face while kissing me. Was it all an act?
I look for tissues in the console, where Dave usually keeps them,
but there are none. I open the glove box and don’t find any there either. I
also don’t find the credit card bill that Dave had to get today, the one he
practically shoved into the glove box before we left Grosse Pointe. When
he said he forgot his phone in the car, was he actually getting the bill?
But why hide it from me?
Confused, deeply wounded, and angry at everyone, I slam the glove
box closed and wipe my face with my sweater, not caring if my mascara
streaks all over it. Once again, I’m numb.
I turn the key in the ignition and leave Justin behind, not ready yet
to see my daughter and her father. My coparent: that’s what Dave is to
me now. I’m truly on my own. I’ve had enough of letting people walk all
over me.
I make a left and idle at the curb outside the white-columned Sigma
Chi house, which still looks the same as the night of the party.
I swallow the nausea creeping up my throat because of how gullible
I was then, actually believing I mattered to Justin as much as he mattered
to me. How gullible I am now, trusting someone I barely know with my
deepest, most intimate thoughts and my broken heart.
I check the time on my phone. I’ve been gone forty-five minutes
and have received no texts from Dave or Ava, so I guess I have a few
moments to go inside the frat house. Maybe it will jar my memories of
the night, give me some perspective on how much importance I’ve
placed on Justin coming back into my life. I need to shut the door on the
past.
Right before I turn off the ignition, my phone rings. Justin’s name,
which I’d embarrassingly already saved in my contacts, flashes across
my screen.
“Yes?” I say curtly, hoping to cover the catch in my voice, because I
don’t want him to know how much pain he’s caused me.
“I’m so sorry, Eden. I was shocked to see you. And my wife was
inside the house taking some photos for our company website. She can’t
know about you.”
“Your wife?” I’m such a fool.
“Ex-wife. We’re not divorced, and I don’t know what to call her.”
“You still work together.”
“Yes. I told you, it’s complicated. You can’t show up like that. It can
make things very bad for me.”
My every instinct is screaming at me to hang up. But I don’t. Since
last night, I’ve been walking on air, elated and delirious with ravenous
hunger for this man. Everything, even the sky outside my window is
bluer; the sun, brighter, like I’m fully present in my life after so much
avoidance and pretending. He reached out to me. I want to give him a
chance.
Still, I have no interest in being the other woman. “Bad for you
how?”
“I’ll tell you everything, Eden, another time. I’m working now. But
she and I still live together, on opposite sides of the house—”
“You live together? What kind of game are you playing with me,
Justin? You lied to me. And not just about this.”
“No. I didn’t. Hear me out. Please.” He exhales loudly. “Okay, my
ex, Olivia . . . I don’t love her. I’m not sure she knows what love is. But I
can’t move out just yet. And I don’t want to lose you. I was afraid if I
told you that, you wouldn’t understand.”
The corner of my lip curls in consternation. “You’re right. I don’t
understand.”
He exhales a long stream of air. “Look, my former wife is a bit
unpredictable. I don’t have the stability yet to start over on my own. And
she can’t leave the house either.”
 All of a sudden, it hits me that perhaps it’s money Justin is after.
Dave is a successful corporate lawyer; I’m a Realtor. If Justin knows
where I live in Grosse Pointe, it wouldn’t be hard to access any number
of websites to find out the value of our house now.
“Did you come to my house today?”
“What?” He clears his throat. “No. You mean because of the book?”
“Yes.”
“I found it in a used bookstore in Ann Arbor and remembered how
much you loved it. A client of mine was driving to Grosse Pointe, and I
asked him to drop it off. I meant it to be a birthday present.”
I’m confused. Talking to him makes everything feel electric, but I
don’t know if I can believe what he says. It’s possible that it’s not the
same copy of the book I saw. I didn’t look closely enough in Pages to
know if the pencil markings were the same as in the book his client left
for me. I can’t ask Justin if he was following me. But I can ask
something else.
“How did you get my address?”
“The white pages online.”
It makes sense. But he just dismissed me like I mean nothing.
“I appreciate the gift. But it’s not okay, Justin, to make me feel like
shit. Like you’re using me for—”
“Sex?”
“Yes.”
He sighs. I don’t hear much in the background, and I wonder where
he is.
“I care about you. And to be fair, you started the phone sex today.
I’m not doing anything you don’t want me to. But it’s not about sex. It’s
connection. Don’t you feel the energy between us?”
I rub my forehead, where a headache drills into my temples. “Yes, I
feel it, but I don’t trust you.”
“I told you that you were the one who got away. I meant it, Eden. I
thought about you so many times over the years. And out of nowhere,
you friended me. It felt like fate.”
I truly don’t know if he’s handing me a line or being sincere. “What
do you really want from me?”
He lets out a grunt of exasperation. “I want you to feel as good as I
do whenever I think about you, which is all the time now. I love talking
to you. We’ve both been in unhappy marriages. We get each other. I just
need some time to figure things out on my end. I’m risking a lot just to
talk to you. I’m not sure how to handle it, to be honest.” He pauses, then
says, “And in terms of keeping this between us for now, would you want
Dave to know what’s going on with us? Have you told him? Or
anyone?”
“Not yet,” I admit. I watch as a young man saunters up the steps to
the white-columned frat house. “Where are you?”
“In my truck outside the house I’m working on. Why, where are
you?”
“The Sigma Chi house.”
There’s a crackling through the phone. “What are you doing there?”
“Trying to remember more about everything that happened.”
“Why?”
“I don’t really know.” I look again at the house and those concrete
steps I walked up so many years ago, full of excitement and hope, then
only a few hours later, I had to be carried back down them. “I just hate
that I lost a whole night of my life and my friend.”
Justin sighs. “I know. I think about Tyler a lot.”
I grip the phone tighter. “If you cared about me so much back then,
why didn’t you even look for me at all that night?”
“I told you. I thought you didn’t want me. I wasn’t about to go
chase after someone who’d rejected me. I was a proud, cocky drummer
who didn’t often make girls run away from me.”
“So you dealt by smoking a bong with your band?”
“I don’t understand what you’re asking.”
“Where were you when I was throwing up in a bathroom?”
“I’ve told you all this already. I was with the band. Maybe I went to
the bathroom first or got another drink after you ran off. Who even
remembers? It was ages ago. I don’t understand what’s happening here.
We’re not the same people we were. And it’s insensitive to throw that
night in my face when you’re the one who got wasted, took off, then I
lost Tyler forever.”
Shamed, I say, “You’re right. We’re not the same people. I’m not
even the same as I was just a few days ago. We’ve . . . sexted and had
phone sex. Maybe you’ve done this before, but I haven’t.”
 The line is silent. I pull it away from my ear to see if the call has
dropped, but we’re still connected, so I wait.
“I never came to your house or place of work. I basically had the
book delivered. Yes, as a romantic gesture, but I didn’t knock on your
door. You question my intentions when you shouldn’t have any
expectations here. I wanted this to make us feel free, but now it’s like
I’m not following some set of rules that I never agreed to. It’s a turnoff.
Even my wife wasn’t this needy.” His delivery is cold.
His sharp words pierce my heart. Am I too needy? I don’t know
what to make of his sudden mood switch, so I say nothing.
“Look, I care about you, but maybe we’re not in the right place in
our lives to start something together.”
A crater opens in my chest. I don’t want to lose this. I can’t. He’s
the only person who’s wanted to be with me. The only thing making me
happy right now.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ve been unfair. I’ve had a hard day, and I
haven’t ever done anything like this either. I don’t know how.”
My stomach flips waiting for a response.
The line goes dead. He’s gone.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER EIGHT

I get back to Ava’s room, despondent, hating myself for practically

begging Justin not to leave me and confused about how things went so
wrong with him so fast. Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed about where he
was at the frat house after I ran away from him. If it even matters. I’m
clearly the problem in all my relationships. I don’t know anything
anymore.
Dave’s sitting in Ava’s desk chair while she’s on her bed, playing a
song on the Fender guitar Dave and I gave her when she was ten. It’s her
favorite of her three guitars, but for years she’s coveted the Gibson Les
Paul we said we’d put off buying her until she started college.
I look at Dave over her head, mouthing, “Did you tell her?”
He grimaces an assent, then says out loud, “Ava wrote an original
for the student showcase next week. It’s beautiful.” Dave wipes his eyes
from under his glasses.
“Can I hear it?” I ask nervously, not sure where I’m supposed to sit.
I opt for the floor.
“No. And it would sound a lot better on the Les Paul.” Ava levels
me with a cold stare. “You promised you’d get it for me when I started
college. You lied.”
“We talked about this, Ava,” Dave says firmly in a stern voice that I
haven’t heard in so long. “We’ll still buy it for you once you prove that
you’re taking school seriously.”
“You always protect her and take her side.” Ava slaps the mattress
with her hand.
“I want to protect both of you.” Dave pushes himself up, and I hear
his knees pop. “We should let you hang out with your friends. Mom and
I will head home.”
Ava is still watching me, though.
 “What?” I’m troubled by the laser-sharp stare she’s aiming at me,
like she’s figuring something out.
She looks away, shutting me out. I stand, unsure what else to do.
“Ava, honey, I love you so much.” My chest constricts, and I try not to
weep. “It’s going to be okay. Me, you, and Dad. Change is hard, but we
always have each other.”
Tears pool in her eyes, but she angrily swipes them away before
they fall. “But we don’t, though. Have each other. I’ll do anything to
help you get back together. Please.”
Dave just wraps her in a hug and beckons for me to join him. I do,
and Ava lets me into the huddle, or at least she doesn’t shove me away.
The three of us silently hold each other, and my heart breaks a little bit
more.
Unable to make it all better, yet again, we leave our daughter behind
and walk to Dave’s car for the drive home. I’m quiet and lean my head
against the window, watching the sky turn pink until we’re on the I-94.
Then I look at Dave.
“You need to make it clear with Ava that she’s not responsible for
getting us back together.”
He nods, staring straight ahead at the road. “I tried. I told her it’s
not her fault or your fault. That it’s about me.”
“Did you ask her if she orchestrated that visit?”
He flexes his fingers, still not looking in my direction for even a
second. “She sort of did.”
I realize he’s still wearing his wedding ring. I wonder if he’s noticed
I’ve taken mine off. I don’t want to read into it, but it’s hard not to. “If
you keep your ring on, she’s going to keep having hope.”
I see him swallow.
I do, too, then decide to ask a question that he can’t escape from in
the confines of his car. “Why did you leave, Dave? It’s not fair to me or
Ava not to know why.”
He breathes out so heavily that I feel it in my own body. “Do you
like who you are, Eden?”
The question has been so much on my mind since reconnecting
with Justin.
“You shuddered.”
 I shake my head. “Not a shudder. More of a startle. I’ve asked
myself that a lot recently because of some conversations I’ve had.”
“With who?”
I pull my bag closer, where my phone is silent, debating how much
I want to share with the man I’m still legally married to and who’d
called Justin a douche only a couple of hours ago. “Justin Ward.”
His head swings toward me. “Wait. What? We just talked about
him. You didn’t say a word about being in touch with him again.”
Rage bubbles inside me until it erupts. “Are you kidding me? You
left me. Broke our daughter’s heart, which she thinks is my fault. And
you have the audacity to call me out for not telling you I’m speaking to
Justin? No way, Dave.”
He holds up a hand. “I’m sorry.”
“People change. You don’t even know him.”
“You’re right. I don’t know Justin. I’m basing it off how he treated
you at that party.”
“Whatever. I don’t want to talk about him with you.” It’s painful
because I don’t know if I’ve lost Justin for good. And that’s not what this
conversation is about. “Dave, I don’t think the issue is whether I like
myself or not. It’s that I don’t know who I want to be. Or who I really
am.”
“I get that.” He pushes his hair off his forehead, causing the sleeve
of his shirt to rise. I notice a black swirl that seems to be a stamp on the
inside of his right wrist. He clocks me looking at it and quickly pulls
down the sleeve.
“Do you really? Because for over twenty years, I was your wife,
who believed with my whole heart that no matter how hard life became,
it was always us.” I lift my shoulders and drop them heavily. “You took
one of the biggest parts of my identity away from me. You changed after
your dad died. You refuse to talk to me about it. And it’s me who seems
to be the issue.”
He puts his hand on mine. His touch used to soothe me. Now, it
hurts, as does his total lack of response to my outpouring of emotion. I
yank my hand away and gaze out the window until he turns onto Ivy
Court.
Dave pulls into the driveway, shifts nervously, and pushes the
button in the center console for the parking brake as though without it,
we’ll roll backward in the idling car.
He scrapes his fingers through his hair three times, then asks, “Are
you free for dinner next week?”
I’m scared. Does he want to start divorce proceedings? Find a
mediator? Talk about selling the house? “Can you just tell me everything
now?”
“It’s been a long day for both of us. I’d really like to talk when we
haven’t just battled it out with Ava.”
It has been the longest day, and I don’t have the energy to argue.
“Fine.”
He stares at me straight on, his face paler than it was a moment ago.
“I’ll text you, and we can coordinate a good time. Maybe Roberto’s?”
“Fine. Though I question your choice of restaurant considering this
doesn’t feel like a family celebration. Should I come with a divorce
lawyer?”
“Just you,” he says quietly.
Again, my eyes are drawn to the stamp on his wrist. Did Dave go to
a club? The image of him in his beige chinos dancing awkwardly in the
middle of a group of young women is so laughable that I snort before
exiting the car.
He waits, probably to make sure I get in safely because the sun has
set and the house is dark, but I wave him off. I drag myself up the
cockeyed steps, and the motion detector lights come on. I’m about to
open the front door when I see something gold glint under the porch
swing.
It’s the extra key.
Bending, I pick it up, but instead of tucking it back into its hiding
place under the cushion, I bring it inside. Dave might have inadvertently
knocked it on the ground when he put his hand under the cushion to find
it, but neither of us saw it under the swing. We were both distracted by
Ava, but I’d rather not keep the key outside.
I immediately flick on the lights, but something feels different. The
house is chillier than usual, though when I look at the thermostat, the
heat is on. Still, I should check the furnace, something else I’ll have to
do on my own now, along with dealing with any plumbing and lighting
issues. I can do them all—it’s something I’m versed in as a Realtor, but
I’ve never had to deal with those details in my own house. It’s
overwhelming to be responsible for everything here. Maybe I should
look for a smaller place, like Dave has.
Heading down the steep steps to the finished basement off the
kitchen, I’m sad all over again. As Dave started spending his evenings in
our bedroom alone or at his office, I occupied myself by creating a “zen
space” for Ava in the main room, with beanbag chairs, fluffy pillows,
posters of her favorite bands, and a huge flat-screen television, hoping
she’d invite friends over and find comfort at home, but she rarely did. At
her friends’ houses, they were apparently left alone to do whatever they
wished, whereas I’d hover, bringing down snacks and chatting to blank-
faced teenagers who didn’t want me there. All I wanted was to be a part
of her world. If I’m staying in the house, maybe I’ll turn this room into a
library just for me.
I’m buoyed by the image of walls of books, green library lamps, a
cozy armchair, and soft blankets to curl under, but I shiver because it’s
even colder down here than upstairs. After heading to the furnace room
next to the stairs and seeing the unit is working fine, I go back into the
main room, trying to locate the source of the chill.
I push open the door of the small powder room at the far end, which
looks out onto the backyard. The window is completely open. A trickle
of fear slides down my back. I don’t know if it’s been open for a long
time and none of us realized, or whatever the frightening alternative is.
We don’t have an alarm anymore, because one of us was always setting
it off by accident. All the security we have is a sticker from the alarm
company on the front window of the house.
I step around the toilet to access the window. The screen is
unlocked too. It’s a typical small basement window, but big enough that
a person could stuff themselves through it. Quickly I close and latch the
screen and window, sweeping my eyes around the space, which has a
narrow shower with a glass door and a mirrored medicine cabinet.
Nothing seems amiss, but I don’t like the worry spreading in my chest.
“You’re being silly,” I say, my voice reverberating off the walls. “You
can take care of yourself.”
I let the open window go as a simple oversight of my own making,
but an ominous heaviness pervades the house—and me. Quickly, I run
back upstairs and turn on every light. It’s now close to 7:00 p.m. and it’s
dark outside. Drained from this entire day, I collapse onto the living
room couch, where only last night I sent Justin a message and
completely lost control of myself.
On a Saturday night at seven—before Chuck died, Dave retreated
into himself, and Ava avoided being with us—I’d usually do the laundry.
Then Dave would help me make meals to freeze for the week, and he
and I would organize the weekly chores on our shared Trello board. If
Ava was home, we’d microwave popcorn and sit together on the couch
to watch a movie or play a board game. Now, the only laundry to do is
these leggings and sweater I’m wearing, plus a few things in the hamper,
and I don’t have any food I need to prepare for anyone. I don’t have
anyone to hang out with.
I wish Jenna and Natalie were here with me, a huge bowl of mint-
chocolate-chip ice cream between us, like we used to eat with three
spoons in our cramped apartment. I want to pretend I’m not an adult
dealing with adult problems. I need my friends.
I start a group FaceTime, add them, and luckily, they both join. I
feel immediate calm when I see Jenna’s big smile, her strawberry blonde
hair in its usual messy weekend bun, and Natalie’s warm brown eyes that
fill with loving concern.
“I’m just making dinner,” Jenna says, while her son, Ryder, still in
his soccer uniform, waves in the background. “Did you figure out who
gave you the book?”
These women know me better than anyone. And I’ve never directly
lied to my best friends until now. Justin treated me poorly today, but I
also made mistakes. I’m not sure Jenna and Natalie will see it the same
way, though, because they remember the bad boy I, too, can’t seem to
separate from the man he is now. Am I lying to myself? Has Dave
treated me any better than Justin? Maybe this is what love is like at
middle age, with all its baggage and trauma.
“A client gave it to me,” I tell them, feeling my cheeks warm with
guilt. I look at the white living room curtains instead of the screen for a
few moments, until I’m sure the lie isn’t written all over my face.
“That’s nice! It’s because you’re excellent at your job,” Natalie
comments, stirring something in a pot on her stove.
I smile, my stomach grumbling even though I’m not really that
hungry. Natalie’s a wonderful cook and used her grandmother’s Indian
recipes to make most of our meals when the three of us lived together in
college. But I didn’t eat lunch, and I’m not sure I even ate breakfast. I
bring the phone with me to the kitchen, prop it on the marble counter,
and open the freezer, which now only holds ice cube trays and freezer-
burned lasagnas. I close it and grab a can of tomato soup, bread, butter,
and cheese.
“Fancy meal you’re making.” Jenna laughs. “Seriously, though,
Eden, what’s up? Everything okay with Ava?”
I give them the rundown of the afternoon, ending with Dave
possibly going to dance clubs now and he and I having dinner next
week.
“Nat, do your boys ever say that you make them feel like they’re
not good enough?”
Natalie’s heart-shaped face softens, and she tucks her long brown
hair behind her ears. “Eden, honey, it’s our kids’ jobs to make us feel
responsible for their insecurities. Sure, sometimes we mess up, but you
love Ava so much, and deep down she knows it. She’s just hurting.”
“And we know you’re hurting too. Will you please come over to my
place next weekend? You can stay over?” Jenna offers.
Jenna lives in Dearborn, and Natalie in Lincoln Park, where I grew
up. We’re all within a half-hour drive of each other, so Jenna’s invitation
isn’t because I’d need to sleep there. It’s simply because she loves me. I
agree, and we blow kisses at each other, our standard goodbye since
college. After logging off, I take my soup and grilled-cheese sandwich to
the living room, where I sit back on the couch. Soon, there’ll be a
permanent indent from my ass.
I shouldn’t be so afraid to share my life with my friends. I don’t like
how insecure and self-conscious Justin made me feel. The emotional
turbulence, obsessive thoughts, risky behavior, secret-keeping—none of
it is me.
I should end this.
I pull out my phone. Justin has texted. I want to read it, and I also
don’t want to even look at it. Unable to withstand the temptation, I click
on his message.

Justin: I’m very sorry I was so reactive. I was on edge because

Olivia was close by. I want to see you, but in a place where
we can be alone.
 I put my phone on the couch. Then I let out a scream of frustration.
I do it again, because it’s cathartic and no one is here to tell me to chill
out.

Eden: You treated me like I don’t matter. This isn’t good for
me. You’re not good for me.

Justin: Wait. Let me explain. Please?

Eden: Tell me the truth and what it is you want from me, or
I’m deleting your number.

Taking back control is empowering. He has one chance to redeem

himself. Being alone is better than letting anyone lead me around on a
leash.

Justin: Losing you would hurt very much. I’ve never had this
kind of intoxicating relationship that revved up so fast. We
haven’t even talked to each other in person for over twenty
years. My life hasn’t been easy, and it sounds like yours
hasn’t been perfect either. We need each other.

Eden: This tells me nothing. Don’t play me.

Justin: I’m not playing you. I’m protecting myself. I’ve been
hurt. I’m afraid to get hurt again.

Tucking my legs under me, I read his message three times. I don’t
want to be a doormat, but everything he said rings true. Maybe I’ve been
too harsh.

Eden: I care about you. You make me feel high. But you also
make me feel really low. I’m not looking to feel worse than I
did before we started this. I don’t like the mood changes,
how terrible you were at your construction site and on the
phone after.
 Justin: You’re right. I take responsibility. I’m stuck living with
someone unstable who I don’t love, and who isn’t a good
person. I can’t go through anything like that again. But I do
trust you, Eden. I’m trying my best not to push you away and
let you run from me like you did in college. Can I please take
you on a date?

My body begs me to say yes; my brain insists I take some time to

think. I listen to my brain.

Eden: I’ll let you know.

I don’t check to see if he responds. I click out of my messages,

curious about the woman who Justin once vowed to love forever and
whom he describes as unstable. What if she’s dangerous to me?
I google her. But Olivia Ward seems to be an enigma online. While
I find women with that name and with thumbnail images and social
media accounts that could possibly be hers, none are in Ann Arbor, and
Justin isn’t friends on Facebook with anyone by that name. Perhaps she’s
not on social media; maybe Olivia didn’t change her name when she
married Justin.
I type in Justin Ward wife and get a single hit. It’s their wedding
photo in the Ann Arbor society pages. Justin, as good looking as always
in a black tuxedo, stands next to an ethereal-looking blond. Her name is
Olivia Walker. She’s beautiful. They look so happy, like Dave and I did
in our own wedding photos. Her father is Griffin Walker, it says in the
short piece, the owner of Walker Developments, an apparently lucrative
firm if Justin and Olivia’s wedding landed in the news. It’s all I can find
about Olivia. I want to know more.
I can possibly track her down through the sales history of their
home if they co-own it. Justin might be in the white pages online, like I
am. If I agree to a date, I want to know if Olivia’s instability is a worry
for me.
All the agents at Greenwood Realty have access to the full MLS,
the Multiple Listing Service database, through the brokerage. It’s
restricted from the public.
 When I type in my credentials, it’s restricted from me too. I’m sure
I made an error. I was on MLS just this morning at my listing. But my
next two tries into the database are denied.
Maybe something’s wonky with my phone, or the site is having
issues. I head to the seldom-used dining room next to the kitchen. My
laptop rests on the farmhouse-style table we bought only a few months
ago. It’s almost 8:00 p.m., and through the window that faces the side of
the house, the moon is barely visible tonight. I turn on the lights, sit on
the pale-blue wing chair, shoving away dreams of the Thanksgiving
dinner we might never have here, and open the laptop.
I try MLS three more times. Access denied.
I head back to the couch for my phone and am about to call Sylvie
when I realize that I not only missed a text from her but also never called
back the agent whose client was interested in the Lakeside house.
My stomach tightens with a dreadful cramp. Sylvie’s text simply
reads: Call me.
I do.
“Hi, Sylvie.” I look at the time on the TV display. It’s 8:15 p.m.
“Sorry to call so late. I know you like to have an early night. I just got
home from seeing Ava at U-M.”
Silence. I know Sylvie is there because I can hear her breathing, but
my anxiety goes into overdrive. Usually, she’d respond with a cheerful
‘Hello’ and ask about Ava. Tough but warm, Sylvie has been my mentor,
guide, and—while not a close friend—someone I’ve trusted and looked
up to since I joined the brokerage. I consistently sell the highest-
commission homes, which is why she recently asked me to join her as a
partner.
“Eden, I don’t even know what to say.” Her tone is steely and cold.
In response, I stutter, “I d-don’t understand what you mean. I know
I haven’t called the agent from RE/MAX back yet, and I’ll do that right
after we get off the phone. Oh, and my access to MLS is blocked.” That
all came out in one garbled, frantic breath. I blow out a stream of air and
more calmly say, “There was an incident with Ava, and it’s been a bit of
a trying day.”
“Someone saw you. Parked outside the Lakeside house. Doing . . .
what you were doing.”
A crushing weight lands on my chest. No, no, no.
 “I know you’ve been having a hard time, Eden. I, too, went through
a . . . questionable phase after my divorce, but to engage in that kind of
behavior at a listing, outside the house you are trying to sell . . . It’s not
only unprofessional, but it’s also illegal.”
Sylvie sounds so upset and disappointed in me; I fight not to cry.
“Who saw me?” I regret the words the second after I say them.
“That’s not what’s important here. But a woman, one of the
neighbors, she said, called me this afternoon to report you pleasuring
yourself in your car. She also said a man pulled up and you talked with
him.” She clears her throat, obviously uncomfortable. “Are you using
your listings to meet men?”
“No, I’m not meeting men!” I say too loudly and lower my voice,
unable to stop the choke of tears from spilling out.
I remember the woman gardening. I thought I was hiding my hand
down my pants, but clearly not. And Sylvie’s right. The point isn’t that I
got caught. It’s that I did it in the first place.
“I . . . I have no excuse for what I did in my car. I’m very
embarrassed. I should never have done that. I didn’t think anyone could
see me.” I bend my head in shame. “I’m so sorry. I’m not myself right
now.”
“I was shocked when I got the call, Eden. I know this isn’t like you.
But I can’t have my reputation or the brokerage’s called into question,
much less a charge of public indecency if this woman actually reported it
to the police. Who knows if she has photographic evidence? Those
houses have excellent security cameras.”
I didn’t think about any of that. I put my entire career in jeopardy
for a single phone call. What the hell is wrong with me?
I put my head in my hand. “Please, Sylvie. I don’t know what came
over me. I have no excuse.”
“I don’t want to do this, but I have to suspend your access to MLS,
to our listings, and I’m giving the Lakeside house to Trina.”
I needed that commission to keep my own financial stability. I don’t
know what to say to make this right. What I’ve done is inexcusable.
“I understand,” I tell her.
She sighs heavily, and I now empathize with how Ava likely felt
when Dave and I showed up today to discuss her infraction—ashamed,
scared, regretful, and wishing she could turn back time and make better
choices. Even if her ultimate goal was to unite me and Dave, she lost out
on getting the Les Paul that she’s wanted for so long. I’ve lost the house
I worked very hard to sell.
“There’s more, Eden. You committed a crime. You put me at risk,
and yourself. I think you should take some time to work things out.”
What I need less than anything is more time on my own, but Sylvie
has made her decision. I’m powerless to change the outcome.
My throat hitches. “How much time?”
“As much as we both need for this to blow over. I assured the
person who reported it that you wouldn’t be back on the street or
anywhere near the house.”
Before I can say anything else, she hangs up.
I’ve lost everything.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER NINE

I’m too devastated to cry, too tired to eat.

Dragging myself upstairs, I collapse on the king-size bed where
Dave and I spent the last two decades with at least one part of our bodies
always touching. Until, of course, he started sleeping as close to the edge
of his side as he could get, lying with his arms crossed, on his back, like
he was in a coffin. No matter how often I wash the sheets, it still smells
like oranges and cinnamon, a scent that used to be home for me. Now it
makes me lonelier than ever.
I crawl under the cool sheets and toss my phone onto what used to
be Dave’s space. I have no reason to wake up early tomorrow, no listing
to show. Lying back on the pillows, duvet pulled to my chin, I start to
run through the terrible decisions I’ve made. One of those is putting my
financial stability in jeopardy.
I’ve always deposited my past commissions into our joint checking
account and withdrawn from there, and I rarely view our finances. While
Dave insists on having paper copies for his Luddite filing system, he set
up automatic withdrawals for most of our bills, and he’s always paid off
the credit card. I did the cooking, cleaning, appointment making. Our
household duties had been wordlessly delineated years ago, and it was
an arrangement that worked while we lived together. But I’m on my own
now.
I grab my phone, sit up in bed, and log on to our joint account.
There’s a healthy-enough amount of my own earnings for me to eat and
buy necessities like toilet paper, but I’m going to have to be careful with
my expenses so I don’t withdraw too much from Dave’s share. I want to
be independent, but who knows when or if Sylvie will let me back into
the brokerage?
 I move the cursor up to log out, when the arrow skims past our
credit card balance. I think about the bill Dave was so desperate to keep
me from even touching. I click on “recent transactions.” There are a lot
of charges I don’t recognize, which isn’t unusual. We have separate
lives. But two stand out as odd.
The first is a weekly charge of $300 to Celeste Rogers, dating back
to March, totaling $6,600. That’s a large sum of money to someone I’ve
never heard about before.
I google her, and I’m surprised to see a website for a
psychotherapist. Just like I’d never told Dave about my brief time with
my therapist, Nancy, he obviously didn’t tell me he was seeing someone
either. I’m sad how much of ourselves Dave and I kept from each other
when we should have been working together to fix our marriage. But I
am glad he’s been talking to someone, even if it’s not me. Even though
he refused to go to therapy with me.
On the landing page is a photo of a smiling Black woman, whose
bio says she specializes in accelerated experiential dynamic
psychotherapy. I have no idea what that is, and so many thoughts crash
into me at once.
I research further and learn it’s a form of talk therapy using
someone’s past traumas and experiences to unpack their current
emotional state and heal them. Am I Dave’s trauma? Was it Chuck? Or is
it something darker?
The other charge is the most bizarre. There’s a single five-dollar
subscription fee to something called “Trisk Inc.” I type that into Google
but get nowhere, not a company or a website. I try just trisk. There are
quite a few hits: a type of no-code software, a Hasidic dynasty, and
interestingly, Urban Dictionary tells me it can mean when a girl gives a
guy attention, but he ignores her, making her try all that much harder, as
in playing a trisk with her.
I lean back against the headboard, alarm bells ringing in my head. Is
that what Justin is doing to me? Running hot and cold to make me hang
on to any loose thread he dangles in my direction? But how does that
relate to Dave and this subscription? I’m missing something. I start
typing trisk into the search bar again, and before I finish spelling it,
triskelion pops up. I click. And I lurch at the symbol that appears in the
images—three interlocked black spirals, each with a white dot in the
middle making up the center, connected by a white curved line. It’s the
stamp I saw earlier today on the inside of Dave’s wrist.
Suddenly warm, I push the covers off and sit up straighter. What the
hell is going on? I find a link to what the triskelion symbolizes, and it
has no connection at all to the Dave I know. Translated from Greek, it
means “three legs” and is the oldest symbol of spirituality. Dave is
neither religious nor particularly tuned in to anything intangible, but
perhaps he’s finding his deeper side. Between therapy and this, he’s
clearly trying to figure out who he is apart from me.
Besides the stamp on Dave’s wrist, that symbol looks familiar. I
know I’ve seen it somewhere. Closing my eyes, I try to conjure the
image. My eyes fly open. It was in the local news. Adam Sumner, the
state superintendent of education, a married father with two young
daughters, was photographed coming out of a sketchy bar in Detroit,
with that symbol on the sign. There was some scandal about it being a
kink club and a lot of shame leveled at him until he resigned, and his
wife moved away with their children because they were being harassed
by the media and public. The trolls had a field day. I think Adam Sumner
left town too.
I search Adam Sumner’s name and find the articles. I open my
mouth, but no sound comes out. They’re from late March, a few weeks
after Chuck died and when Dave’s therapy sessions started appearing on
our account. I don’t know what the connection is between Dave, the
symbol, and this club, or Adam Sumner, but there seems to be one. I type
in triskelion and kink. A link immediately pops up. I click on it. A soft
drone fizzes in my ear until it reaches a crescendo.
The triskelion is the international symbol of BDSM.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER TEN

BDSM? Dave? I’d howl with laughter if the proof weren’t right in front
of me. Unless the stamp has another significance to him. My first
instinct is to text Natalie and Jenna, even Justin, to try to make sense of
what I’m seeing.
A sexual fetish of any kind is incongruous with the fairly repressed,
sedate man I married. Sadomasochism seems shocking to me. Especially
because the sex we had—from the first time in Dave’s bachelor
apartment a few months after the Sigma Chi party until March of this
year, when it became nonexistent and he made up excuse after excuse
not to be with me—was completely vanilla. We never talked about how
we wanted it; we just did it, mostly with him on top. I once yelled out
earlier in our marriage, but Dave looked pained and told me I didn’t have
to do that for him. I wanted to tell him it was for me, but I was
embarrassed and barely made a sound with him inside me after that.
While he rejected my every sexual advance, was he out tying up
other women in his secret condo? Am I not sexy enough, submissive
enough for him? The moment Ava left the house, he left me. For how
long was he biding his time?
I get out of bed and open the doors to our walk-in. It’s so bare
without Dave’s color-coordinated suits, polo shirts, and chinos hanging
precisely on their hangers. He’s really gone. But it seems like he wasn’t
really here for a long time.
I don’t find any magazines or DVDs, but of course he’s likely
looking at everything online, and maybe through that Trisk subscription.
There are no whips or chains, which might not be what Dave’s into, but
it’s all I know of the BDSM world. I do, however, see my blue-gingham
keepsake box on the top shelf. I pull it down and bring it back to bed
with me. I lift the lid.
 “Oh,” I say, taking out the concert and movie ticket stubs that I’ve
saved, the funny birthday cards Dave wrote to me, and Polaroids of our
years together before I used my phone for photos. I pick up a picture
from Ava’s first birthday, snapped by someone, maybe Dave’s mom,
because she’s not in the photo.
But Dave and I are, standing behind Ava in her high chair, a huge
grin stretching her chubby cheeks, her face covered in chocolate cake.
Chuck is to the left of us, leaning against the wall, looking at his son
with pride. Dave, beaming, has his arm around me, but his attention is on
his father. We were so happy that day, and Dave strutted around like the
king of his castle. I do recall, though, his relief when his parents left to
go home and how he’d clung to me while we had sex after Ava was fast
asleep. His eyes were closed the whole time.
What and whom was Dave imagining being with that night and ever
since? Did he ever want me?
Deep down, though, I know why he’s kept this from me. Even if I’d
been secretly curious about his interest in BDSM, even a few days ago, I
probably would have expressed my knee-jerk, deeply ingrained reaction
of shock, anger, and distaste. When the articles about Adam Sumner
came out, I did convey my dismay for his wife and children, declared the
club “seedy” even though I hadn’t seen the inside. I never once thought
about how awful Adam’s public humiliation must have felt. I would have
made Dave feel ashamed, like my mother made me feel. How I’ve felt
the last couple of days as I’ve been engaging in a sexual relationship
with Justin, because I don’t know how to let go without getting hurt in
the process.
I’ve been so repressed that I’m stimulating myself in my car, but a
deeper dive into the kink website Dave has a subscription to sparks my
intrigue. I can’t change how much he and I didn’t admit to each other,
and maybe ourselves, but we can admit what we feel now. Maybe we
can salvage our marriage. If we want to. If I want to.
I text Dave. I have to gather my thoughts before confronting him,
and a public place like Roberto’s isn’t the place to do it.

Eden: How about coming to the house tomorrow night

instead of going out? It might be easier to talk? I can cook
something.
 Dave: It’s Sunday. I can bring dinner.

Like he used to. I usually had open houses on Sundays, and Dave
would grab pizza, Thai, Indian, Italian, because I didn’t feel like cooking
after working all weekend. But I don’t have a job at the moment. I have
secrets to confess too.

Eden: Okay.

Dave: I have a big case going to trial in a few weeks so I need

to go into the office, but I can leave at five, get to you by
five-thirty at the latest.

Eden: See you then.

I curl up under the thick duvet, nobody beside me to press my cold

toes against. A light drizzle streaks down the window. I grab Dave’s
pillow and slide it between my legs for solace. As I fall asleep, I wonder
how I got to the age of forty-five and don’t know who I really am.

The noise, a shrill, incessant beeping, jolts me awake. At first, I think

I’m dreaming and ignore it. But when it doesn’t stop, I realize it’s the
smoke alarm.
I push away my duvet, swoop up my phone from the bed, and race
downstairs, where the screeching is piercing. Frantic, I don’t know if I
should leave, as I’ve always told Ava to do if there’s a fire, or run to the
kitchen where smoke billows. The acrid smell stings my eyes and
tightens my lungs. I wish Dave, or someone, were here to help me.
There’s a fire extinguisher under the kitchen sink, and I can escape
to the backyard if I need to. I bolt to the kitchen, where the haze is thick,
and coughing, I squint to see a smoking saucepan on the stovetop. The
light for the element glares red. A tea towel is inches away from the
element.
 Panicking, I grab the charred saucepan and toss it into the sink. I
turn off the element, throw open the sliding back door, then wave the tea
towel over the alarm until the shrieking stops. All is silent, but the
ringing in my ears persists. I sink to the floor. Did I leave the stove on
after I made my soup last night? I’ve never done something so stupid
before. My house could have caught fire; I could have died.
But why did it take so long for the smoke alarm to go off if the
stove was on all night? It was around 7:00 p.m. when I talked to Jenna
and Natalie and made dinner. I didn’t smell smoke at all before I went to
bed.
Shaking, I open the kitchen window to clear out more of the smoke,
thankful Dave and I bought an electric instead of a gas stove. All alone
in this house, I might not have heard a carbon monoxide alarm in time.
I can’t tell anyone about this. I don’t want people to worry about
me; I’m the one who worries about everyone else. I’m safe, and nothing
was damaged. But I’m sure I turned off the stove before taking my soup
to the living room, before I called Sylvie.
Sighing deeply, I drag myself to the living room and sit on the
couch, smoke clinging to the leggings and sweater I was wearing
yesterday. Once again, I didn’t change into pajamas, brush my teeth, or
do the nightly moisturizing routine I’ve had since I turned forty. I’m a
mess. My phone screen tells me it’s 8:00 a.m.
I have nowhere to go.
I’m sick of this couch I’m permanently attached to, this house that
feels like it’s attacking me, and my thoughts. Digging my hand through
my unruly hair, I decide a shower is the first step to making today a
better, healthier, more productive day. I wash my hair twice and make
some coffee.
The kitchen still smells awful, and it’s now freezing because I left
the door and window open. I close both, take a deep sip of my coffee,
and contemplate what to do with my hours before dinner with Dave.
I have to laugh at myself; otherwise, I’ll cry. My husband has had a
secret fetish for who knows how many years. I’ve been having a sizzling
online relationship with the guy I wanted for so long but could never
have. I don’t recognize my life. Is everyone hiding something they’re
afraid to be judged for?
 I can’t say I’m happy being suspended from work and with so much
hanging in the balance, but I feel like I’m at a pinnacle and things will
soon fall into place. They can’t get any worse. And after riffling through
my closet of boring baggy sweaters, button-downs, and loose dress
pants, I realize I need some new outfits. Nothing too expensive, but
slinkier, sexier clothes that make me feel beautiful and young.
For Dave, to show him that I’ve changed and I’m not as uptight,
and he can tell me everything about himself without fear and shame. For
Ava, to prove that her mother cares more about how she wants to express
herself than what other people think of her. And most importantly, for
me, to embrace my womanhood with all its scars and marks. As for
Justin, I don’t know what place, if any, he should have in my life.
At 2:00 p.m., after cleaning the entire house, washing down every
surface with vinegar, and spraying peppermint oil to clear the air of the
smell of smoke, I leave the house, pulling the knob three times after
locking the door. As I make the quick drive to Kercheval Avenue,
passing the houses I’ve sold over the last three years, I decide that today
is my fresh start. I won’t be stuck in limbo any longer, handcuffed to the
past.
I park and stroll along the sidewalk, remembering the first time
Dave brought me to the Village after we’d moved to Grosse Pointe Park,
staying with his parents until we’d bought our house on Ivy Court. I
loved this three-block area with its eclectic shops and restaurants, all of
which we’d tried within the first four months of living here. It felt safe,
clean—the perfect place to walk with Ava in her stroller and later hand
in hand with Dave while she walked ahead of us.
I stop in front of a small boutique with wrap dresses, slinky tanks,
and fitted trousers in the window display. I’m about to step inside, but
first I take out my phone and text Ava, asking if I can visit her soon, just
me and her. She doesn’t respond immediately, but she never does. And
she’s probably still furious with me for delaying her gift of the Les Paul.
No matter how Dave delivered the bad news, I’m sure Ava believes it
was my idea. But I’m satisfied I’ve made the first move forward.
Looking around the elegantly designed store with neat piles of
brightly colored cashmere sweaters and racks of chic dresses, I’m
overwhelmed, not sure where to begin, because I don’t know what my
style is. A salesperson smiles at me, and I consider asking her for help,
but instead, I grab anything that catches my eye.
In the changing room, there’s no mirror, so after pulling on a pair of
black pants that are tight but comfortable and a black sleeveless silk top
that’s so low cut, my cleavage is front and center, I exit the changing
room.
Tears prick my eyes when I look in the full-length mirror. The pants
make my legs look longer and shapelier, and though I cringe a bit at the
crepey skin at the base of my throat, the top moves like liquid across my
body.
“I love this look for you!” the young salesclerk says to me. “You
know we have that top in pink too—it would look amazing. Can I grab
it?”
I nod and grin, feeling confident and happy, feeling myself, in my
own skin.
Just as I’m turning around to see the back of myself, I spot a
woman who looks familiar at the jewelry stand close to the mirror.
Noticing me staring, she smiles tentatively and reaches for a
necklace.
“I’m sorry. I’m trying to figure out where I know you from.” When
it dawns on me, I feel myself blush furiously and wish I’d never said
anything. Now it’s too late. “The open house on Lakeside. You came
by.”
“Oh, yes! Hi.” She puts the necklace down and steps closer. “I’m
sorry. I don’t remember your name.”
“Eden.” I tick through my memory. “Lila, right?”
“You’re good. I can barely remember my doctor’s name.”
I laugh, instantly more at ease. “Occupational hazard of realty, or
whatever the opposite is.” I bite the inside of my cheek. I’m not in realty
at the moment.
She laughs, too, and glances at my outfit. “That looks really nice on
you.”
I beam. “Thanks. It’s a postseparation identity crisis.”
I’m surprised I blurted that out, but I’m not the selling agent on the
Lakeside house anymore, so I don’t need to be my usual professional
self. And I’m tired of pretending everything is fine in my life, when it’s
not.
 She chuckles. “Been there.”
“You’re divorced?” I put my hand over my mouth. “That’s none of
my business. Sorry.”
She shrugs. “Not at all. I’m an open book. Yes, I’m divorced. Three
years now. You?”
“A little over six weeks separated. Or on the way to divorce. I don’t
know.”
“Wow, that’s recent.” She makes a face of sympathy. “It gets easier.
I promise. Kids?”
“One. A seventeen-year-old daughter.” I can’t keep my mouth from
turning down.
She must notice because she winces. “That’s hard.”
“Do you have kids?” I’m hoping she says yes so I can talk to
someone, anyone, who’s been through this. I don’t have any close female
friends who are separated or divorced. Neighbors and acquaintances, of
course, but no one I’ve been able to share this with. Lila’s eyes get misty,
and I curse myself for being so intrusive—this is a lot to ask a near
stranger to spill outside a boutique changing room.
She shakes her head. “No kids. Just never happened. I’m at peace
with it.”
The wistfulness on her face contradicts her words, but I’m not about
to push.
Lila clearly picks up on my thoughts, because she says, “At times I
wish things were different, but I’ve found my way forward on my own.”
“And here’s the pink!” The salesclerk is back, but she can see we’re
having a moment, because she steps away and points to my changing
room. “I’ll put this in here for whenever you’re ready.”
I smile at the girl and say thanks, but my thoughts are on Lila. I
admire her honesty and strength. It makes me comfortable to share more.
I lean against the wall next to the mirror. “That’s amazing. I can’t
compare my situation to yours at all, but I’m trying to figure out how to
move forward in the best way.”
Lila nods. “Best is subjective. For me, it was understanding that the
future was entirely different and new, so I had to navigate it like that. As
though I was new.” She smooths her hair. “Do you have support?
Parents? Friends?”
 “My parents have both passed away, and my friends are as great as
they can be. But I don’t know anyone else close to me who’s going
through what I am, and I feel like I should be over it.”
“After six weeks?” Her eyebrows draw together. “You sound pretty
harsh on yourself.”
My phone buzzes from the changing room. It might be Ava, so I
apologize to Lila and check it quickly.

Justin: I miss you. I want to show you how important you are
to me. Please let me.

“Oh my God.” I didn’t mean to say that out loud.

“Everything okay?” Lila asks from outside the curtain.
“Yes. Sorry. Just answering a text. I’ll be out in a minute.”
“Take your time. I’m going to get some more stuff to try on.”
What Lila said about navigating her life as if she were new after her
divorce resonates with me. I, too, have been new these last couple of
days, and I’m not sure I want to go back to the Eden I was before Justin
and I started talking. I don’t think I even want to go back to where Dave
and I began, because there’s evidently a lot we’ve kept from each other. I
have so many questions I need answered from both the man I’ve spent so
much of my life with and the man I once wanted to. I owe it to myself to
get those answers.

Eden: I’d like to see you in person.

Maybe once I actually talk to Justin face to face, it will be the cold
bucket of ice water over my head that I need to finally let him go. Or if
there’s something real between us that we can explore in a more natural,
safer way without us misinterpreting each other on screen and over the
phone. And I can figure out whether I should fight for my marriage and
family, if Dave is at all willing. Or if I should completely start over on
my own.

Justin: How’s tonight? I can’t wait to see you.

 Eden: I can’t tonight. Monday?

Justin: If you find the place, I’ll come to you. 7 pm?

Eden: Yes.

I slide my phone back into my bag. When I emerge, I can’t hold

back my smile.
Lila’s at one of the racks. She comes back with a few sweaters
draped over her arm and asks, “Good news?”
I chew my lip. Somehow telling a stranger about what I’m going
through seems easier than telling Jenna or Natalie—there’ll be no
judgment, because she doesn’t know me or Justin.
Twisting my fingers, I say quietly, “I started . . . talking to someone,
I guess. He asked me out on a date.”
Lila lays the sweaters on the white couch across from the mirrors.
“Do you want to sit for a sec?”
“Sure.”
We both sink onto the soft couch. Lila crosses her legs and leans
back against the cushion. I mirror her body language.
“Talking is good. Having a little fling might be what you need.”
I let my guard down more. “Dave and I met when we were really
young, so this is my first experience with dating anyone else.” I gaze in
the mirror again, second-guessing myself and the sleek top I’m wearing.
“Honestly, I have no idea what I’m doing.”
Her blue eyes are full of empathy when she gently touches my arm.
“The first date I went on after my ex and I split was a disaster. A friend
set us up, and he started telling me about his son’s championship
basketball game, and I lost it there at the table. I don’t even know why,
but it was like, a whole mess of snot and blowing my nose on a linen
napkin. Epic.”
I can’t help it. Giggles spill out of me until we’re both dissolving on
the couch in the shop. Lila’s horrible first date shows me that none of us
know how to do this in our forties; I’m guessing she’s close to my age.
Another customer at the table of jeans glances over while the
salesclerk eyes the two changing rooms, maybe wishing we’d hurry up
and move on. Usually, I’d jump up so I’m not disturbing anyone, but I
stay where I am, reveling in this moment of unexpected connection.
“Where are you going for your date?”
I reach to fiddle with my wedding ring, then remember I took it off.
“Anywhere I think of that’s nice I’ve already been to with Dave, and I
don’t want the memory of him hanging over me.”
“I get that.” She places a finger to her lips. Her nails are chewed to
the quick.
I like that she has a bad habit, because it makes her even more
approachable.
“Oh!” she says. “There’s a super-cute place on East Jefferson that
just opened up, which I can’t remember the name of, that I love. Do you
know it?”
“East Jefferson?” I shake my head. “I don’t think so. If it opened in
the last month or so, I’ve been distracted by life.”
The salesclerk comes over. “Do you ladies need a different size or
color in anything?”
I look down at the black silky top. “I think I’ll take this.”
Lila points to the sweaters she chose. “I wanted to try those on, but
I have an appointment soon.”
I stand. “Sorry for keeping you with my sob story.”
Lila gets up too. “Not at all! I’d much rather stay and chat.” She
cocks her head. “I still have your card from the open house. Do you want
me to text you the name of that restaurant when it comes back to me?”
“I can look it up.” I hesitate before putting myself out there. Then I
do it. “Do you want to give me your number? It’s been really nice
talking with you.”
She grins. “Definitely. I feel the same.”
I get my phone from my bag in the changing room, and Lila recites
the digits. “Get in touch anytime.”
I plug in her number.
“Did you sell the house?”
I should have realized she’d eventually ask that, and I feel my face
fall. “No.”
“Well, it only just went on the market. I’m sure you’ll find a buyer
soon. And I loved the little personal touches, like the candles you chose.
Subtle and homey. Anyway, I’ll let you finish shopping. I’ll find the
name of that restaurant. It’s romantic but casual.” She takes the thin
silver necklace she was looking at from the stand, then hands it to me.
“This would look great with that outfit.” And with an elegant flutter of
her fingers, Lila walks away.
I buy the black silk top and necklace, plus a pair of flattering black
leggings and a form-fitting red sweater, and while going back to my car,
I get a text from Ava. Her response to my question about visiting her
soon is a simple thumbs-up emoji, but I’ll take it. It’s a tiny step forward.
Humming to myself, I place the pretty pink bag in my trunk.
I might have made a new friend, and tonight, hopefully Dave will
finally open up to me, and we can start to heal. Together or apart. But I
can’t contemplate my life with him until I truly know how I feel about
Justin. It’s not fair to anyone.
At home, I change into the leggings and sweater, nervous but eager
for Dave to come. By 5:40 p.m., he hasn’t arrived or texted to let me
know he’ll be late. He’s always punctual, and a little niggle of worry
creeps into my stomach. I peek out the front window and see that I
parked in the center of the driveway, making it impossible for his Range
Rover to fit. I must have been distracted. It’s fine. Maybe he’s driving
around the block, looking for a parking spot. There are few ever
available on our street. I call him to apologize. It goes to voice mail. At
5:45 p.m., I grab my keys to move my car.
From the driveway, I hear sirens, then red and blue flashing lights
as a police car and an ambulance stop six houses down in front of my
neighbor Parvina’s house, which I’d sold her a year ago. Concerned
because Parvina has a baby who recently had croup, I stand in the
middle of the street to see better. Parvina is talking to a police officer.
She points up the street. At me.
It’s then that I see the gray Range Rover parked across from
Parvina’s house. My heart jolts. There’s a U-M DAD sticker on the back
of the car.
I run down the street. Parvina runs up to meet me, with her son,
Roshan, in her arms.
“It’s Dave!” she cries. “I was going to call you. I was inside feeding
Roshan when I heard the screech of tires. I looked out the window and
saw Dave on the ground. I called 911.”
 Speechless, unable to process, I race with Parvina to where Dave
lies on his back on the road, eyes closed. Yellow tulips, my favorite
flowers, are strewn around him. An open white box with our usual
sausage-and-jalapeño pepper pizza from Roberto’s is close to the
sidewalk. Two EMTs are next to Dave.
“That’s my husband!” I yell. “Is he okay?”
The female EMT turns. “We’re transporting him now to Beaumont
Hospital.”
I drop to my knees beside Dave. “Is he alive?” I ask her, at a loss to
check if he’s breathing. I’m afraid to touch him. My heart smashes
against my chest.
“Yes, ma’am, but we won’t know the extent and severity of his
injuries until we get him to the hospital. You’ll have to step back, please,
but you can meet us there. The police have some questions.”
I can’t stop myself from gently running my fingers over Dave’s
closed eyelids. No matter what’s happened in our relationship, I love
him.
A sob breaks free from my body as the two EMTs lift him onto the
stretcher and place him in the back of the ambulance. A male police
officer sets up a ROAD CLOSED orange barrier in the middle of the street
to stop oncoming traffic, then approaches me. “Mrs. Miller, I’ll meet you
at the hospital after I’ve talked to Mrs. Nabi.”
I grab Parvina’s hand, which is shaking, and place my other hand on
Roshan’s tiny back. “Thank you. You saved his life.” Tears cloud my
vision as I begin to cry hard. “Did you see who hit him?”
Parvina shakes her head. “I’m not sure. It was all so fast. But when
I looked up the street”—she points in the direction of where Ivy Court
leads to the highway—“I think I saw a silver car.”

OceanofPDF.com
PART TWO
OLIVIA

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER ELEVEN

It’s the golden hour. The sky is fiery with red and orange streaks,
creating long shadows on the cobblestone path as Olivia walks to the
porch, overcome with relief that Justin’s truck isn’t parked in the
driveway. But he could arrive at any moment, so she hurries past the
garden, lush with pink hibiscus and orange butterfly weed, smiling in
case any of the neighbors are watching her from their windows. Her
mother planted the flowers; it’s the only part of her left at the impressive
Tudor, where Olivia’s lived since she was six years old and her brother,
Alistair, three.
Once Olivia enters through the arched oak front door and closes it
behind her, her smile drops. After hanging her white puffer jacket on the
brass coatrack by the door, she sweeps her eyes around the main floor,
with its dark wood paneling on every wall and the L-shaped staircase in
the center of the room, her gaze landing on the grandfather clock across
the entryway, behind the stairs. The cuckoo stopped chiming years ago,
but it still tells time. Seven o’clock. The energy in the air crackles with
tension, a foreboding. Olivia knows Justin must be close to home. She
can always feel his presence looming.
Rushing upstairs to the primary bedroom, she throws off her clothes
and changes into black leggings and a pink wrap sweater. Pink is Justin’s
favorite color. Then she strides across the landing to press her face
against the leaded glass in the upstairs diamond window. The streetlights
have come on, and the houses lining their enchanted block in the Old
West Side—an eclectic mix of Georgian Revival, Gothic cottages, and
Colonials, all surrounded by old maples—offer a sense of serenity
despite being so close to the hustle and bustle of downtown Ann Arbor.
Until she was ten, Olivia wanted to believe she lived in a fairy tale.
She dreamed of marrying a man just like her daddy, who, when he was
pleased with Olivia, called her his princess. She’d have done anything to
please him. Her mother, father, and Alistair are all gone now. She’s the
only one remaining from the Walker family. Olivia and Justin inherited
the house when Olivia’s father, Griffin, died of an aneurysm two years
after she and Justin had gotten married.
Picking at the peeling red damask wallpaper framing the window,
she watches Justin’s black truck roll down the street and turn into their
driveway. A few moments later, he exits and waves amiably to someone.
From his flirtatious smile, which Olivia can see under the amber motion
detector above the garage, it’s probably Bree, the gorgeous redhead who
lives a few houses down. Yesterday, Justin helped Bree carry a long box
containing her new flat-screen television into her house.
It’s not just the pretty neighbors he helps, though. He’s the go-to
guy on their street, the one who brings in groceries for their elderly
neighbors, shovels a car out of a snowbank, and sometimes even
provides a warm hug, because Justin can make anyone feel like the
center of his universe.
“You’re so lucky,” their Ward Contracting clients say when Olivia,
the office manager, shows up at their company’s ongoing renovations to
take photos for the website and check out the progress on their builds, as
do the women who gaze longingly at Justin when he jumps on the
trampoline and plays soccer with their kids at block parties; even Mandy,
the postal worker, a middle-aged U-M graduate and ardent fan of the
Screaming Demons, swoons in the presence of Justin Ward.
Olivia understands. He’s captivating. To outsiders, Justin not only
hung the moon but also created it. It’s a skill he learned from his mother,
Yvonne, along with her cruelty and narcissism.
Olivia hears the front door close and the thud on the wide-plank
wooden floor when Justin drops his toolbox with a bang. He brings the
toolbox inside to upset Olivia. He knows she doesn’t like to see clutter in
the entryway. And the floors are already scratched from years of use.
She treads to the top of the stairs, trying to read his mood through
his actions. His heavy steps head to the kitchen, and he gets a beer from
the fridge, which he kicks shut. Once the neighbors can’t see, he doesn’t
care what he damages.
She waits until she hears Justin move toward the living room.
Time to go downstairs, Olly, Alistair says.
 Her younger brother was the only person who called her Olly; he
was Ally. Deeply enamored with his big sister, Alistair was barely three
when he burst into tears because he couldn’t pronounce her whole name.
Olivia, equally besotted with her sibling, made it easier for him, giving
them each a nickname only for the two of them. It was always the two of
them. “Like Velcro. Always sticking together,” their mother, Diana, used
to affectionately tease, placing the responsibility of caring for Alistair on
Olivia’s little shoulders.
Their mother suffered from frequent migraines, and while she
rested in her bedroom, drowsy from the heavy medication she had to
take, Olivia was more than happy to keep Alistair occupied with the
make-believe games he loved. His favorite was king and queen of the
castle, when they’d sit on the gold straight-backed chairs in the living
room as if they were perched on thrones. Her favorite was hide-and-
seek, because there were so many places in the Tudor that they could
sneak into.
She didn’t realize until she was much older that the punishments her
mother received for not pleasing Griffin were far more severe than the
spankings and slaps Olivia got. Diana sedated herself in her bedroom so
her children wouldn’t see how much pain her bruises caused her. Their
castle was really a prison. For Olivia, it still is.
Sometimes her dead brother is the only person she talks to. Unlike
Alistair, though, she knows the voice in her head isn’t real. But it’s a
comfort all the same.
Gripping the railing, she goes slowly down the stairs, a cramp
twinging inside her from her gynecologist appointment this morning,
and sits on the last step before the landing platform. Then she puts her
face against the oak railing bars, angling her head so Justin can’t catch
her observing him from behind the wall separating the front hall from
the living room.
From the moment she first laid eyes on him twenty-three years ago
at an open mic night at Benny’s, the dive bar close to the U-M campus
and the Alpha Phi sorority house, the sight of Justin Ward has made her
weak.
Olivia hadn’t even wanted to go to the loud, crowded bar, which
had more neon, cheap beer, and fried food than she could handle in one
place. But Amy, her best friend and sorority sister, had begged her
because she had a craving for their curly fries. Olivia was certain her
kitten heel slipped on blood on their way to a booth, but Amy laughed,
saying it was most definitely ketchup. She hurried Amy through the plate
of fries that rested between them on the sticky, wobbly table, her
irritation spiking as a band clomped up the steps to the stage, dragging
their equipment so it screeched along the floor. She rolled her eyes when
the opening bars of a trendy, angsty Pearl Jam cover filled the cloying
space.
“Can we go?” she asked Amy, pulling her miniskirt down after she
caught a guy at the next table staring at her.
Her friend nodded, and Olivia gestured for the bill, when the drum
solo started. She couldn’t hear herself think. But when she looked at the
stage, locked eyes with the shirtless, tattooed drummer, he winked. And
something weird happened deep inside her: something she’d never felt
before. It was like her bones had melted.
Olivia didn’t want to leave so quickly anymore. But she pretended
she did, walked Amy back to the sorority house, then said that she’d left
her wallet at the bar. She hadn’t.
And when she returned to the bar, the Screaming Demons were
packing a beat-up van with their equipment.
“Need a hand with that?” Olivia wasn’t really expecting the
drummer, now clad in a black tank top, his inked biceps bulging as he
carried an amp, to accept her offer.
He turned. Then he grinned, his whole impossibly gorgeous face
lighting up at the sight of her, all pretty in pink, shiny blonde waves
cascading over her delicate collarbones. He put down the amp,
introduced himself in a deep, gravelly voice, and looked right into her.
“I was hoping you’d find me.”
Justin didn’t know anything about her. He didn’t know the myth her
father had spun for everyone that Olivia was required to repeat: her
father mourned the loss of his beloved wife but bravely, lovingly took on
raising his children on his own; Alistair was away studying at an elite
boarding school; and Olivia was saving herself for the prince who was
good enough for Griffin Walker’s little princess. Olivia, lonely, was tired
of pretending and wanted to be someone else for just one night.
So she agreed to wait for Justin in the parking lot while he dropped
his bandmates off at the house they all shared. When he came back, he
drove her to campus, led her by the hand through the Diag to the West
Hall, lay down a blanket, and asked her why she looked so sad.
No one except Alistair—not her father, sorority sisters, professors—
ever noticed the pain behind Olivia’s practiced smile. And there under
the glowing lamps that crisscrossed the Engineering Arch, she lost her
virginity to Justin.
It was her first mistake but definitely not her last.
Now she only sees Amy and the rest of her sorority sisters twice a
year, because that’s all Justin will allow.
She watches as he bangs the beer bottle on the coffee table and pulls
out his phone from the pocket of his jeans. Then after flicking his finger
up, up, up, he places the phone on the table, angling it precisely. He
unzips his jeans.
She hears the clang when his wedding ring hits his belt buckle, and
she switches her stare from her husband to their wedding photo, hung to
the right of the stairs. The gilt frame is slanted.
Olivia, with her white-blonde hair coiled into a ballerina bun, has
her head on Justin’s broad shoulder, and his fingers are on her arm. The
photographer snapped the shot, while Olivia’s father and Justin’s mother,
Yvonne, looked on with satisfaction. Olivia doesn’t recall where Justin’s
father was at that moment—Henry always fades in Yvonne’s presence, a
wisp of a person, like Olivia has become.
But on that day in the backyard of the Tudor, despite Alistair’s
absence, when she and Justin exchanged their vows and he glided the
stunning pavé diamond band onto her finger, Olivia was happier than
she’d ever been. She’d found her prince. And as Yvonne pulled her into a
warm embrace, Olivia nestled against her. She hadn’t felt the loving
arms of a mother since her own had died when she was ten.
Yvonne whispered, “You’re too good for him” into her ear, and
Olivia beamed at the compliment. It was only after all the guests had left
and she was Mrs. Olivia Ward that she realized that it had been a
warning.
Since Alistair died a month ago, Olivia’s lost so much weight that
she’s had to wrap tape around her wedding band so it won’t fall off. But
the ring fit her perfectly twenty years ago when Justin dropped to one
knee and asked her to marry him in the very living room where he’s now
jerking himself off to images and messages from another woman.
 Olivia sees the notifications that flash on Justin’s phone, which he
leaves lying around whenever he showers—something he does at least
twice a day. Filthy on the inside, Justin needs to feel clean on the
outside. He plugs in his passcode—his own birthday—in front of her, as
though taunting her to go into his phone when he’s not around, just so he
can trap her into invading his privacy, defying one of his rules. But he
doesn’t truly care if she sees the women’s names that come up on his
phone all the time. He does whatever he wants, because he can. Because
she trusted him enough to confess her darkest secret to him the night
they drove away from the Sigma Chi party.
Olivia’s been lucky so far never to have gotten an STD from her
husband. If he wears condoms with the Charlottes, Isabelles, and
Sophias whom she’s fairly certain he sleeps with, it’s only to protect
himself.
Olivia doesn’t have definitive proof that he has sex with every
woman he communicates with. She doesn’t read every message. But
she’s seen enough messages to know that her husband uses the same
tricks every time. He starts off warm and interested with an immediate
compliment that makes a woman giddy with his attention. Then he
makes himself sound vulnerable, so she wants to take care of him.
Afterward he goes straight to the sex, reeling her in with the promise of
his body and touch until she’s helpless to resist him. Once she’s hooked,
he pulls back, gaslighting her into believing she’s done something wrong
to make her want him even more. He gets off on overpowering
vulnerable women desperate to be desired.
It’s exactly what he did to Olivia.
There’s a clatter, and she jumps, looking at the living room, where
Justin’s knocked his beer off the coffee table. Sighing inwardly, she
stands and gets a rag and garbage bag from the bucket of cleaning
supplies under the kitchen sink, digging her nails into her palm when the
door won’t close properly. There’s a loose hinge Justin won’t fix, just
like he won’t replace the leaking faucet in the main floor powder room
that she uses as her bathroom. Of course Olivia could handle these things
herself. She grew up on construction sites, accompanying her father as
he oversaw the progress on the many commercial properties that Walker
Developments owned and sold. But Justin won’t allow her to fix all the
broken parts of the house, because he likes that it breaks Olivia bit by bit
when things are out of order.
Like Olivia, the interior of the house has been falling apart for
years. She often feels that the decaying Tudor is a metaphor for her
whole life.
When she enters the living room, Justin’s on the brown leather
Chesterfield with his eyes closed, cruddy tissues strewn next to him.
Almost everything in the house is the same as when Olivia grew up here,
including the fear and isolation that eat her up inside.
“I’ll clean that spill,” she says softly so he knows she’s there.
He opens his eyes but doesn’t acknowledge her. He looks again at
his screen. Olivia’s heart beats a nervous rhythm. She can either walk
away or wait until he’s ready to speak. Both actions would be a mistake.
The spilled beer seeps into the pine floor, and Olivia drops to her
knees to wipe it up before it stains.
“Those leggings aren’t doing your ass any favors,” Justin says,
getting off the couch and stepping toward her.
Olivia lifts her head, cracking it into the sharp edge of the coffee
table. Tears spring to her eyes; she presses the pads of her index fingers
against her lids to stop the flow. Her tears either irritate Justin or arouse
him. She’s used to reading his moods, but he’s nastier tonight than usual.
When she’s sure no tears will fall, she removes her fingers from her
face, then looks up into his green eyes, which change from hypnotizing
to terrifying depending on to whom he’s speaking. She watches as he
takes in her hunched posture. After she finishes cleaning the spill, she
stands.
“No,” Justin says, gesturing at the soft pink wrap sweater she
bought just yesterday. She was pleased with how it added shape to her
slim build and made her pale skin glow.
She smiles to lighten the tense energy in the room and puts the rag
in the garbage bag to take out to the trash later. “I thought you liked
pink.”
“I do, but not on you.”
She looks down at the sweater. Maybe he’s right. She should stick
to muted tones that don’t call attention to her. And she’s too pale to pull
off such bright colors.
 Her husband lifts his arms above his head in a languid stretch, then
winces as he drops his hands to his sides.
“Is your shoulder hurting, honey? Do you need the heating pad?”
He waves his hand in her direction, dismissing her. “I’m fine. Stop
babying me. I’ll tell you when I need something.”
Olivia knows Justin pretends his shoulder aches worse than it does.
The toolbox that ended his music career actually only nicked him as it
fell—Olivia saw it happen. Justin claimed he couldn’t drum anymore,
but Olivia suspects he might have left the toolbox at the edge of the roof
on purpose—to end a career that was going nowhere without having to
admit that fact aloud.
Olivia ventures putting her hand on her husband’s chest, softening
the message she needs to give him. “Your mom called today. She said
you’re taking too long to respond about driving her to a wedding show in
Detroit tomorrow.”
Yvonne owns one of the preeminent wedding dress boutiques in
Ann Arbor, where Olivia’s father had paid an exorbitant amount for the
frilly concoction Olivia wore on her wedding day—Yvonne didn’t
believe in a friends-and-family discount, and even now, the dress takes
up half of Alistair’s old closet. Fifteen thousand dollars that could have
been better spent on the upkeep of their home.
At the mention of his mother, Justin stiffens. Whether by nature,
nurture, or a horrible combination of both, Justin and Yvonne are very
much alike. A stunning woman who possesses Justin’s charm,
magnetism, and effortless manipulation, Yvonne isn’t used to hearing no,
which is how Olivia ended up in a dress she never would have picked.
“Why can’t one of my brothers do it?” he asks, pushing her hand off
him.
“They all have work and stuff to do with their kids after school.”
The youngest of four brothers, the only one without children, Justin
is usually the son his mother calls to run her errands.
If Olivia had married any other man, if she’d never gone to the
Sigma Chi party at the end of their senior year at U-M, she might have
been a good mother.
Olivia could never bring children into their marriage—they would
be as doomed as she is. Justin seems to believe that she has “unexplained
infertility,” that she’s the damaged one.
 She might not have had to use the IUD, still cramping inside her,
that she replaced this morning. But bringing an innocent child into their
house of horrors is a trauma she could never inflict. And if Justin ever
suspects that she’s lied to him in any way, he’ll end her. He made that
clear on their wedding night.
They were going to live at the Tudor with Olivia’s father until they
could afford to buy their own place. But for their wedding night, Griffin
had gifted them a luxurious suite at a gorgeous hotel that he’d developed
in downtown Ann Arbor. In the sumptuous king-size bed, exhausted but
exhilarated, Olivia snuggled next to her husband, his body warming her
the moment their skin touched. She kissed his shoulder, where she hoped
he’d ink her name, and whispered, “I love being your wife.”
Justin laughed. Olivia thought he was amused because she’d only
been his wife for about five hours. And when he flipped her onto her
back, she let out a gasp, excited to feel Justin’s mouth and hands all over
her. He could make her come like a rocket. He tugged a lock of her
blonde hair. Hard.
Shocked by the sting in her scalp from where he’d yanked her hair
by the root, she was more stunned by what he did next. His body went
rigid, and when he brought his face close to hers, with disgust, he hissed,
“You’re a whore who barely knew my name before you sucked my dick
but didn’t want to be seen in public with me. Your dirty little secret,
right, you bitch?”
Olivia’s jaw dropped. Frozen, she was too terrified to cry, too
disoriented to process who the man in front of her was. But he was far
from done.
“You spread your legs so easily for me. You weren’t even the girl I
wanted to be with at the party. I didn’t show up for you. But you just had
to come and ruin everything.” He pulled her hair once more before he
smiled, but it was flat, cruel. “If you ever talk about what happened that
night with anyone, you’ll be the one to pay for it. You’ll be locked away
like Alistair—or dead.”
Why was he talking about that party? She thought they’d left that
night behind them.
Then Justin dealt the final blow, whispering, “Always remember
that I know what you did. I have it all on tape. And I have copies.” He
took something out of the teak bedside table beside him. Then he pressed
the button on the Dictaphone he used to record song ideas.
“Listen to me.” He waved his finger in her face. “Whenever I want
you, you will give yourself to me, because that is your obligation. You
will never leave. You will never question me, tell me what to do, or get
involved in my private business in any way. If you fuck with me, you
will never see your brother again.”
He made good on that threat.
Olivia looks at the black urn containing Alistair’s ashes on the
mantel above the peaked arch of the fireplace, which hasn’t been used in
decades. Grief rises swiftly to her throat, and Olivia swallows it down
before it chokes her.
Justin walks past her, saying, “I’m going to shower, and I want
dinner when I come back down.”
“Of course. There’s a nice beef bourguignon I just have to heat up.”
She follows him into the front hall, where he stops suddenly.
She bangs into his back.
Slowly he turns. “I own you.” Then he pinches her waist in the
sensitive spot right under her ribcage.
“I know,” Olivia whispers, a chill settling deep in her bones. She’s
always cold no matter how high the thermostat is or how many layers
she wears.
“Repeat it.”
“You own me,” she answers in the meek voice that turns him on, as
she’s expected to.
Justin happily bounds up the stairs, and Olivia heads to the kitchen
to heat and plate her husband’s dinner just like he wants it, as though
they’re a content couple.
She reaches into her pocket to rub her thumb over the smooth gold-
and-brown stone that she’d given Alistair for his sixteenth birthday. The
tiger eye had been her only way of protecting him. She had put it in his
palm and closed his hand over it.
“This will help you ward off the evil spirits in your mind and
anyone who wants to hurt you.”
“Promise?” Alistair had asked, his hazel eyes wide with trust and
love.
“Promise.”
 The tiger eye was the only possession Alistair had on him when his
body was found four weeks ago in a stranger’s backyard shed, three
miles away.
Olivia had the stone made into a pendant with some of her brother’s
ashes inside, using part of the money she siphons from the weekly
allowance Justin gives her, which she stashes in a tampon box under the
powder room sink. She’s very careful to hide the pendant from Justin—
always deep in a pocket of whatever she’s wearing—because if he
knows how special it is to her, he’ll take it, like he took her brother from
her. One day, though, Olivia hopes to slide a chain through it, so the
pendant lies close to her heart, without any questions from Justin.
If she’d been taking care of Alistair like she was supposed to the
day their mother died, she’s certain that her mother and brother would
still be alive. This would not be her life.
You’ll find a way out, Olly, her brother says now.
Her husband might own her money, her body, and her life. But he
doesn’t own her mind. Or what she does when he’s not around.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER TWELVE

Olivia wakes up groggy and unrested, as she always does. Justin is a

deep sleeper, of course. He’s unbothered by the worries that plague her.
He’s covered himself in most of their white duvet, and she carefully
edges her way out of the bed. The floor is freezing when her bare feet
land, and she immediately pushes her feet into the fluffy slippers she
keeps beside the bed. A tiny delight he’s given her.
She’s about to leave the room when Justin’s hand on her arm stops
her cold.
She remains with her back to him, because she knows how he wants
it. All of a sudden, he’s behind her. Olivia shivers as he pulls down her
pajama pants and bends her over the Eames chair that belonged to her
father.
She knows exactly how long it takes him to be satisfied. During
those six minutes, she thinks about how she and Alistair used to sit on
this very floor watching their mother put on makeup for a night out with
their father. Blissfully ignorant of what truly lurked beneath the tremble
in her mother’s hand as she applied silver eyeshadow, Olivia would
engage Alistair in whatever scenario he’d come up with for her dolls. It
wasn’t until Alistair was a teenager that she understood he could actually
hear the dolls talk, and it wasn’t just in his imagination.
As Justin collapses with a shudder onto her back, Olivia wonders,
as she often does, what other families are like. Whether the sorority
sisters she still sees a couple of times a year ever suffer the assaults she
does. If their husbands really love them.
Justin has never loved her. While her father was alive, Olivia was
the project manager for Walker Developments, and Justin, the
contracting manager. The three of them worked and lived side by side,
but it was a boys’ club of expensive cigars and scotch, backslaps and
raunchy jokes—a club that Olivia clearly wasn’t invited into. She didn’t
want to be, but she was desperate for her father to notice, even once,
how viciously Justin treated her. He never did. Or he simply didn’t care.
When her father died, it was Justin who became the successor of his
trust, and she was a cobeneficiary. She relinquished all rights to the
house and Walker Developments, which Justin turned into Ward
Contracting, and gave him power of attorney over Alistair. She had no
choice if she ever wanted to see her brother again.
She would have given her own life for Alistair’s. She should have.
Her husband doesn’t even look at her before he heads to his
bathroom to shower.
As she’s heading to the kitchen to prepare Justin’s breakfast, the
doorbell rings. Instantly, Olivia’s adrenaline rushes into flight mode—
this interruption will mean that his meal won’t be ready when he comes
downstairs.
She debates ignoring it. But the bell peals again, an old-fashioned,
long, haunting chime that creeps her out every time she hears it. She
asked Justin to replace it years ago, but he’s seen how she reacts when it
rings; he likes that it scares her.
Olivia goes to the heavy oak door and peers through the peephole
above the small square stained glass window.
Yvonne.
Her mother-in-law shows up like this sometimes, no call or text.
Olivia opens the door, glancing quickly at herself in the mirror next to
the door. She doesn’t need to look at herself, though. Her reflection is
standing right in front of her.
“Hello, dear.” Yvonne steps into the entryway, smoothing her blunt-
cut dark bob, almost the exact shade as Olivia’s, though Olivia’s hair is
cut to her shoulders, not her chin.
After Olivia had given up her rights to her property and her only
family member, Justin took control of her appearance by handing her a
box of black hair dye. “Blonde is for angels, not whores.”
At the drugstore, she tossed out the box of jet-black dye Justin had
given her, so he’d never find it, and plucked a mocha with copper tones
from the shelf. Yvonne only smirked the first time she saw Olivia after
she’d transformed herself into a version of her mother-in-law.
 So, while Justin has never once mentioned the similarity between
her and Yvonne’s appearances, Olivia wonders if he gets off on screwing
his wife because she so closely resembles the woman who makes him
feel the weakest. Olivia certainly gains a tiny bit of pleasure from it.
Now Yvonne takes off her camel-colored cashmere peacoat, hangs
it on the brass coatrack next to the door, and steps into the entryway, her
heels clicking on the wood. Olivia can feel each tap on the floor in her
chest. Justin probably never responded to his mother last night, and
Olivia has to deal with the fallout.
“It’s Monday. Why is Justin’s truck still in the driveway? Isn’t he at
work? I imagine he’s very busy if he can’t even return a phone call,” her
mother-in-law says, scanning the room with judgmental eyes, then doing
the same to Olivia, still in her pajamas. “You’re not dressed yet?”
Olivia tugs down the bottom of her striped pajama shirt. “Justin’s in
the shower. I was making him breakfast, then I’ll get ready for work.”
“Humph. Is that another new truck outside?” Yvonne snaps the
collar of her pristine white blouse. “He’s like a greedy little boy who
gets tired of one toy, so he begs for another one. Not that you two know
what having a little boy feels like.”
Olivia bristles on Justin’s behalf. She can’t help but feel some
sympathy for him, considering how his mother treats him. It made him
hate all women. “He leases the trucks.”
Justin has a sixth sense when it comes to his mother. He calls out
from upstairs, “Down in a sec!”
He handles Yvonne the same way he does everyone—with charm,
though she’s immune to it.
“Hurry up. I have an important meeting with my contractor for the
second location today.” She says it offhandedly, like it doesn’t matter
that she didn’t hire Justin to renovate the new space for her wedding
boutique.
He comes downstairs, his hair wet, his body sheathed in a tight gray
Henley and jeans. He and his mother do their usual dance of Justin
reaching for her and Yvonne pulling back. Her heel gets caught in the
upturned edge of the Persian carpet covering the trapdoor that leads to
the unfinished basement.
Yvonne falters; Olivia catches her so she won’t hit the floor.
 “That rug is so dirty and old. I don’t know why you don’t just get
rid of it.” She brushes Olivia’s hands off her. “That whole basement is a
disaster waiting to happen.”
Yvonne has no idea how true that is. That unfinished basement is
where Olivia’s mother died.
Olivia will never unhear her father’s raw, guttural scream. It was the
last time she heard any emotion other than anger from him. That Sunday
morning in May, Olivia was playing hide-and-seek with Alistair. But it
was taking longer than the count of one hundred for him to find her.
Olivia heard a thud, then thundering footsteps. When the howl rang
out, Olivia ran from her hiding place in the butler’s pantry in the kitchen
to the entryway, where the trapdoor, which was supposed to be closed at
all times, was open. She and Alistair weren’t allowed to go down there
because the rickety ladder was old and playing in the basement was
dangerous.
But Olivia knew something very bad had happened, so she had to
scramble down the ladder. When her foot touched the cold concrete
floor, she saw her father on his knees, next to her mother, who was face
down, not moving. Her mother was in a sundress; welts and bruises
Olivia had never seen before were visible on the backs of her arms and
legs. Her neck was broken.
Where was Alistair?
There was a whimper. Her father whipped his head around and in
three strides crossed the basement to the chest freezer, where her mother
kept the ice cream sandwiches that she sometimes let her children have,
when their father wasn’t around. He dragged Alistair out from behind it.
“You little shit! You opened the trapdoor! You killed your mother!
You killed her!”
Olivia watched her father slide his black leather belt from the loops
of his pants. He struck Alistair’s bare, skinny legs and arms.
“Stop it! Please, Daddy, stop hurting him!”
But he didn’t stop.
Alistair locked eyes with Olivia. He didn’t scream. He didn’t cry.
He silently took his punishment for causing their heavily medicated
mother to stumble into the trapdoor, tumbling to her death.
Alistair was never the same after that.
 Yvonne tightens her lips and steps back so she’s not on the Persian
carpet anymore. Olivia’s staring at it, though, thinking about Alistair,
when Yvonne says, “I need a ride to Detroit at noon and help setting up
my exhibit. You’ll need to stay all day so you can take me home tonight
too. It’s an important opportunity for me. That’s why I came by. To make
sure to tell you face to face so you don’t forget.”
Justin shakes his head. “I can’t, Mom. I have plans tonight.”
“What plans? Hammering a nail into a wall?” Yvonne rolls her
eyes. “What about you, Olivia? You know I don’t like driving in the
dark. Can you do better than your husband and help out your mother-in-
law?”
You took her son off her hands, Alistair says. Olivia stifles a laugh.
She hadn’t protected him, like a big sister should, yet he still protects
her.
Clearing her throat, she tells Yvonne, “I have my Alpha Phi reunion
dinner tonight. I’m sorry.”
The only reason she goes to these sorority get-togethers twice a
year is because Justin thinks they will be good for business—someone is
bound to want to hire him to renovate their huge home.
Olivia hosted in the first few years after college, before the house
fell apart from lack of maintenance and Justin’s cruelty and emotional
neglect disintegrated her into dust. It’s hard enough sitting at a long,
beautiful table with the women who once looked up to her as the girl
who had it all. She never did, not with a mother who’d committed
herself to an abuser, a brother committed to a psychiatric institution, and
a father committed to the lie that Olivia Walker was the luckiest girl in
the world.
But they’re a good group, if only superficially her friends.
Yvonne stomps to the rack and snatches her coat from the hook.
“No kids and all the time and freedom in the world, and you’re useless.
You’ve disappointed me once again, Justin. I don’t know what Olivia
sees in you.” She opens the door and storms out.
Justin waits until Yvonne has driven off before he whirls on her.
“Don’t you ever talk to me like that in front of my mother.” Then he, too,
stomps away to the living room.
Alone in the entryway, Olivia replays the whole scene in her mind
but can’t think of a single thing she did wrong. It doesn’t matter, though.
Justin blames her for everything.
He occupies himself with his phone while Olivia walks to the
kitchen to prepare breakfast. When she opens the shuttered door of the
butler’s pantry, she can’t stop the cry that exits her mouth. Quickly, she
slaps her hand over her lips so Justin won’t hear. Her grief excites him.
Our time is coming, Olly. Hang on just a bit longer.
She’s trying. She’s tucked all her memories of her brother into her
mind, where his voice lives, and transports herself there every moment
she can. Each room in this house has special significance for her, but this
pantry holds the remnants of their only refuge from their father’s rage
and her brother’s final day in the house.
At least once a week after their mother died and Alistair’s
moodiness and social awkwardness slowly became hallucinations and
suspicion of everyone but Olivia, she’d guide him into the pantry. There
she’d take out the chocolate she’d hidden in a silver tin of flour—
because, of course, they could no longer hide any treats in the basement
freezer—and Alistair’s beloved comic books and her sketches, plus her
pastels and colored pencils, all of which she kept rolled in a yellow
woolen blanket shoved under one of the two mahogany shelving units
lining the walls. They’d sprawl out on the black-and-white tiled floor,
lost in their own hobbies but always with each other.
And for one blissful year, from fourteen to fifteen, after Olivia had
begged her father to seek help, Alistair was regularly seeing a
psychiatrist and had been put on a cocktail of antipsychotics. He was
able to keep the voices in his head at bay and see the world the way
Olivia did. It all ended one night in her senior year of high school.
Her father was holding a soiree to celebrate a banner year for
Walker Developments in the resplendent living room, while caterers
bustled around the kitchen and serving staff rushed around with silver
trays of canapés and champagne flutes. Olivia was supposed to be by her
father’s side in the peach chiffon dress he’d laid out on her bed for his
trophy daughter. But toward the end of the evening, a man in a black suit
kept looking at Alistair. It set her brother off into a tailspin of paranoia.
Olivia swooped in and, without her father seeing, brought Alistair to
safety in the pantry. Her brother calmed down, and they were happily in
the world she’d created just for the two of them, when the pantry door
slid open. Her father had finally found their secret place.
 “Get out of here!” he roared. “This area is for the housekeeper, not
stupid teenagers who play weird games. What the hell is wrong with
you, Olivia? I know Alistair is a lost cause, but you know better! How
dare you embarrass me by disappearing all night!”
He dragged Olivia out by her wrist. She screamed in pain. Then her
father slid his black leather belt, identical to the one he’d whipped
Alistair with the day their mother had died, from the loops in his pants.
And Alistair snapped.
Six-foot-one at fifteen, three inches taller than Griffin and stronger,
he was on top of their father so fast that Olivia couldn’t do anything to
stop it. He tackled their father to the ground, dug his elbow into his back,
and told Olivia to run. The very next day, Alistair was shipped off to
Ridgestone, a residential psychiatric care facility, where he was put on
even stronger drugs, which, he told Olivia during her monthly visiting
days, he hated taking. But he took them for her so he wouldn’t cause any
more trouble.
He’d never attacked anyone before the night their father caught
them. He only did it to protect Olivia.
Her father never touched her again. He never once visited Alistair,
as far as she knows. But he made sure Olivia could never hide from him
again. He replaced the heavy wooden sliding door with white shutters,
through which she can now hear Justin’s heavy footsteps enter the
kitchen.
Immediately, she takes the flour, sugar, and baking powder from the
shelf to make him waffles, something sweet and solid to fortify him for
his long day ahead visiting their construction sites.
With the silver tins stacked in the crook of her arm, she opens the
shutter, knocking her elbow into the wall. The tins fall to the floor with a
crash.
Justin simply stands there, arms crossed, regarding her with as
much interest as he would a piece of trash while she bends down to pick
them up. It was exactly what he did when she fell to her knees after the
police left their house four weeks ago.
All the assaults and humiliations she’s suffered are nothing
compared to the agony she experienced when two uniformed officers
knocked on their door and asked if they could come inside their home.
Olivia had no choice but to agree. She had no idea why they were there.
 Justin was in the living room, and he jumped up, all dimples and
charm as he led the officers to the two gold straight-backed chairs that
were once her and Alistair’s pretend thrones.
“We’re very sorry to inform you that your brother, Alistair Walker,
was found deceased this morning.”
The scream that tore from Olivia’s throat was so piercing that she
thought the windows would shatter. She wanted them to shatter. She
wanted everything around her, especially her husband, to break into
jagged little pieces like she just had. Because she knew he’d done this.
She never even got to say goodbye.
Since that day, Olivia waited for a tangible sign from Alistair that
her life is worth living.
It came in the form of a Facebook message.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN

At 5:15 p.m. Olivia’s in the powder room brushing silver eye shadow on
her eyelids when the familiar dread mushrooms in her chest. A moment
later, she hears the rumble of Justin’s truck. She shoves the makeup
under the sink and runs to the never-used dining room opposite the living
room. The casement window provides a clear view of their driveway and
the street, so Olivia crouches and, using the thick navy curtain as a
shield, peeks over the ledge to watch Justin exit his truck, toolbox in
hand. He doesn’t come to the front door.
Olivia waits, and there’s Bree, prancing down the street toward their
house in a tight baby blue workout top and white leggings. As quietly as
she can, Olivia opens the window a crack to listen.
“Hey, sorry,” Bree says, once she’s on the driveway. “Do you have
a few minutes? I can’t mount my flat-screen television by myself.”
Justin grins. “Yeah, sure.”
Together they walk to Bree’s house. When she’s sure they’re gone,
Olivia closes the window. As she’s locking it, Alistair says, He’s
probably mounting Bree too.
Olivia laughs. She doesn’t care if Justin is sleeping with their
neighbor, but it’s unlikely. With her large breasts spilling out of her tops
and flowy waves of glossy red hair, Bree is too confident for Justin. He
prefers blonds he can ruin.
It’s time to go, her brother instructs.
She grabs her jacket from the coatrack and leaves the house. Before
getting in the car, she looks up the street at Bree’s pale-yellow bungalow.
Even though it’s only been a couple of minutes, Olivia has to make sure
Justin won’t come out yet.
When she merges onto the M-14, the anxious knots she’s always
coiled in unravel; she even turns on the radio, singing along to a Taylor
Swift tune as the sun begins to set, dipping behind the trees, beyond
which are many of the buildings her father developed. Olivia was by his
side at the ribbon-cutting ceremonies, perfectly put together in whatever
expensive outfit he liked the most. She’d plaster her fake smile on her
face when reporters, looking for soft news, interviewed her. She feigned
pride in her father’s accomplishments and spouted the agreed-upon lie
about Alistair excelling at boarding school overseas, on track to one day
open a European branch of Walker Developments.
As the city recedes and a light mist makes the treetops glisten,
Olivia can’t define at first what it is she’s feeling, then realizes it’s hope.
She thought she’d lost every shred of it when the police sat stoically
in her living room a month ago. All Olivia could do was lean into Justin,
accept his support as the officers surmised that Alistair must have died
trying to get to Olivia and Justin. Besides the tiger eye that she’d given
him, all her brother had on his body was a card from Ridgestone in his
pocket, with Justin and Olivia’s address scrawled on the back. Olivia
could barely speak through her tears when she asked why he was in a
stranger’s shed at all and not safely in his room at Ridgestone.
Justin’s arms were around her, his hand stroking her back. The male
officer said that after Alistair had been discharged from Ridgestone and
told that he was moving to a halfway house, he left in the middle of the
night without anyone realizing. How he’d made it all the way to Ann
Arbor from Detroit, they didn’t know, but he’d been killed when a metal
shelving unit—in a shed that he’d likely found refuge in—had toppled
and crushed him.
For a split second, Olivia considered catching the female officer’s
eye, giving her a look that said “Help me.” Because with Alistair gone,
all she had left to lose was her own life, which meant nothing to her
anymore. Yet she couldn’t, because she saw how the woman looked at
her, seconds from collapsing, and at Justin, who held her up, as though
he was the most loving husband. Olivia was certain the officer wouldn’t
believe her, because she had not a crumb of proof.
And the moment the officers drove away, Justin turned to her. “I
warned you not to invade my privacy, but you didn’t listen. You
answered my phone.”
She had answered Justin’s phone a day earlier, because Ridgestone
had flashed across his screen while he was showering. She was scared to
pick up the call but was more frightened that something had happened to
Alistair.
The director informed Olivia that their September payment was
late. Embarrassed, both to be behind on the payment and, because she
didn’t control the finances, not to be able to say a check was
forthcoming, she apologized and said she’d take care of it as soon as
possible. After Justin got out of the shower and dressed that day, she had
to ask him about it. That was one of many mistakes. He had no emotion
when he told her he’d simply forgotten to make that month’s payment
and if she hadn’t answered the call, he would have taken care of it, but
that now, because she’d pried into his business, Alistair would no longer
be able to call Ridgestone home.
Her next mistake was crying, begging him to keep paying, or allow
Alistair to come home and live with them, sleep in his childhood
bedroom again. Justin looked at her coldly and simply said, “I’m going
out.”
She hoped he would think about her request, but she should have
known better. When Justin came home that night, he said he’d called
Ridgestone and told the director they’d decided to move Alistair to a
state-run halfway house and to please tell Alistair that Olivia no longer
wished to shoulder the burden of him. She crumpled to the floor,
devastated, crying harder than before, knowing that her brother had been
lied to. Again.
For Alistair, she’s about to do the scariest, riskiest thing she’s done
since college.
The trip is faster than she expects, and following the robotic voice
of her GPS, Olivia makes a right onto a residential street lined with older
houses that look snug and warm from the outside. It’s amazing how
much someone can hide behind the comforting glow of a lamp through a
covered window. How deceiving looks can be.
Olivia checks her own appearance once she’s parked, far down the
street from the restaurant. Olivia had carefully selected the pale-lavender
V-neck from her closet, a sweater from her sorority days, back when her
pretty face, mane of blonde waves, and gray eyes were the envy of all
her Alpha Phi sisters.
She knows how much she’s changed. No longer slim and healthy
like she was in college, but gaunt and hollow. Food is no longer a
pleasure to her; not much is. No wonder Justin finds her so unattractive.
Her collarbone juts out, and the feathery sweater that used to mold to her
curves swims on her. She added a black belt around her waist, which
helps her look shapelier than she is.
Olivia exits the car, shivering. The temperature has dropped
considerably, and though she’s wearing her puffer and the wind is
buffeted by brown-brick low-rises, cold bites at her neck. From her bag,
Olivia pulls out the turquoise cashmere scarf she bought yesterday, when
she also purchased the pink wrap sweater that Justin didn’t like on her.
She rarely takes money out of her secret stash of cash, but looking good
tonight is important.
The scarf is so soft, and Olivia brushes her face against it, soothing
herself as she walks up the street and inside the busy restaurant, struck
by how beautiful and happy the patrons look under the rose gold pendant
lights hanging from the ceiling. She heads straight to the back of the bar,
where she can see everyone who comes through the door in the long
mirror above the shelf of liquor.
The door of the restaurant opens. Olivia glances up at the mirror.
She smiles. The person she’s waiting for has arrived. But she needs a
moment to steel herself. Olivia reaches into her pocket and rubs the tiger
eye, then ducks her head and weaves through the packed tables.
As she passes a small two-top by the window, she hears a gleeful
“Hi!”
Olivia turns and makes an “O” of surprise with her mouth. “Oh,
hey! Sorry, I almost walked right past you.” She looks at the empty
chair. “Waiting for someone?”
She watches as a shadow of a blush sweeps across the woman’s
cheeks, made more pronounced by the light outside the long window.
Olivia wants to shake the anticipation out of her. Instead, she smiles at
the angelic-looking blond who wants to fuck her husband.
Justin’s words ring in her head: You weren’t even the girl I wanted
to be with at the party. I didn’t show up for you. But you just had to come
and ruin everything.
Eden Hoffman. The one who got away.
“I took your suggestion about the restaurant,” Eden says. “I’m sorry
I didn’t text you to ask, but it was easy to find this place after you
mentioned the name of the street.”
 Olivia pretends to be embarrassed. “Shoot, is tonight your date? I
forgot to text you too.”
Eden grins, tugging at the plunging neckline of the silky black
sleeveless top she’d tried on in the boutique. She looks good. Different.
She clearly spent a lot of time getting ready for tonight. Her shoulder-
length hair has a bouncy curl to it, and her lips are slicked a glossy red
that suits her rosy skin. But Justin wouldn’t like the color. When they
first started dating, Justin would lightly brush his finger across Olivia’s
painted lips, then kiss her like she was the most delicious treat.
Olivia stopped wearing bright lipstick a week after he’d played her
the recording of her confession and laid out his rules. They were driving
to see Amy, who’d invited them for dinner to celebrate being
newlyweds. At a red light, he leaned over and dragged his thumb across
her mouth, smearing her signature fuchsia lipstick. Before they went
inside Amy’s house, Olivia wiped it off her face as best she could. And
she held back her tears when Amy gestured to her mouth, winked, and
said, “A little make-out session in the car, huh? You two can’t keep your
hands off each other.”
Olivia felt stained all night.
Tonight, though, she’s finally cleaning up a mess that she made a
long time ago.
“I swear I’m not crashing your first date after your separation.”
Olivia juts her chin at the take-out counter. “I was craving their Tuscan
chicken and placed an order to bring home, but it’s not ready yet. I was
going to go outside and wait. It’s almost too warm in here!”
Olivia is freezing, like she always is. But Eden has a line of sweat
above her upper lip.
Eden nods, lifting her hair from her neck. “I turned forty-five on
Friday, and I swear it’s getting harder every year to keep my temperature
stable!”
“Happy birthday!” Olivia exclaims, though she knows when Eden
Hoffman’s birthday is. She knows everything about her. She knows
where she goes and what she does. The closer she can get to Eden, the
closer she is to getting away from Justin.
Alistair told her so. The first time Olivia heard his voice was when
she saw the Facebook push notification flash across Justin’s phone while
he was showering. She’d been wiping down the coffee table when Eden
Hoffman’s name appeared. She dropped the rag on the floor, every
muscle in her body stiffening in fright as she was instantly brought back
to the night that set off a future bleaker than Olivia ever could have
imagined.
Olivia had arrived at the Sigma Chi party late because Amy had
been prepartying too hard on tequila slammers and decided to give
herself bangs while drunk. It hadn’t gone well. Olivia and her sorority
sisters had done their best to even out a pretty messy job, though it was
clear Amy was going to be needing the proper scissors of a stylist. But
Amy threw on a baseball cap and was still in good spirits while everyone
laughed it off, all of them giddy from a round of tequila shots. Olivia
was the only one who didn’t take a shot; she was buzzed enough about
seeing Justin.
But when Olivia showed up to the frat house and scanned the main
floor for him, excited to see his reaction when he saw her—she watched
him making out with a girl she’d never seen before. A blond in an ill-
fitting jean skirt and a too-tight mesh shirt had her hands on Justin’s
chest and her tongue down his throat. Sloppy drunk, she swayed against
Justin as he held her up against the wall.
Olivia knew then why Justin had repeatedly asked her if she was
going to the party. She’d said no because she wanted to surprise him.
She’d planned it out so perfectly in her mind—she would finally tell her
sorority sisters who she’d been seeing those past few months. Yes, they
could judge her, but school was basically over, and though she imagined
staying friends with them for a long time, she also didn’t care about
whatever social ostracization dating him would mean. She knew his
reputation as a bad boy and a flirt, but she’d seen a deeper side of him,
and if her friends could know that, too, it would be amazing. She was
even feeling bold enough to tell her father and knew he would grow to
love Justin, even if he wasn’t from a highly successful family, even if he
wasn’t studying law or medicine. She was in love with Justin Ward, and
he was in love with her.
So many lies.
And so many secrets. Justin has been hiding something from her
too. And Eden is the only person who might be able to tell Olivia what
really happened that night. She’s not worried that Eden will recognize
her from the party or U-M at all. Olivia had never seen or heard of Eden
before she watched her lay her hands all over Justin, and Eden was
certainly too busy to notice anyone but him. Plus, Olivia looks entirely
different than she used to.
Eden points to the empty chair. “Do you want to take off your coat
and wait here until your order is ready?”
“What if your date . . .” Olivia trails off and asks lightly, “What’s
his name?”
“Justin.” Eden’s neck immediately flares red when she says his
name.
“If Justin shows up, you don’t want him to think you need a
chaperone.”
Eden giggles. “I might.”
Olivia guffaws, as she’s expected to. Eden wouldn’t be giggling if
she knew how much Justin could hurt her. “Let me see how much longer
my order’s going to be.”
“Sure.” Fanning herself with a hand, Eden says, “I’m going to order
a glass of white wine to calm my nerves. Want one?”
“Definitely. Red for me, please.” Olivia could use a warm infusion
of alcohol. She’s jeopardized so much to come here. After shrugging off
her coat and scarf, Olivia hangs it on the back of the chair. “The
necklace looks great, by the way.” Smiling, Olivia points at the thin
silver chain she handed to Eden at the boutique yesterday. She enjoys
that Eden is wearing something she recommended, even if it’s for a date
with Justin.
Eden touches the chain. “Thank you. You have good taste.”
If only that were true when it came to the man whom they both fell
for in college.
While Eden searches out a server, Olivia moves her eyes to the
door. She doesn’t know how long she should be here or who might enter
the restaurant at any minute. Quickly, she walks to the take-out counter.
“If I order Tuscan chicken to go, how long will it be?”
The woman behind the cash register repeats the question into her
headset, then answers, “About ten minutes.”
“Great. I’m sitting at that table.” She gestures to where Eden is
ordering their drinks.
“Do you want to eat here?” The woman looks confused.
 “No. Just waiting with a friend until her date shows up. Thanks.”
Olivia swallows. Tonight she actually does have a friend, even if Eden
doesn’t know who she really is.
“Your name?”
“Lila Cavanaugh.”
“How will you be paying?”
“Cash.”
Olivia hands over some bills, puts the change in the tip jar, then
squares her shoulders and stands taller. About to saunter back to the
table, she hears her phone buzz in her handbag. Olivia’s heart pounds in
her chest.
She catches Eden’s attention, points to the sign for the restrooms,
mouths, “Back soon,” and heads straight for the women’s restroom, the
only quiet spot she can think of in the crowded restaurant. She’s told
Justin she’ll be at Amy’s elegant, hushed mansion for her Alpha Phi get-
together. Justin doesn’t know that the dinner is actually next month.
If he finds out there isn’t a soiree tonight, that she hasn’t been out
securing job prospects, he’ll be furious. But that’s not what frightens her
in this moment.
Inside the restroom, she answers the call, checking under each stall
for feet.
“Where the hell is my truck, Olivia?” Justin’s voice is low and
dangerous.
She feels her insides quake and wills herself to stay calm. But as
she looks at herself in the stark lighting of the mirror above the row of
porcelain sinks, she sees her face has gone chalk white.
Taking Justin’s truck tonight was a necessity and an act of defiance
that makes her feel brave. But she knows how much it’s going to cost
her. Not only did she take Justin’s truck without asking, but she also
prevented him from going out tonight.
“My car wouldn’t start,” she lies.
He’s quiet, which makes her pulse roar in her ears.
Nervous, Olivia starts to ramble. “I tried to start it three times, and
you weren’t home. I was going to be late for Amy’s, and I didn’t know
what else to do.”
His tone is low but brutish. “You stay home. That’s what you do.”
 She thinks of Eden, steps away, waiting for this man who she
believes is caring and thoughtful.
“It won’t happen again. But I had to go to my sorority dinner. How
would it look if I canceled last minute? Plus, your truck and our logo is
now parked on Barton Shore Drive.” Olivia quickly names Amy’s street,
one of the wealthiest in Michigan. “So all the rich neighbors can see it.
Anyone looking to do renos now knows who we are.”
“I don’t care about goddamn renos. I told you I’m going out. I’m
already late. I need my truck now.”
He sounds like a pouty toddler. She straightens; she’s in control for
the first time ever. She’s Lila Cavanaugh, a woman with a backbone and
an untainted past.
“Take an Uber.” Olivia’s audacity startles her. She never tells Justin
what to do.
“I’m not wasting any money on someone else driving me. Bring me
my truck.”
Yet he can waste money on beer, porn, video games, and whatever
else he desires. And she knows exactly why he wants his truck so bad,
what he plans to do tonight.
“I’m really sorry, but there’s nothing I can do. Maybe your mom
can drive you wherever you need to go.”
And she hangs up, her courage evaporating as terror seizes her
throat like his hands are around her neck.
Quickly, she exits the bathroom, leaving Olivia Ward behind.
Shoulders back, head high, she strolls over to the take-out counter, where
her food is waiting for her. Once at the table, she puts the bag on the
floor and slides into the seat across from Eden, noticing that the glow on
Eden’s face has dulled and there’s a slight sag to her shoulders.
“You okay?” she asks.
“He’s late,” Eden tells her.
“Maybe this guy isn’t worth it.” Olivia is telling the truth for the
first time tonight.
Eden’s eyes film with tears. “It’s not just him. Dave’s in the
hospital. That’s my husband, or whatever he is to me now. He was hit by
a car. The driver took off. It happened last night, but I just called him to
check in and he seems so sad.”
 The clang of dishes and murmur of conversations around them
seem to stop. “Oh my God. Was he badly hurt?” Olivia presses a hand to
her chest to calm the roar of her heartbeat.
“He fractured his hip and the bone near his elbow.” Eden indicates
the lower part of her upper arm. “He had surgery and is in the hospital
for at least a few more days, but it could have been so much worse.”
Olivia nods. “I’m so glad he’ll be all right.”
And she is glad. She didn’t want to hit Dave with her car. She’d
followed Eden home from the boutique, only planning to watch her
house for a little while, see the kind of life Eden lived. Olivia idled at the
curb on Ivy Court—a simple, typical suburban street with basketball nets
on driveways and bikes tossed on lawns, when suddenly there was Dave,
getting out of his gray Range Rover, with a bouquet of yellow tulips and
a large pizza box in his hands.
Hit him, Alistair said. Just a tap.
The thud when she banged into him has been thumping in her head
since last night. She felt sick when she got home, checking every inch of
her car for damage that might be from a body. She almost wanted there
to be blood or hair, anything that could be evidence. But there was only a
cracked headlight and a dent in the front fender. She didn’t tell Justin
about the damage. The car is still parked in their garage, and she’s
banking on him not caring enough to try to start it himself. She’ll take
the car to a mechanic to repair it before he notices anything wrong.
She doesn’t think Dave saw her, and she wouldn’t have known
anything about him at all if his photos weren’t posted all over Eden’s
social media. But she did follow his Range Rover when he and Eden
drove to U-M to see Ava, whose own social media accounts contain far
too much information.
And she might have made everything worse for herself.
“Can the police do anything?” Olivia asks.
Eden lifts her shoulders, then drops them with a slump. “They’ll try
to locate the driver, but all they have to go on right now is a vague
description from my neighbor. She thinks she might have seen a silver
car speeding off up the street.”
Olivia needs to keep her hands busy, because she knows they’re
trembling. She takes her napkin from the table and bunches it once,
twice, three times.
 “I’m so sorry. What about cameras? Other witnesses?”
“The houses on that stretch of road don’t have exterior cameras, and
they’ve talked to everyone on the street to see if anyone was looking out
their window at that time. It was already getting dark, though. And it
happened so fast that Dave doesn’t remember a thing.” She twirls a
strand of her hair. “I was going to cancel tonight, but he also wanted to
be alone to sleep. Or so he said.”
Olivia simply nods, and when Eden glances at the door again,
Alistair speaks. You’re okay, Olly. No one saw you. Just the car.
Right then the server approaches. “You two need refills on those
wines?”
Eden smiles at Olivia. “Probably, don’t you think? I mean, if you
want to stay.”
“For sure!” Olivia answers, reveling in having drinks with someone
other than Justin, who only takes her out to dinner at a local restaurant
for their anniversary every year so he can show their neighbors how
romantic he is.
“You got it. I’ll be right back, ladies!” The server is all spunk as she
turns and walks toward the bar.
They’re now close enough their elbows can touch.
Right then, Eden’s phone buzzes, and her face lights up with hope,
before she bends her head to read what’s on the screen.
Olivia knows exactly who the text is from, but after Eden lifts her
head, her eyes are wet. Olivia screws up her mouth in concern. “Bad
news?”
“Justin’s not coming.” She puts a hand to her throat. “Maybe you’re
right, and I should let him go. But it hurts, because we started getting
close, and I thought maybe there was something special between us.
Something worth exploring that Dave isn’t interested in anymore.”
“I’m sorry.” Olivia mews in sympathy. “Did he say why he isn’t
coming?”
“Just that something happened with his truck.”
“That’s a shame.” Olivia makes a sad face, but she can’t believe
what she’s done. How dangerous all this is. She’s definitely afraid to go
home tonight, but right here, right now, she wants to stay in this little
cocoon as long as she can. She’s realized that Eden makes her feel safe.
If she can get the other woman on her side, make her see the things
about Justin no one else sees, Olivia might finally have a life of her own.
She reaches for the plastic bag she picked up at the take-out counter
a few minutes ago, puts the container of Tuscan chicken in the center of
the table, and picks up her fork, motioning for Eden to do the same. “We
can share?”
Eden laughs sadly and spoons a healthy amount onto her plate.
“Thank you. It looks amazing.”
The aroma of the tomatoes and spices waft temptingly into Olivia’s
nose. Usually, she’d only eat a few bites and barely taste them. But
tonight, she’s ravenous and puts a large forkful into her mouth,
swallowing with rare pleasure.
Eden smiles, but she looks pained as she takes a bite, then puts
down her fork.
“I think his weird behavior might have something to do with his
wife.”
Indeed, Olivia thinks, as her stomach fills and her mind sharpens.
“He has a wife?” She alters her tone. “No judgment.”
“It’s complicated. They’re separated but still live together on
opposite sides of the house, until he can afford to move out.”
Olivia can’t stifle her laugh. Surely Eden can’t be that naive. She
takes a sip of wine and says, “You believe that?”
“I know how it sounds. I want to believe it. I like to think people
are telling the truth.” Eden lifts her wineglass but puts it down without
drinking from it. “Have you ever been with a man who makes you feel
so good and so bad at the same time?”
Olivia’s pulse quickens. “Haven’t we all?” she answers, then takes a
deep sip of her own wine so Eden can’t see the nervous twitch of her
mouth.
“Justin is the only guy other than Dave I’ve ever had strong feelings
for. I don’t know where things stand between me and Dave. And I don’t
know why I’m letting Justin treat me like this again.”
“Again?” Olivia squeaks, then clears her throat.
Eden sighs. “He hurt me when we were younger too.”
Olivia stays as calm as possible, desperate to rub the tiger eye in her
pocket, but knows it might elicit more questions than she can answer.
She recalls the message Eden sent Justin that set her whole plan in
motion.

I wish I’d never gotten so drunk. I’d never lost control of

myself like I did with you that night. Everything that
happened, honestly, was so unlike me. I blacked out.

The next day, I thought I remembered hearing Tyler say my

name while I was sick in the bathroom, but the police said I
was too drunk to make a reliable account. I felt awful about
that.

Tyler did say her name. To Justin.

Maybe something about tonight has jolted Eden’s memory.
Olivia asks quietly, “What do you mean he hurt you when you were
younger?”
But Eden falls back into her chair and says, “Forget it. Enough of
my pity party.” And the moment is over. “Thank you, Lila. You’re the
only person I’ve told about Justin. I don’t normally reveal so much
personal information. But you make it easy for me to talk.”
Olivia puts her hand on her heart, shattered so many times.
Laughter from another table drifts over. Olivia looks to her left, where
two women are giggling. She can see the sparkle around them, like a
rosy aura.
Without thinking, she reaches for Eden’s hand. Eden holds Olivia’s
fingers before letting go. Olivia wants to feel the soft touch again, savor
it. She wants to tell Eden who she really is right now. She doesn’t want
to lie a minute longer.
Careful, Olly. You’ll scare her away if you tell her too soon. She has
to trust you more.
So all she says is “Lust is a heady drug. And finding someone you
can talk to when you’re all alone is hard to let go of.”
Eden nods.
Then Eden’s phone, which is on the table right next to her
wineglass, lights up with a call.
When Eden answers, her entire body goes rigid; her eyes fill with
alarm. “Oh my God,” she says, making Olivia want to climb over the
table to try to hear the person on the other end of the line, her own
adrenaline spiking in response to Eden’s obvious distress. “Are you
sure?”
Eden ends the call, tosses some cash on the table, and stands up so
fast her chair falls over. Her skin is now white and clammy looking with
fear. She leaves the chair where it lies and says, “I’m sorry. I have to
go.”
Before Olivia can ask what’s happened, Eden runs out into the
night.
Follow her, Alistair says.
So Olivia does.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Olivia has only a breath to catch up to Eden. Leaping from her chair, she
races out of the restaurant, hurrying as fast as she can to Justin’s truck,
parked way down the street. Justin has the only fob, but she has a key in
case she ever needs to move it for him. She jams the key in the lock,
opens the door, jumps inside, and starts the car, her knuckles white as
she grips the wheel.
She turned off her phone soon after Justin called. She didn’t want to
know if he sent threatening texts or called again. She didn’t want to be
Olivia Ward at all. But now she has to be careful not to let Eden see the
Ram, the white lettering of WARD CONTRACTING bright under the
streetlamps. She lets Eden’s blue Camry move ahead enough that Eden
hopefully can’t spot Olivia or the truck in her rearview mirror. But Eden
is driving like it’s life or death, and Olivia has to keep up.
When Eden merges onto the ramp for the I-94, Olivia’s confused.
Eden doesn’t need to take the highway to get to her house on Ivy Court.
And then abject terror almost paralyzes her as she wonders, for the
first time, if Justin could be tracking her or his truck. She’s almost
always at home, unless she has a doctor’s appointment or is needed on
site to take photos for their website. He couldn’t have caught her doing
anything wrong before recently. But now that Olivia’s been living
instead of merely existing, he has every reason to try to trap her in a lie.
She has to outmaneuver him.
Eden turns off at exit 175, and Olivia gets her bearings. Perhaps
Eden’s going to see Ava at her dorm. She breathes properly for the first
time in an hour. Maybe Ava’s the one who phoned, needing her mother,
and Eden ran. Ava’s social media accounts don’t have a single shot of
Eden, but Eden’s show how much she loves her daughter.
 Still, Olivia has to be sure exactly where Eden is driving. She tails
her to Kipke Drive, full of buildings and dark, empty parking lots. This
late at night, it seems an odd place for a mother-daughter meetup.
A wave of vertigo makes the sky glow above her spin when Eden
pulls into the lot of the Division of Public Safety and Security for the
University of Michigan.
A police station.
Olivia immediately turns off her headlights, parks at the lot across
the street, and watches Eden walk through the doors of the building.
Olivia swallows the acid burning her throat, thinking of every possible
reason Eden could have gotten a call that made her take off for the police
division at U-M.
Could it be about Dave’s accident? Fear zips up her spine. Even if
the Mazda is in Justin’s name, she’s the one who drives it most of the
time. What if someone saw her? After twenty minutes, the doors open.
It’s not Eden. A woman shields herself from the wind to light a cigarette.
Even with the windows closed, the imagined acrid, burning odor of the
tobacco and nicotine finds its way into Olivia’s memories.
A cigarette was Olivia’s downfall.
Smoking was her secret habit. She only smoked when she was
really stressed or upset—after a dinner with her dad, before a big test, on
her way to and from visiting Alistair at Ridgestone, which her father
allowed her to do once a month. She’d make the hour drive by herself in
the red Jetta her father had given her for her sixteenth birthday,
purchased from one of his client’s dealerships, of course. She relished
the trip there because she was so excited to see her brother, but the
medication he was on dulled his energy, and she always cried and chain-
smoked all the way home.
Smoking was also how she dealt with the betrayal of seeing Justin
and Eden making out at the Sigma Chi party. It was Tyler, sweet Tyler,
her friend, whom she’d met in freshman year when they were both
pledges, who spotted Olivia sobbing in the upstairs hallway. Tyler
brought her into his bedroom at the far end of the hall next to the
bathroom and onto the balcony for a smoke and chat.
The balcony extended across the entire second floor, above a patch
of grass and overlooking a gravel lot, where only a few cars, including
the Screaming Demons’ white van, were parked. It was a cool May
night, and the fresh air calmed Olivia slightly.
She sat down on the cold concrete, her back against the white
railing, staring into Tyler’s bedroom through the sliding glass door and
out to the hallway, where the party raged on.
Tyler sat beside her, put his red Solo cup down, and draped his arm
around her, until her tears finally subsided. She lit a cigarette, and Tyler
plucked it from her fingers for a drag before handing it back to her.
“You smoke?” Olivia was shocked. Tyler, with his shaggy hair
always smelling like chlorine from swim team practice, seemed like the
epitome of health.
“We all have our vices. Like you and skeezy drummers. That why
you were crying?” He raised his eyebrows and took a sip from his cup.
Olivia sucked on the cigarette, then exhaled a sob. “He’s not skeezy.
And how did you know this was about Justin?”
Tyler rested his elbows on his knees. “When I see a girl crying, he’s
often involved.”
Olivia wrinkled her nose. “What does that mean?”
He shrugged. “Nothing. Forget it. He just doesn’t seem like your
type.”
She nodded and took another drag from her cigarette, blowing out
the smoke hard. “I know. But honestly, I don’t even have a type. And
he’s actually really sweet.”
Tyler snorted. “I went to high school with that guy. Sweet is not
how I would describe him. A user, yes. A poser, for sure. He was on the
track team, then it was school council and on to band. Whatever gets him
the most attention. I think he only came here tonight for the free weed.”
He gently knocked his knee into hers. “What did he do that’s made you
so upset?”
“Kissed another girl.”
Olivia offered her cigarette, and he took another drag. “Was she
blonde?”
Olivia jerked her knee away. “You saw them too?”
“Nope.” He laughed. “He has a type.”
She shook her head. “I know we have something special. He told
me yesterday he loved me.” She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her
hand. “I’ve never felt like this about anybody.”
 Tyler shrugged and gave Olivia the cigarette back. “I’m just telling
you how I see it. I don’t want you to get hurt. But even in high school, he
was a player.” He pointed at her. “And the girls were a mess after he was
done with them. Trust me, it’s better you found out now what he’s really
like and stay far away.”
A door slammed. A light went on in the bathroom next to Tyler’s
bedroom.
“Keep this between us, though, okay? I mean, I think the guy is a
dick, but everyone else thinks Justin Ward is the shit. I don’t need the
headache of dealing with him.”
The sound of loud retching came from the bathroom.
“Hang on a sec,” Tyler said. “I’m going to see if that party animal
needs any help.” He stood up, and a moment later Olivia could hear a
murmur of voices. Then the bathroom window slid open.
When Tyler came back, he said, “It’s Eden Hoffman. She’s super
drunk and out of it. I’ve never seen her like that. I didn’t even think she
drank.” His eyebrows knit with worry. “She told me to leave her alone,
but I cracked a window so she can get some air.”
“Who’s Eden Hoffman?” Olivia asked, taking one last drag of her
cigarette before tossing it through the railing slats behind her.
“We work together at the Book Nook.” He rubbed his jaw, glancing
at the open bathroom window. “I don’t like leaving her on her own in
there.”
“What is happening to me?” a female voice moaned.
Olivia stood, too, biting her lip. “Yeah, she doesn’t sound good.”
Tyler shifted from foot to foot. “I should go in and take care of her.
Something’s not right.”
“I’ll go. She might be more comfortable with a girl helping her.”
Olivia went back inside and over to the bathroom, where the door was
closed. She knocked, but there was no answer.
She didn’t want to violate anyone’s privacy, but she had to make
sure that the sick girl was okay, so Olivia turned the knob. There
hunched over the toilet was the blond in a mesh top and jean skirt,
puking her guts out.
Quickly, Olivia left, leaving the door open so someone else could
help the girl who’d just had her tongue down Justin’s throat. It wasn’t
her problem, and Eden was probably some drunk groupie.
 She went back onto the balcony, where Tyler leaned against the
railing.
“So? Is she okay?” he asked, putting his drink on the ground.
“You mean the chick who was fooling around with Justin?” Olivia
picked up Tyler’s red cup and took a large sip. “She’ll be fine. She’s just
wasted.”
Tyler scoffed loudly. “Eden and Justin? No way.”
“Yes way,” Olivia argued.
Tyler looked at the bathroom window, then back at Olivia. “That
makes no sense. I invited her to the party so she could talk to a different
guy. Something’s off here.”
Then Justin came onto the balcony.
Distracted by her thoughts, Olivia doesn’t see Eden leave the police
station. It’s only when she hears a car door slam that she focuses. Olivia
slides down in the driver’s seat, throwing her head back so hard she feels
a pop in her neck, and jams herself as far under the wheel as she can
until she hears who she hopes is Eden driving away.
After counting to two hundred, Olivia slowly, carefully sits up,
darting her eyes around the police station parking lot and into the starry
night to make sure Eden is long gone. Olivia starts the truck and pulls
out onto the road. She’s been away from home for over three hours. No
sorority dinner lasts that long. She can’t possibly follow Eden anywhere
else tonight. She does send her a quick text, though, using Burner, an
app she installed to get an untraceable number on her phone.

Lila: I hope everything is okay! Let me know when you get a

chance or if you need anything.

She reads it five times before sending it to make sure it has the right
friendly tone. Hopefully Eden will respond.
On the short drive home to the Old West Side, sweat dampening the
armpits of her pretty lavender sweater, the pungent scent of her fear
filling the car, she stops quickly at the twenty-four-hour 7-Eleven to get
Justin’s favorite fudge ice cream in an attempt to make up for taking his
truck.
Their house is dark when Olivia arrives, and she’s counting on
Justin being asleep. She tiptoes to the door, suddenly realizing that Justin
might notice how many miles she’s put on his truck tonight; it’s the kind
of thing he tracks. As she inserts her key into the lock, she thinks of all
the places she could have driven—the dinner at Amy’s, the store; maybe
she gave a lift home to one of her sorority sisters—to explain the
difference on the odometer should Justin ask. Thinking about these
possibilities, she steps into the entryway.
“Where the hell have you been?”
Olivia screams, dropping the bag of ice cream to the floor.
Justin moves from behind the door, where he’s clearly been waiting
for her. He closes the door, then turns around to face her.
She’s in trouble now, and her mind goes blank. Even Alistair’s
voice is silent.
Justin comes toward her with a single measured step. Olivia can
hear her heart thundering and stays rooted to her spot. But when Justin
presses his hard chest against hers and gently strokes his fingers through
her hair, she relaxes.
Of course he’s only toying with her. His hand guides her head
down. And for the next four minutes, Olivia thinks of the dinner with
Eden. How nice it was to have someone to talk to and pay attention to
her. And she enjoys a small sense of accomplishment because she’s
doing what Eden would have to if she’d seen Justin tonight. In a way,
Olivia is protecting her. After he’s done with her, Justin sniffs the air.
“I’m taking a shower. You should too. Whatever you ate tonight is
seeping from your pores.” He pulls up his track pants and smiles at her.
Once he’s upstairs, and after putting the melting ice cream away,
Olivia heads to the powder room, feeling sick no matter how many times
she brushes her teeth. The brief respite from her reality is over. How
much longer can she pretend to be Lila Cavanaugh before Justin finds
out what she’s been doing? It was useless to think she could hurt him in
any way.
As her foot lands on the first step of the stairs so she can go up and
shower in the guest bedroom, she hears his phone buzz from the living
room. Olivia hesitates.
Go, Alistair says. You need to know what he’s doing. Your life
depends on it.
Olivia steps back onto the main floor and walks into the living
room. Justin’s phone is on the coffee table. On her own phone, she sets a
timer for five minutes. Then she picks up his phone and types in his
password.
There’s a text from Yvonne that makes her smile.

Mother: Thanks for nothing, Justin. Shawn took me to

Detroit even though he should have been with his kids.

There’s also a message from someone named Madison Lassiter, a

name Olivia’s never heard before. Olivia scrolls down to the first
message, sent at 1:00 p.m. today.

Justin: Good to talk to you today, Madison. You seem bright

and talented. If I can find something, you’d be a positive
asset for the Ward Contracting team. You have a special
spark, and I like your energy on the phone. I felt electric the
rest of the day.

Madison: Thanks for taking the time. I’d love to work for you,
even as an intern. Like I said, I’m super good with my hands. I
can get down and dirty on a construction site. I felt a spark,
too. I’ll do anything.

“I’ll bet you will,” Olivia says to the screen.

A spasm twists in her chest. Olivia already knows how this text
exchange is going to go, and she wouldn’t care, except now he’s
involving their company. She doesn’t know if it’s the first time.

Justin: You’re sweet to say that. I’m sure I’m a bit older than
most of the guys who get your attention. I might have
something, actually. Part-time. Could be some late nights.
Are you able to do that?

Olivia snorts. They can barely pay the staff they have. Olivia does
the hiring, and she only hires men. Her husband is such an asshole.
 Madison: I like men with experience. I can do anything you
want.

Justin: I think we should meet in person for an interview. A

private space, perhaps, so we can really build on this
connection? I’d like to hear all about you.

Madison: I’d like to show you. I can meet tonight.

Justin: I can’t tonight. I’ll get back to you with a time and
place. I’ll think about you until then.

Madison: I haven’t stopped thinking about you.

Justin: What kinds of thoughts?

Madison: Naughty ones.

Justin: You can get into trouble with me, so be careful when
you tease me.

Madison: I’m not just teasing.

Olivia wants to throw the phone across the room, scream at her
husband for being so stupid. Sending inappropriate texts to a woman
looking for a job opens himself—and Ward Contracting—to a sexual
harassment lawsuit. That would completely wipe them out financially
and ruin his entire good-guy reputation that he’s worked so hard to
maintain. Does he think he’s untouchable because Olivia will solve all
his problems for him?
She has three minutes left before Justin gets out of the shower. At
7:20 p.m., after he’d berated Olivia for taking his truck, he texted
Madison again.

Justin: Plans changed. Let’s meet at Rocco’s in the Old West

Side at 8.
 A seedy bar that’s a ten-minute walk from their house, Rocco’s is
the last place Olivia would interview a potential hire, but that’s clearly
not what’s happening here. Of course he wouldn’t let his missing truck
stop him from getting what and whom he wants.

Madison: Can’t wait.

At 8:45 p.m., right before Olivia got home, Justin sent another text.

Justin: You don’t get the job. You stood me up.

Madison: I was just about to text you. I’m sorry. I couldn’t get
into the bar.

Justin: I don’t like to be kept waiting.

Madison: If you give me another chance, I’ll show you how

sorry I am.

Justin: I know a place I can take you. Tomorrow night. I’ll text
you the location. Be ready.

Madison: I’m so ready for you.

“Jesus, Justin,” Olivia whispers. “You’re such an idiot.” This

Madison girl is clearly underage. Olivia hopes she’s at least eighteen or
this could blow up into a bigger disaster.
The timer dings. She can’t read any more of his messages tonight.
The shower turns off. The bathroom door opens, and she hears
Justin pad down the hall to their bedroom. Olivia gets up to shower, as
Justin instructed.
Dizzy with too many secrets in her exhausted mind, she sits on the
shower floor. Under the spray, which feels like needles on her skin, she
wants to drown herself. Let the police find her, her car, and everything
she’s so carefully buried. She’s so tired of the lies, the subterfuge, and
this life.
 Please don’t give up, Olly.
She hauls herself up and turns off the shower, then wraps herself in
a towel. Looking in the mirror, she doesn’t know who the bedraggled,
hollow shell of a woman staring back at her is.
“I can’t go on like this, Ally,” she whispers.
She has to end it.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The next morning, after barely sleeping, Olivia’s in the pantry about to
take the tin of steel-cut oats from the shelf for Justin’s breakfast when
she hears the front door close. Justin, of course, slept like a log beside
her all night, but he wasn’t in bed when she opened her eyes. She didn’t
know where he was, but she had to get up and prepare his meal. Olivia
maintains their shared calendar, so she knows that Justin has a 9:00 a.m.
meeting with Larry, the owner of the Kerrytown house, who wants to
speed up the renovations.
Taking her phone from her black sweatpants, she looks at the
screen. It’s 8:30 a.m. Perhaps Justin left early to grab breakfast on the
way. He never tells her anything he doesn’t want to.
She needs to be sure that Justin has actually left the property,
though, so she runs to the dining room and peeks through the curtains.
The driveway is empty. Justin’s truck is gone. She exhales and smiles.
After putting the tin back on the shelf, she flops onto the couch in
the living room, looking straight ahead at the black ceramic urn.
Alistair’s ashes and her pendant are all she has left of him, except for the
secret album folder on her phone, where she hides the photos that she’s
taken of him. She opens the folder to the very last picture of her brother.
It’s from Labor Day weekend, about two weeks before he died, and
the usual monthly visit Justin allowed her, like her father once did. If
Olivia had known it was the final time she could talk to Alistair, touch
him, she would have told him everything, no matter how violently Justin
would have punished her. No matter how disappointed Alistair would
have been in her.
Olivia snapped this shot of him standing under the white oak in the
center of Ridgestone’s expansive grounds. The leaves were still dark
green, and the sun shone on Alistair’s honey-brown hair, the same shade
as their mother’s. He was a bit thinner than Olivia liked him to be, but
his hazel eyes were alert, and his smile was genuine. He had friends and
a stocking job at a grocery store. He looked happy.
Justin had been right beside her, of course. She hadn’t visited
Alistair alone since she’d graduated from U-M.
At his door, they hugged one last time. Alistair waved with his
whole body like he always did for her, never caring how silly he looked
as long as he made her smile.
If Olivia had defied Justin before now, Alistair would still be alive.
You’re a survivor, Olly.
“I am a survivor.” This time it’s her own voice she hears, loud and
clear.
The front door bangs open.
Olivia bolts up from the couch and walks to the entryway, where
Justin stands. With Bree. And all Olivia’s bravado vanishes.
“Hey, sleepyhead.” Justin smiles as he bends to put down his
toolbox, then comes over to kiss her on the cheek.
“Morning, Olivia,” Bree chirps, coming straight into the entryway
and shutting their door behind her. Today she’s in a hot-pink athleisure
outfit that hugs her generous curves.
“What are you doing home?” The words fall out of Olivia’s mouth
before she can stop them.
Justin laughs. “I told you this morning that I had to drop off the
truck at the car wash around the corner. I’m getting it detailed. It smells
funny.” He grins. “Maybe a skunk sprayed it after you brought it home
last night.” He casually drapes an arm around Olivia’s shoulder.
His touch makes her ill. But she says, “Oh, that’s too bad, honey,”
like she’s supposed to.
“Anyway, I walked home, and Bree was running past, so she
stopped and asked if I could quickly fix a loose tap. Busy morning for
some of us.” Then he winks at Bree. “Olivia had a late night.”
“Nice!” Bree grins. “Where did you go?”
Olivia’s throat closes; she isn’t used to sharing anything about
herself, as no one usually asks. Justin speaks for her.
“Olivia has these fancy dinners a couple of times a year with her
sorority sisters.” He shrugs sheepishly and drops his hand from her body.
“I sometimes can’t believe she fell for a rough-and-tumble guy like me.”
 Bree laughs. “Which sorority? I was in Kappa Alpha Theta.”
“Alpha Phi,” Olivia croaks.
“Where did you go to college?” Bree puts a manicured hand to her
chest. “I went to Stanford.”
Of course you did, Olivia thinks, managing to say, “University of
Michigan.” She moves an inch away from Justin, quickly looking at the
grandfather clock behind her. It’s 8:45 a.m.
“Just down the road! I didn’t realize you went there! I have a few
Kappa friends who also went there—let’s get drinks sometime and see if
we have anyone in common!”
Bree is way too peppy, and Olivia knows that a drinks date will
never happen, but she responds, “Sure!” trying to muster the same
energy as her neighbor while desperately hoping she’ll leave.
Olivia breaks out in a prickly cold sweat before telling Justin,
“Honey, you’ve got that meeting with Larry at nine.”
He shakes his head at Bree. “I don’t know what I’d do without my
wife.” Then he smiles at Olivia, but she feels his hand land tensely on
her shoulder. “I actually called Larry and changed the meeting for this
afternoon.”
Thunder rumbles in the distance, and Olivia flinches.
Bree notices and says, “I’m afraid of thunder too. I’d better let you
guys start your day and get home before it starts to pour.” She smiles
prettily. “Thanks again, Justin. Let’s make that date for drinks soon,
Olivia.”
After Bree is gone and a few moments have passed, Justin grabs her
by the waist. Olivia shrieks in fright. He ignores her cry and digs his
finger into her clavicle. “Something’s going on with you.”
Olivia hears herself swallow. She waits for Alistair to tell her what
to say. But he’s quiet. So she is too. She doesn’t know exactly what
Justin means. It’s better to say nothing.
He tightens his grip, then squeezes her nipple hard. “I know you
think with Alistair gone that you don’t need to be afraid of me anymore.
But I know everything, and if you screw with me, Olivia, no one will
believe you. You’ll go down for everything. Not me.”
Justin ascends the stairs for his shower. Olivia is immobile until she
hears the water turn on. It’s 9:00 a.m.
 She checks her phone for any texts from Eden about what happened
last night. Nothing. Olivia checks another app she’s downloaded and
hidden on her phone. Her heart stops.
We’re in trouble now, Alistair says.
She drops the phone on the wood floor. It clatters loudly as her
entire world collapses, again. This time, Olivia might not survive it.
Justin doesn’t know everything. But he’s about to find out.

OceanofPDF.com
 PART THREE

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER SIXTEEN
EDEN

I park my car at the curb in front of an elegant brown Tudor, the largest
property on this fairy tale–looking street. Shaky from lack of food and
sleep after driving around all night long, I almost fell to my knees in
relief when Justin told me to come to his house so he could help me look
for Ava.
She’s been missing for twelve hours.
I’ve never moved as quickly as I did when Julia called me while I
was at the restaurant with Lila last night. Ava was supposed to check in
with Julia at the end of every day to make sure she was staying on track,
following the rules. By close to 8:00 p.m., Ava hadn’t come back to the
dorm. She also hadn’t shown up to any of her classes yesterday or the
rehearsal for the upcoming showcase next week.
She’s not answering any calls or texts from me, Dave, Julia, even
the police. After the call from Julia, I drove to the U-M police station,
and they printed off my most recent photo of Ava, took all her
information, and said they’d do a sweep of the campus and surrounding
areas. I’m grateful for Suzanne’s Law, which the police explained means
they have to open an investigation immediately when a minor under
twenty-one is reported missing. Maybe if the law had existed when Tyler
disappeared, they might have found him.
But I can’t think about Tyler now, especially in any way connected
to Ava, or I’ll completely lose it.
Through my windshield, I see the sky darken, and a crack of
thunder makes me jump. I quickly make sure I haven’t missed any calls
or texts from the police. They assured me that they’ll do everything they
can, including notifying the National Crime Information Center. They
said they’ve seen cases like this before with college kids, and it’s likely
Ava’s taking a breather from the stress of school. Either her phone is
turned off or she’s blocking everyone, because all our calls go straight to
voice mail.
I’m not sure Ava knows that Dave was hit by a car. I called and left
her voice mails several times Sunday night, and when she didn’t call
back, I texted her, hoping that would prompt a response. Nothing. The
last communication between us was the thumbs-up emoji she sent on
Sunday afternoon. I’ve looked at it again and again, holding on to that
like a hug from my daughter. The police are going to track her phone this
morning, but they can only do that if her phone is actually on.
A mother always knows. Something is very wrong. I have to do
anything I can to find her myself.
But I’m helpless and very alone. Dave is stuck in the hospital with a
broken hip and elbow. Jenna and Natalie both offered to come to Ann
Arbor and help me look, but I need to be proactive now. Before the sun
even rose, I texted Justin that Ava is missing. He responded immediately,
gave me his address, and told me to come at 9:30 a.m. I’m not exactly
sure why I’m here—whether it’s for me, so I can confront Justin about
his lies and find out if he’s been manipulating me, or because he really is
the only person in Ann Arbor who can help me locate Ava.
I’m more than half an hour early, so here I sit in my car outside his
home, canopied with maple trees. A gorgeous garden of vibrant
perennials lines the front lawn. It’s a beautiful property, yet I’m surprised
by the hairs that instantly stand up on my arms when I look at his
windows. Each one is covered in thick navy curtains. Though a lovely
cobblestone walkway leads to an expansive front porch, there’s
something off about the house. It sags in sadness.
I feel the same. So, I decide to use my extra time to talk to the
people in my life who matter the most. If Dave hadn’t been hit by that
car, I think we might have sat down to dinner together and finally told
each other everything we’ve been holding back. I wanted to, and I think
he did too.
When I saw him unconscious on the ground, it made me realize that
I’ve always taken for granted that he’ll be there. Maybe not with me but
around for me to rely on if I need him. I could have lost him forever.
There’s no guarantee of tomorrow. We never know when our last
conversation with someone might be.
After Dave’s accident, I stayed awake all night in a chair beside his
hospital bed, watching him sleep. I didn’t even want to leave Monday
morning, but Jenna and Natalie each came to take a shift with him so I
could rest. None of them knew I also had to get ready for my dinner with
Justin that never happened. That I was torn between my past with Dave
and a possible future with another man.
When Dave finally opened his eyes after surgery, though they were
clouded with morphine, his words were clear when he said, “Don’t be
afraid to live your best life.”
I’m not sure if he meant with or without him, because he hasn’t
wanted to talk about anything but Ava since.
He’s doing the only thing he can from his hospital bed: monitoring
our debit and credit card transactions, but there’s been no recent activity.
Wherever Ava is, she could be using cash, but there are also no new
posts on her TikTok and Instagram accounts, where she constantly
updates her life.
I start by texting Jenna and Natalie, because though they won’t be
happy at all that I’ve reconnected with Justin, they are my best friends
who love me unconditionally. I think I forgot that recently.

Eden: No news yet. But I wanted to let you both know where
I am. Please don’t ask questions now. I promise I’ll explain
everything after Ava is found.

Natalie: You’re scaring me.

Jenna: Go ahead. I’m listening.

Shaking as I type, I do it.

Eden: I’ve been talking to Justin Ward online. Romantically.

I’m at his house. I’ll drop you a pin. I’m hoping he can help
me find Ava. I’ll be okay as long as I have her in my arms. The
rest doesn’t matter.
 Natalie: What??? I’m trying not to react, but honey, Justin
Ward? But yes, Ava is the most important. Please keep us
posted.

Jenna: WTF, Eden. Justin Ward? I can be there in an hour.

Please let me come.

Eden: It’s okay but thank you. I promise to let you know if I
need you. I have to go. Love you both.

One hurdle jumped, I drop them a pin. I’m sure the two of them are
now talking about me. But I need to call Dave next. No matter what,
Dave is Ava’s father, and I’ve got to let him know where I am too. I also
have questions for him.
“Anything?” Dave asks immediately when he picks up.
“No, but I found someone to help me look for her.”
“Who?”
I feel too wretched to do anything but be straightforward, too
cowardly to admit my own actions first.
“Before I tell you, I need to say a few things. Things I wanted to say
when we were going to have dinner, and I couldn’t do it at the hospital
because you weren’t up for it.”
“Okay.” Dave’s tone is low and scared.
“This isn’t the time to get into it, but we need to be a team and
honest with each other. We have terrible communication.” I open my
mouth and just say it. “I know about the BDSM.”
Dave sucks in a breath so sharp I feel it scrape my own throat. “I
made a huge mistake. I got our marriage all wrong.”
He starts to sob. I’ve only seen Dave cry once, when he held Ava
for the first time. But those were happy tears. The ragged sound through
the phone is torment.
“What did you do?” I whisper, my hand on the car door handle as
though I can make a quick escape from a confession that I’m not sure I
want to hear.
“It’s what I didn’t do,” he says so softly and tenderly that I start to
cry too. “I thought that I was supposed to be like my father. A provider
and a protector. And I saw you as a version of my mother, a nurturing
caregiver. Unconsciously, I wanted to re-create my parents’ relationship,
but I didn’t understand what their relationship really was at all.”
“Are you high on morphine?”
He huffs a laugh. “Yes, but I’ve never been more aware. I know that
I’ve been such a shitty person to you since my dad died. I’m so sorry. I
unraveled. I lost the most influential person in my life, the person I
wanted to make the proudest. With him gone, I felt like I couldn’t
pretend anymore to be the righteous man everyone thought I was.” He
sighs. “For years, Eden, I’ve pushed down all these sexual thoughts and
desires. Not just for BDSM. But freedom and excitement and
exploration of a whole world I’ve never experienced.”
I take my hand off the handle and press it to my throat, where
another sob rises. “Because I wasn’t enough for you?”
“No, it’s the opposite. It’s always been you. Only you. You’re the
star of my every fantasy, Eden. But you’re also the mother of my child. I
felt perverted and ashamed thinking of you as a sex object. So, I pushed
you away.”
“But I’m your wife, Dave. We’ve never even talked about sex.
There’s something wrong with that.” And in this car where I risked
everything to talk to Justin, there’s something wrong with me too. But I
have to let Dave get everything out because he might lose his nerve.
“I realize that now. Maybe too late.” He blows out a breath.
“Something happened when I went to visit my mom at the home
recently. She thought I was my dad. And she asked me if I remembered
the letter that I, meaning my father, left under her pillow the night I
graduated high school.”
“Oh, Dave. That must have been so hard.”
“It was, but then it changed everything for me. I told her I
remembered the letter, because I didn’t know what else to say. The look
on her face . . .” He makes a murmur of joy I’m not expecting at all. “It
was like she was all lit up from the inside. She let out this girlish giggle
I’d never heard from my mother. So, after I left the home, I went to my
parents’ house, because I’m still packing up their stuff. And in the box
with all their photo albums, I found a stack of letters tied with a ribbon.
Romantic letters from my parents to each other.”
I try to picture opinionated Chuck, with his booming, stern voice,
and docile Marsha, with her twinsets, penning love letters to one another.
“I can’t imagine that.”
“Neither could I, and they’re the kind of letters between parents a
son shouldn’t read. But I’m so glad I did, because I’d misunderstood
what their marriage had really been like. Everything I knew about
relationships, I learned from watching my parents. Everything I knew
about being a man, I learned from my father. But I was watching as their
son, and I confused how they parented me with how they loved each
other. Just because they weren’t that physically affectionate or playful in
front of me didn’t mean they weren’t living a whole separate life
together behind closed doors. The things my father wrote to my mother
were so open and emotional and . . . sexy.” He stops.
“Keep talking, please.”
“I’m trying to find the right words.” He clears his throat. “When I
read the letters, all the shame that I’ve carried fell away. I saw my father
in a new light. He had desires, too, and never stopped himself from
telling my mother about them. My parents actually had the marriage I’ve
wanted with you but was so afraid to tell you I wanted. I didn’t even try.
I should have tried.”
“Why didn’t you, though? How could you leave me? I don’t
understand what you were looking for if I’m the one you wanted.” I ask
this all in a rush to get out everything I’ve longed to know for months.
“Because I never wanted to see your disappointment and shame in
me. Or God, Ava. I was actually at Trisk, that club, the same night Adam
Sumner was. It was supposed to be a totally confidential, private event. I
wasn’t there to be with anyone. I just wanted to see what it was all about.
I was grasping for any understanding or a way to stop myself from
wanting a different sex life than we had. I was still inside when the
photographers got there and had to sneak out the back so I wouldn’t be
caught on camera. I was terrified.” He chokes up again. “I imagined you
seeing me online, or Ava’s friends posting it on her social media. My
employees and clients seeing me in the news. I could have blown up
your lives and mine. I needed to let you go. I waited to ask you for a
divorce until Ava was in college so I wouldn’t ruin that experience for
her.” His voice cracks with so much pain. “But I ruined us.”
It’s too much to take in. I look again at Justin’s house, where
everything seems dark and shut tightly. “Thank you for being so honest
with me. I know how hard that was for you. I need time to process this,
but our issues aren’t all on you, Dave.” My heart is racing. I exhale,
wishing I could expel my past mistakes as easily as my breath. “I’ve
been having a sexual and emotional online relationship with Justin Ward.
He lives in Ann Arbor, and I texted him to help me find Ava. I’m in front
of his house right now.”
There’s complete silence.
“Dave?” I ask gently.
“That guy? Why?” His voice is gruff.
“I’ve been so lonely,” I say honestly. “He’s been there for me
recently in ways you haven’t for months. I’ve learned a lot about myself
through talking to him, and it’s time I figure out exactly what I want.”
While I’m not sure how to do that, after talking to Dave, I realize
that it’s possible I’ve been so consumed by Justin’s words because it’s
what I’ve yearned to hear from Dave.
He makes a sound of discomfort. “This is a painful conversation.”
“It’s real, and it’s about time that we had that.”
“But that guy, Eden”—he pauses—“didn’t care about you.”
“I didn’t think you did either until just now.”
Dave lets out a long, deep sigh. “It should be me there with you.
I’m so sorry I can’t be.”
I shake my head even though he can’t see it. “That’s not your fault,
and we’ll talk more about us once I find Ava, because I am going to find
her.” I’m grasping, too, when I continue. “Justin might also be able to
help me with that. He knows Ann Arbor better than I do. I’m not
thinking straight. I’m exhausted. Maybe he can drive me around to all
the places a musician would stay out all night. And I don’t want to be
alone right now.”
“Do you think Ava played somewhere or went to hear music and . . .
what?”
My shoulders tense in frustration. “Met a girl and went back to her
place? Got drunk and passed out in an alley? I don’t know. But Justin
used to play at bars and cafés all the time. I don’t even know where live
music is around here anymore. He might.”
“Google can do the same thing. Do you love him, Eden?”
The anguish in his question hurts me, but hiding how I really feel
will cause more damage. “I don’t know right now, Dave. I was
infatuated with him in college. But I fell in love with and married you. I
have a lot to work out.”
He’s quiet, then says, “Okay. Whatever you have to do to find Ava
and for yourself.” But he sounds skeptical. “Just be careful, and keep
your phone close, please.”
“I’ll keep you posted.”
I hang up and drop him a pin too. I’m still fifteen minutes early, but
I can’t wait any longer. I exit my car right as the sky suddenly splits open
and lightning flashes. Rain pelts me as I hurry up the porch steps and
cross to the thick oak front door. I don’t really know what I’m hoping to
accomplish by coming here, but I’ve been in the dark about my own life
for too long. I tap my knuckles on the wood.
I hear the click of the lock turning. The door creaks open.
I step backward, stupefied.
The woman in front of me, in a black long-sleeved shirt and black
sweatpants, places her body in the center of the frame.
I take in her slim build, blanched face, brown hair sticking out
wildly from her scalp as though she’s been pulling at it. Instead of the
bright-blue eyes I saw just last night, they’re gray. As understanding
reaches my scrambled brain, I’m slammed with a shock so powerful it
steals my voice. She’s been wearing colored contacts every time I’ve
seen her.
Pushing my wet hair from my face, all I can murmur is “Lila?” as I
raise a trembling hand to my throat. “What—I don’t understand. Why
are you here?”
Her hand flies to her neck. She’s wearing a diamond band I’ve
never seen on her ring finger before. I glance above her head at the wall,
where to the left a picture hangs. A wedding photo of a gorgeous couple;
the blonde bride is resting her head on her husband’s shoulder. I falter,
reaching for the doorframe for support.
It’s Justin and my new friend, Lila Cavanaugh.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Justin’s wife says.
Then she pulls me inside the house and shuts the door behind me.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
OLIVIA

Olivia’s chest squeezes so painfully it’s hard to breathe. Eden is inside

the house. Justin is still in the shower. She waits for Alistair to tell her
what to do, but all she hears are her own jumbled, frightened thoughts.
She couldn’t leave Eden on the doorstep. She looked like she was
about to pass out. Now in the entryway, Eden still seems off balance, her
eyes ping-ponging between Olivia and the wedding photo on the wall.
All the color has leached from her face. Her hair drips rainwater onto the
wood. Olivia has so much more to worry about than the puddle seeping
into the floorboards, but she can’t look away from it.
She’s also scared to face Eden as herself with Justin right upstairs.
Olivia knew it was only a matter of time before Eden came to the house.
The GPS app that she installed on her phone after she’d dropped the
tracker into Eden’s purse, trustingly left on the kitchen island at her
Lakeside listing, clocked Eden parked at the curb for over fifteen
minutes. She should have met Eden outside, come up with some
plausible explanation why Lila Cavanaugh is really Olivia Ward, Justin’s
wife, and not a childless divorced woman with good advice and all the
freedom to do as she pleases.
Olivia cocks an ear toward the stairs behind her to make sure the
shower is still running. She has maybe two minutes to get Eden out of
here before Justin sees her. He wasn’t supposed to be home.
She wanted it to be just her and Eden, two women joining forces
against an abusive narcissist. Now they’re both in danger if Justin finds
them together—if he finds out how much Olivia has been plotting
behind his back.
 She gets close enough to Eden that she can see her pulse jump in
her neck. “I can explain later. But you need to leave right now.”
Eden’s eyes are ringed with circles so black it’s like she hasn’t slept
in days. Eden trusts Lila, and if Olivia can get into character, they’ll be
safe. But with Justin steps away, Olivia is not equipped to slip on the
facade, and she doesn’t have enough time to get Eden on her side before
Justin comes out of the bathroom. Alistair hasn’t said a word to her since
Eden walked into the house. All she can do is beg.
“Please. There’s so much you don’t know about him. Go.”
“I don’t understand. Who are you really?” Tears pool in the corners
of Eden’s wide brown eyes. Her body is shaking. She leans against the
wall by the door, as though she needs it to hold her up. “Why did you lie
to me?”
“So you would help me leave him.”
“Leave him? He wants to leave. He told me that.”
Olivia shakes her head. “He’s a liar and a con. You got away once,
Eden. Go before we both get hurt. I promise I’ll tell you everything
later.”
Eden opens her mouth, squeaks something unintelligible, then
closes it. She looks at the door and back to Olivia. “Olivia? That’s your
real name?” She speaks carefully, tensing, as though she’s afraid of what
Olivia might do to her, the way everyone used to speak with Alistair,
even though he’d never have hurt anyone unless he had to. He could
always sense when Olivia was in danger.
When she and Justin walked down the hallway at Ridgestone, the
last time Olivia saw her brother, she looked once over her shoulder.
Alistair mouthed, “It will be okay.”
He knew she was suffering. He couldn’t help her escape, but he
could still comfort her. Now, though, he won’t even talk to her.
When Olivia doesn’t respond, Eden says, “I don’t know what game
you’re playing or what’s going on between you and Justin. But he asked
me to come here. He offered to help me find my daughter, who’s been
missing for twelve hours now. Is he home?”
“I told you to come here,” Olivia whispers.
Eden shakes her head. “No, he did.” Her face softens. “Look, you
know I’ve had trouble dealing with my separation. I understand how
hard it is. I’m not trying to come between you and Justin. All I want right
now is to talk to him and find my daughter.” Eden reaches into her purse.
Olivia waits a second for Alistair to guide her next move, but when
he doesn’t, she yanks the purse from Eden’s shoulder, tossing it across
the room. It lands at the bottom of the stairs. She doesn’t want Eden to
access her phone and alert anyone about Olivia’s strange behavior. That
would definitely be the end for her.
“Hey! I just wanted to see if anyone has texted or called about Ava.
There are a lot of people looking for her, including the police.”
At the mention of the police, tiny needles of panic spread through
Olivia’s body. When Eden makes a move, Olivia—bigger and stronger—
impedes her, no matter which way Eden turns.
The steady flow of the rain outside quiets for a moment, and the
running shower sounds louder than any other noise in the old house.
Eden stands still. “Is Justin here?” she asks firmly.
Olivia nods. “He can’t see you here. I’m trying to protect you.”
“He’s my friend. This is between me and him.” She holds up her
hands. “I don’t know what he’s told you about me, but I’ve known him
for a long time. We were close in college.”
At this, a strangled laugh bursts from Olivia’s mouth. “I know
exactly who you are, Eden. I was at that party too.”
Eden’s eyebrows knit together, as though she’s trying to make the
pieces fit. “I don’t understand. Is all of this about a party twenty years
ago?”
“There’s so much you don’t understand.” Olivia grabs her arm.
“Justin did something to you that night. I’ve been trying to tell you since
your open house.”
Eden gapes at Olivia’s hand on her arm; fire flashes in her eyes.
“Oh my God, you’ve been stalking me. The shop in Grosse Pointe, the
restaurant you recommended . . . not coincidences.” She pulls her arm
from Olivia. “Justin was telling me the truth. There’s something wrong
with you.”
The shower turns off.
“Justin!” Eden yells out.
The bathroom door opens. Justin comes out in only a white towel
wrapped around his waist and takes one step down the stairs to lean over
the dark wood railing above them. He grins. “We have company?”
 Olivia is sure only she can hear the undertone of menace, because
Eden walks straight to the bottom of the stairs. Olivia doesn’t know what
to do other than follow and stand beside her, like a shield, for both of
their protection, even though the other woman has no clue whom she’s
really facing. She puts a foot on one of the straps of Eden’s purse to
prevent her from picking it up.
But Eden no longer seems worried about her purse. She calls up,
“Justin, it’s me. Eden,” in a voice that to Olivia sounds hopeful, hungry,
and relieved all at once.
And with those words, Olivia knows that no matter how horrific
any of her previous days have been, this will be rock bottom. There is
nothing she can say or do, no way to hide all the secrets she and Justin
have been keeping and all the ones she’s carefully hidden from him.
Justin casually brushes his hair with his fingers. “Hi, Eden. Let me
just throw on some clothes.” He laughs as though embarrassed to be in
nothing but a towel, when he knows full well that his muscular chest and
broad shoulders make most women light headed. “And I’ll come down.”
And he’s back so fast, in gray sweatpants, pulling a black T-shirt
over his head, his left bicep bulging with his tattoo of a mythical griffin.
Oh, how Olivia’s father hated tattoos, but he loved that his son-in-law
inked one on his body in honor of him. He even proudly showed it off to
anyone he’d introduce Justin to. But Olivia knew that Justin had only
gotten that specific creature because it symbolized possession and he
wanted her to see it every time his hands came near her body.
Her husband begins his descent, his steps solid. But to Olivia,
everything is moving in slow motion. She wishes she could sprint right
out the front door. But she can’t leave Eden all alone with Justin. As
Justin hits the floor, inches now from her and Eden, a roar in her head
starts up—it’s not Alistair’s voice; it’s like sand is filling her skull—and
she claps her hands over her ears to muffle it.
Still, she clearly hears Eden say to Justin, “I didn’t know your ex-
wife would be here. I don’t want to cause any issues. And I’m sorry I
questioned you so much, because you were right that she’s unstable.
She’s been stalking me, Justin. Following me everywhere I go.”
He squints and slowly moves his eyes to Olivia, drilling them into
her. His shoulder twitches. Olivia knows what that means: he’s working
hard to keep his cool. She doesn’t want to look at Eden. She’s too scared.
 Then like the flick of a switch, Justin smiles and separates the
women by taking Olivia’s hand and drawing her close to him so they’re
in front of Eden. Olivia has to remove her foot from the strap of Eden’s
purse. Eden furrows her brow and looks down at the purse, then up at
their clasped hands, which might seem affectionate, but Olivia knows
Justin is keeping her in place.
“I’m sorry, Eden. I don’t know what’s going on here.” He rubs his
stubbled jaw and presses his thumb hard into Olivia’s palm. But she
doesn’t say a word.
“Did you text me to come here?” Eden asks. “To help me find
Ava?”
Olivia wishes the trapdoor would suck her down to the basement,
away from this mess she’s created.
In a flash, Justin nods. Olivia knows he’s not looking out for her.
He’s buying time to figure out what she’s done and how to keep himself
out of it.
“Please, can we talk privately for a minute?” Eden sways.
Immediately, Justin releases Olivia and is at Eden’s side, holding on
to her. “Absolutely. Why don’t we sit down on the couch, okay?”
“I need my purse.” She points to it on the floor.
“Of course.” Justin picks up the black bag and hands it to her. “My
wife clearly isn’t well, and I don’t want this to get out of hand.”
Olivia bristles, but he’s right: she’s not well right now. She has to
follow Justin’s lead.
Eden rummages in her purse. “Where’s my phone?”
Olivia says, “I don’t know.” And it’s the truth.
Eden closes her eyes for a second, a cry of lament releasing. “I just
had it outside! Did I leave it in my car?” She’s looking at Justin, but
she’s really asking herself. Again, she plunges her hand inside her bag,
frantically searching. Then she takes something out and opens her palm
to look at it.
There’s a tiny square black tile in Eden’s hand. “What the hell is
this?”
Oh no.
Justin looks at it. “I’m not sure. May I?” he asks, his fingers
brushing Eden’s palm to take the tile, letting them linger on her skin for
a moment.
 He’s leaning into the narrative, using seduction, the best weapon in
his arsenal, but doing it right in front of Olivia makes her feel so small
and insignificant.
He pockets the black square and gestures to the living room. “Why
don’t you rest for a moment, and I’ll bring you a glass of water.” He
switches his attention to Olivia. “Come with me?”
Before Eden can reply, Justin leads Olivia to the kitchen and into
the pantry. He closes the door behind them. With both of them in here,
Justin’s imposing size taking up so much space in her safe place, Olivia
shrinks into herself.
“What. Have. You. Done?” he says quietly through gritted teeth,
laying his hands on her shoulders and pressing her against the back wall
between the shelves.
The tremor starts in Olivia’s legs, quickly moving up her body until
she’s shaking so hard that her teeth chatter. Justin closes in on her, his
chest now hard and unyielding against hers, and she reaches for the tiger
eye pendant in her pocket. He clamps his hand on her wrist.
“Touch that stone, and I’ll kill you.” His nails dig into her delicate
bones so hard she’s afraid he’s going to break them.
But she doesn’t cry out, because she knows that’s what he wants.
All she wants is for Alistair to talk to her. But he’s completely silent.
And she understands that the fantasy she’s created of his voice in her
head—having a friend, someone to help her—has vanished, because
she’s made too many mistakes and lied too many times. Her brother is
dead. She’ll never get away from Justin.
“Why does that woman think I texted her to come over?”
Olivia can’t help the gasp that releases from her mouth. “Don’t you
know who she is?”
“Should I?”
“That’s Eden Hoffman.”
“Eden. My tutor from college?” Justin’s jaw drops, and he wraps
his fingers around her arm. “How dumb are you?”
Olivia has no fight left in her. “I know you sleep with other
women.” She looks up at him to see if his expression registers regret,
remorse, anything, but she only gets a cold, blank stare. “I also know
that Eden’s the one you wanted to be with at the party instead of me.”
 “The party? What are you even talking about? What did you do,
Olivia?” he whispers, but she’s so frightened that it sounds like a yell.
There’s no more hiding. “My phone. It’s all on there.”
Justin lets go of her and holds out his hand. She takes her phone
from her pocket, gives it to him, and sinks to the black-and-white tiles,
huddling in a ball with her head between her knees. She wishes for the
yellow wool blanket that used to be tucked under the shelf so she can
wrap it around her freezing body. She can still smell the mustiness of it
and taste the bittersweet chocolate she and Alistair would share in here.
But it’s only her and Justin. She has to face the consequences of her
actions all alone.
She can’t bear to look at Justin’s face. Nothing she says will make
him empathize or sympathize. He’s not made for that level of humanity.
“I should have been keeping a closer eye on you. You changed your
password from our anniversary.”
I did so much more than that, Olivia thinks. Then she recites her
new password—eighteen nine forty-two—the day, month, and age
Alistair was when he died.
She hears Justin’s breathing speed up.
“Tell me right now what I need to look at.”
“Go to the hidden apps.”
She stares at the floor while he scrolls through her messages and
calls and all the texts that she scheduled to send whenever she was with
Eden.
“You’re lucky that woman is here.” Justin crouches in front of
Olivia and flips the screen so she can read what’s written there.

I want to hear you scream my name.

Effortlessly, he grabs her by the armpits, hauls her up, then jams his
fingers into the hollow at the base of her throat. “You hacked my
Facebook page?” Justin slides his other hand up the back of her neck and
tugs at the baby hairs.
Olivia coughs, struggling to breathe. Justin lifts his fingers a tiny bit
so she can speak.
“You never use it. But you never turned off the push notifications,
so when Eden sent you a friend request Friday night, I saw it on your
phone. You left it on the coffee table like you always do.”
His hand pulls at her hair again.
Olivia winces at every yank, but she keeps talking, because at least
for now it will stop him from hurting her even worse. “You use the same
password for everything, so I changed it. Then I answered her as you.”
The tears flow freely.
His face has an expression of surprise, maybe even amusement. He
looks down at her phone again. “And you took a screenshot of this selfie
of me from my phone, obviously. And the voice-changing app? So, you
didn’t just message, but you talked to her on the fucking phone?”
“Yes,” Olivia says. “I practiced with the voice changer until I had
your tone and cadence, and I played with the different male voices until I
found one that sounds the most like yours.”
Justin gapes at her. “Why?”
She can’t do anything but tell him the truth. There’s no escape.
“Because I wanted to find out if she remembered what you did to her at
the party. What Tyler knew.”
When Justin came out onto the balcony that night and saw Olivia
and Tyler both leaning against the railing, he ran his eyes over Olivia’s
face. Then he came closer as though to hug her.
She held him back and jutted her chin at the bathroom window.
“Your other girlfriend is puking her guts out in there.”
Justin laughed. “Oh, that’s where she ended up? Nah, Eden’s not
my other girlfriend. Maybe she’s interested, but I very clearly told her
I’m not. I love you.”
Tyler scoffed. “You say that to all the girls you mess with, I’m
sure.”
Justin clapped a hand on Tyler’s shoulder. “What’s your problem,
man? You’ve never liked me since freshman year in high school. What
have I ever done to you? Our moms are friends. We’re like brothers.”
Olivia saw the hesitation in Tyler’s eyes. But then he flung off
Justin’s arm. “And since high school, I’ve watched you play with girl
after girl. You put on a good act. But I see right through you.”
“Okay, whatever. I think you’re drunk. Let’s hash this out
tomorrow, all right?” Justin held out his hand. “Olivia, let’s go.”
She should have taken Justin’s hand and walked away with him.
Instead, she stayed next to Tyler.
 “Eden’s not a big drinker. I’ve never seen her get this wasted,”
Tyler said.
Now in the pantry, it’s just Olivia and Justin, and he cocks his head.
“Wait. You don’t know what I did to Eden?” He starts laughing and
doesn’t stop until water springs to his eyes, the only time Olivia has ever
seen tears from him. He wipes his eyes. “I only married you because I
thought you knew. You idiot, I roofied her. There’s no way she’ll ever
remember anything after she had that drink.” Then his hand circles her
neck. “What were you planning on doing with that information?”
Olivia shakes her head. She can’t say the words.
His face goes stony. “You will never get away from me, if that’s
what you want. If you think what happened to Alistair was bad, it’s
nothing compared to what I’ll do to you. I was just tired of spending my
money on him for no reason. But you’ve really made me angry.”
More attuned to the sound of footsteps than Justin, because she’s
spent her life listening to learn how close in proximity both her father
and husband are to her, Olivia hears the click of heels before he does.
She waits until they tap the kitchen tiles, getting louder and nearer, until
a shadow passes the pantry. Justin’s back is turned away from the door,
so he couldn’t have seen it.
Alistair’s name in Justin’s mouth and the fact that she’s been
chained to this monster for no reason at all make every blood cell in her
body boil with rage. She can’t physically attack Justin, but she has one
chance to make him pay.
“I promise you. Eden doesn’t know that Tyler is in the house.”
Justin definitely hears the squall of shock outside the pantry,
because his head whips around.
Run and help me, Olivia begs Eden in her mind.
There’s a loud thud.
Justin pushes away from Olivia and peers through the white slats.
She moves from the wall and looks too.
Eden is on the floor. She’s unconscious.
Olivia’s husband says, “Well, now she knows. You have to get rid
of her.”

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
EDEN

Every bone in my body screams with excruciating pain. My eyes are

heavy and gritty, but when I reach to rub them, I can’t move my hands.
Searing heat burns into my wrists. I pull with all my strength, but a
rough material abrades my skin until I’m sure I’m bleeding. Blinking
over and over, I finally adjust to the darkness. And panic shoots up to my
throat, cutting off my air supply.
I’m lying on my side on a cold concrete floor. My wrists are bound
with rope, tied to a metal pipe that juts out of the floor and connects to
the ceiling maybe seven feet above me. Frantically, I move my head
around the room. Brick walls, a rickety wooden ladder reaching from the
bottom to a trapdoor in the ceiling. A small window to the right of me is
covered in a navy curtain, and I hear rain pound the glass.
“Help!” I scream until my throat is raw, violently shivering, trying
not to hyperventilate or pass out again.
Black dots obscure my vision. I’m underground in this old Tudor,
which could have been built in the nineteenth century. No neighbors will
hear me scream.
Breathing in and out as slowly as I can to control my paralyzing
fear, I sweep my eyes across every corner of this dank cave as if I were
showing it to potential buyers. It’s the best way for me to try to find an
escape route.
It’s a large space, musty, possibly filled with mold, and the walls
appear to be a dilapidated brown brick. There are some cardboard boxes
shoved to the end farthest from me. I have to wonder why it’s such a
horror show down here, why Justin and Olivia’s whole house appears to
be untouched by even the minimum of updates. As gorgeous as it looks
on the outside, the inside is dark, unwelcoming, and claustrophobic.
I have to get out of here. My teeth clack together as I tug and tug at
the rope, but I’m only rattling the pipe. Where is Justin? Has Olivia hurt
him? Why didn’t he tell me that talking to me would jeopardize my life?
His wife isn’t merely unpredictable. She’s a psychopath who’s
kidnapped me. I have no way of knowing if anyone has found Ava. I
can’t look for her. Self-pity and shame flood me. I did this to myself. I’m
an insecure, lonely woman who might never see my family again.
My clothes and hair are still damp from the rain, and weak with
hunger and exhaustion, I can’t stop shaking. But for the brief moments
that I manage to stay still, I hear a hum, like something is plugged in and
running. It could be from the furnace room to the far left, but it sounds
closer.
I hold my breath to find the source of the noise, and my gaze slowly
travels around again. I stop on a large white chest freezer, elevated on
bricks, pushed against the wall next to the furnace area. Nothing that will
help me get away from Olivia.
I don’t know why she wants to hurt me so much, though my mind
keeps wandering to the Sigma Chi party. Was she dating Justin when he
kissed me? I have no idea, but if that’s the case, she should be angry with
him, not me. Yet thinking about seeing the two of them together, I realize
she didn’t seem like a furious wife; she looked terrified. Of what? Her
husband?
I’m afraid of her. Terror grips me in a stranglehold as it occurs to
me that Olivia might have stalked Ava too. I listen again, in case there’s
any chance she’s down here with me. That Olivia has gotten to her, kept
my daughter here since last night while she was having dinner with me
in Grosse Pointe. Nothing makes sense.
“Ava!” I cry, but it comes out a strangled snivel.
No moan, scream—nothing at all comes back to me but my own
voice echoing off the walls and the faint buzz of the freezer.
“Ava!” I try again until the force of my roar feels like it’s peeling
off layers of my throat. “Someone, help me!”
I hope that my mind is playing tricks on me. That Ava’s out there
somewhere safer than here. I don’t know if Olivia plans to just keep me
down here or kill me.
 Something living crawls up my leg, and I jerk to get it off me. I left
my jacket in the car. In only my silky sleeveless top and my dress pants
from last night, I have nothing to insulate my joints from knocking
painfully against the concrete floor.
“Justin!” I yell again as loudly as I can, hoping he’s safe.
I hear two sets of footsteps, one heavy, one light, walk above me.
Then a sound of something scraping, wood against wood. Light beams
down onto me from a flashlight. My head is pounding, but I can’t close
my eyes against the glare. I need to see who’s coming for me.
A boot lands on the first rung of the rickety wooden ladder. Horror
almost paralyzes me, but it’s Justin. My relief is so immense that it
comes out in heaving sobs that rack my body.
“Help me. Please. I’m over here,” I whisper roughly, desperate for
water. My throat’s on fire.
As Justin gets closer to me, though, my pulse speeds up, and I can’t
pinpoint why. And the moment he sits down in front of me, instead of
looking shocked that I’m tied to the metal pipe, a prisoner in his
basement, he shakes his head ruefully and pats my leg.
“Eden Hoffman. I never thought I’d see you again.”
Woozy, I don’t understand. He clicks his tongue and places the
flashlight on the floor so the light beams around us. The shadows it
creates on his face are monstrous. I look into his eyes, expecting warmth
or alarm at what his wife has done. But they’re empty.
He turns off the flashlight. The room plunges back into darkness, so
when his fingers squeeze my shoulder, I’m not expecting it. I shriek,
jerking away from him. “You’re very jumpy, Eden. Stay calm, okay?”
I use my legs to scoot closer to the pipe, farther from him. “You
have to call the police.”
He ignores that and says, “So, you still want me after all these
years, huh?”
I don’t understand his playful tone. “Can you please untie me?”
“No can do. I’ve just seen our messages to each other.”
It takes a moment for what he’s said to reach my brain. I’ve just
seen our messages to each other.
Icy dread makes me rigid. I can’t speak. I can’t move. And at the
same time, I have total clarity. It was Olivia I was talking to the whole
time.
 It was all a lie.
More than anything, I don’t want to cry in front of this man who
doesn’t know me, doesn’t love me, but I’m helpless as I curl in a ball on
the concrete floor and cry into my arms, which are hanging uselessly
from the pipe. I’ve risked my job, safety, a potential reconciliation with
Dave, and most importantly, my daughter, for nothing.
The Justin in our messages, the person I bared my soul and opened
my heart to, doesn’t exist. Of course he doesn’t. How could I be so
blind? The emotional, romantic, attentive man I thought I was talking to
is a woman. I should have known, because the real Justin toyed with me
in college, didn’t give a damn about me when I was sick, like Dave said,
and ghosted me without a second thought. I ignored every red flag
because I wanted to be desired so much.
I’m too crushed to feel the full weight of my fear. I could have,
should have stopped it the moment my gut told me something was off
with Justin. I should have told Natalie and Jenna about him before today,
because they might have been able to wake me up from my fever dream.
I’m ashamed at my stupidity.
“None of it was real.” The sexting, the phone sex, the intimate
exchanges—the ruthlessness and humiliation scald my insides and burn
a path up my throat.
I lean over and vomit all over the floor. I’ve had nothing to eat or
drink in so long that it’s almost all water. Justin flicks the flashlight back
on and looks at me with disgust.
“You definitely puke a lot. I remember that about you. I’ll have
Olivia clean it up.”
“Why would Olivia do this to me? What does she want from me?”
Justin reaches out and fingers a strand of my hair. Then he turns the
flashlight on and off repeatedly, disorienting me so I can’t see where his
hand will go next. It lands on my thigh. “My wife lives in a fantasy
world, like her brother did. You can’t take anything she says seriously.”
I don’t believe that Olivia hasn’t been trying to tell me something,
because she said it herself when I showed up today. She lured me here,
engaged me in an intimate relationship, pretended to be my friend.
There’s something specific she wants from me. All I want is to get out of
here.
 “My husband knows I’m at your house. He’ll call the police if he
doesn’t hear from me.” This isn’t quite true, because Dave thinks I’m out
with Justin looking for Ava. He won’t worry about me for at least a few
hours.
And when Justin turns on the flashlight again, I know I’ve made a
mistake. He’s sneering at me.
“Husband? You’re a whore like my wife. But you were always
smarter.” He takes my phone out of the pocket of his sweatpants.
“Password, please.”
I tell him, because I have no choice. My password is Ava’s birthday,
and I think about my perfectly imperfect daughter, maybe hungry, cold,
afraid. I will not think anything worse than that or I will give up right
here.
He taps on my phone, my only link to the beautiful life I’d do
anything to return to.
I can’t see what he’s typing, but a moment later he flashes me a
satisfied smile. “Dave says he’s glad I wasn’t home and agrees that you
should definitely find a hotel and sleep for a bit. He’s sorry for doubting
me, but something about me always made him uncomfortable.” He
snorts. “That’s not very nice.” Then he reads from the screen in a
monotone. “Oh, he also says: ‘I’m so relieved we finally talked. I can’t
wait to see you.’” He sucks his teeth. “Don’t think that’s going to
happen.”
I want Dave with an ache that’s stronger than my physical agony. I
hold on to that. “Let me see the texts.”
Justin’s hand clamps my leg tightly. “You don’t trust me? We were
friends, Eden.”
I try to reconcile the boy I loved so long ago with this person I don’t
know in front of me. I’m clearly not going anywhere for a while, if ever.
I don’t think asking questions will save me, but they might answer why
I’m down in this basement at all. “You never gave a shit about me, so
why did you invite me to the party and kiss me?”
He turns off the flashlight again, plunging me back into darkness.
“You were such a prude. I liked it, though.” I hear him chuckle. “I knew
you wanted to fuck me but were too scared. It was fun. Virgins always
are. And you never forget your first. But we never got there, did we?”
Then he splays his hand between my legs. “I’m a bit turned on from
those messages. My wife is a filthy bitch. Are you?”
I gag. I’ve been consumed by fantasies of his hands on my skin;
now every part of me tenses against him being anywhere near me.
Mustering all the strength I have left in me, thinking about Ava and
Dave, I wrap my hands around the pipe so I can sit up. I will not give
Justin the satisfaction of seeing me on the ground like an animal. It
clears my head enough to quickly run through the conversations I
thought I was having with him.

Maybe I did something to hurt you.

My ex, Olivia . . . I don’t love her. I’m not sure she knows what
love is.

My former wife is a bit unpredictable. I don’t have the

stability yet to start over on my own. And she can’t leave the
house either.

I think Olivia was talking about Justin, not herself. She’s afraid of
him, and she can’t leave. And she told me that she’s been trying to tell
me something about Justin since we met at my open house. Justin did
something to me at that party.
Without another word, he ascends the ladder, scraping the trapdoor
closed behind him.
With Justin gone, the hum of the freezer becomes louder, a steady
buzz that makes every hair rise on my body. I don’t think I’m the only
one who Justin hurt at the party, because suddenly the words I heard
behind the pantry door, right before I passed out on the kitchen floor,
come rushing back to me horrifyingly clearly: Eden doesn’t know that
Tyler is in the house.
Slowly, I turn and look at the freezer. I don’t think I’m alone down
here.
I open my mouth. And I scream and scream and scream.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER NINETEEN
OLIVIA

Eden’s screams split Olivia’s head open. Then the banging starts. It’s
Eden, hammering on the pipe with what sound like her fists and feet.
On the living room floor, Olivia rocks back and forth. She never
wanted anyone else to die. But what other choice does she have? If she
runs out the front door right now and goes to the police, while Justin is
getting dressed for his meeting with Larry—which he told her he’s still
attending—they’ll both be arrested.
She’d rot in jail, but Justin would probably go free. Even if Olivia
tells the police everything about the night of the Sigma Chi party, Justin
has a stronger alibi. She’s the one who cried in the upstairs hallway, went
with Tyler onto his balcony for a smoke, and left the cigarette behind.
Justin’s band will back him up. She has no one.
Now that she’s faced with imprisonment and death, not only the
threat of them, every reason she had for impersonating Justin and having
an online relationship with Eden seems as worthless as she is. Being
Justin’s slave was far better than having a woman tied up in their
basement, another body in the house. Another innocent victim. Olivia
didn’t want her relationship with Eden to end like this. She didn’t want it
to end at all. She can’t protect the only friend she has.
Alistair must hate her. That’s why he won’t speak to her anymore.
Olivia’s thumb is chafed and raw from rubbing the tiger eye pendant.
She’s so cold and ashamed.
Justin walks into the room. He doesn’t even look in her direction
before he plucks the black urn with Alistair’s ashes from the mantel and
hurls it to the floor.
 Olivia can only watch in shock as the ceramic shatters and a gray
cloud of her brother’s remains clogs the air, some of the ashes landing on
her clothes. She can taste the dust in her mouth.
“Clean that up. Clean all of this up!” he yells.
Olivia doesn’t move. Every assault, insult, and act of terror against
her doesn’t hurt as much as this cruelty. But a small sense of relief flows
through her. She still has the last of Alistair in her pocket.
Justin walks closer to her, mashing his steel-toed boot into the
ashes, an inch from her fingers. Right now, he can smash her bones, rip
out her throat, slam his foot into her face. She wants the pain. She
deserves it. He crouches so he’s in her face. He leans in and drags his
thumb along her lips. “You’re as dead as your brother if you don’t take
care of this. Stand up,” he commands.
Following her husband’s orders, she rises unsteadily, leaning into
him. He holds her only to stop her from crumpling to the floor. Still, his
arm supporting her—the sheer size and strength of him against her body
—undoes her, and she presses her face to Justin’s chest.
“I only wanted you to love me,” she whispers into his soft T-shirt.
“Well, all I want right now is for that woman to shut up. We should
have duct-taped her mouth, at least. The neighbors might hear. Do that
when you go down.” Justin checks his phone, types something, then
makes an odd face Olivia can’t define. “Her car is right outside our
house. We can’t keep her here. Not another missing person. You’ll either
have to drive it into the lake with her in it and make it look like an
accident, or we burn the house down.”
Imagining the house that she’s been shackled to since she was a
little girl exploding with flames and the bones in the basement turning to
cinders sounds like heaven.
“I’ll take care of it,” Olivia vows. “I’ll take care of you. Please
forgive me.”
Justin ignores her. “Find out if she told anyone about her sexting.”
He laughs. “I still can’t believe you have such a dirty mouth. You really
are disgusting.”
Olivia hears a phone buzz in his sweatpants pocket. “Is that Eden’s
phone?”
He shrugs. “Maybe. I snagged hers when I picked up the purse, so I
have all the phones now. You’ve gotten us into a mess. When this is
over, we’re going to have a good, long talk about privacy and following
the rules.” He gives her an appraising look. “This is why you have no
friends. You can’t be trusted.”
Nodding slowly, Olivia holds back the tears threatening to spill. For
a very short time, she had a friend.
His voice is eerily calm when he says, “I’ll postpone my meeting
until tomorrow. I can’t meet Larry when I’m upset. Fix this.”
He stomps upstairs, and moments later, the aggressive, rage-fueled
drum beat of “Helter Skelter” by Mötley Crüe fills the house. That
propels Olivia to move. That song is what he played in his van on the
way to her father’s house after the frat party, with Tyler in the back.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER TWENTY
EDEN

The voices upstairs have stopped, but the walls shake with a heavy metal
song. I stare at the freezer, hoping with everything in me that I’m wrong.
That Tyler’s not inside, frozen and dead. That I won’t end up next to
him, and my family and friends will never know what happened to me,
why and how I disappeared. Because of an entire relationship that never
existed.
My screaming and banging on the pipe have stripped me of any
energy I had left. Blood drips down my wrists. I’m broken.
The trapdoor scrapes open again.
Olivia steps down, her brown hair, once blonde like mine, skims her
shoulders, and she grips the ladder with one hand, pulling the door
closed with the other.
At the bottom, in her bare feet, she moves her eyes around the
room. I hear a tinny sound. The room floods with a dim orange light.
She’s pulled the silver chain hanging from a bulb in the center of the
room.
Before I can get a closer look at what may become my grave,
Olivia’s by my side.
She drops to her knees, reaches out a hand as if to touch me, then
pulls it back. “I never wanted it to be like this,” she says, furiously
wiping her eyes with her fists like a small child.
“Then why? Why pretend to be my friend? Why pretend to be
Justin and involve me in your sick games?” I moan when a spasm of
pain from fear and nausea rocks my stomach.
 She sighs deeply, like she’s held in the breath for a long time. “You
don’t know what it’s like to be married to someone, to live with someone
who hates you.” She moves so she can sit cross-legged. “Your spouse, I
mean. I know you and Ava have your issues.”
At this, I recoil. “Did you stalk my daughter too? Where is she?”
“She puts too much information on social media. But I’d never have
hurt her. Truly Eden, I don’t know where she is.”
A dark laugh escapes my chapped lips. “I don’t believe anything
you say. What do you want from me, Olivia? Or do I call you Lila?”
She hangs her head, like she doesn’t have the strength to support its
weight any longer. “I wish I were really Lila.” Sitting back, she pulls her
knees to her chest and takes something from her pocket.
I lurch, scared she has a weapon. But it’s a gold-and-brown pendant
that she rubs her thumb across.
“My brother died four weeks ago. He was my best friend. My only
friend, really, until you came along.”
“We are not friends.” I say it curtly, but even after how much she’s
done to hurt me, I sense a very lost, damaged woman in front of me. I
lower my voice. “Why catfish me? What is it you’re looking for from
me?”
“When I saw your friend request, I thought it was a sign from my
brother that I deserved to live. While you and I were talking, he started
talking to me. In here.” She taps her head, then hands me the pendant. “It
contains some of his ashes. All I have left of him now.”
I take it from her, because it might bond us even more, which could
be my way out of here. The stone is cool in my hand, oddly soothing.
“Why did you think you didn’t deserve to live?”
She glances up at the beams on the ceiling. “I’ve done awful things
to save myself. I thought if we could save each other then maybe I’d be
worth something.”
I snort, because that’s ludicrous. “You saved me by catfishing and
stalking me, engaging me in a sexual relationship? You humiliated me.”
“That wasn’t what I wanted.”
I stare at her. “Were you planning on telling me you catfished me?”
“No,” she says in a very quiet voice. “I wanted you to understand
how awful Justin can be. I pretended to be him so you’d see the kind of
horrible, dangerous man he is. And how hard it is to get away from him.
I don’t want to be a bad person, Eden.” Olivia chews on a fingernail.
“What exactly did you do so I’d see that, Olivia?” I ask carefully,
my mind skimming through all the frightening incidents in my life these
past few days, the worst of which was Dave getting hit by a car.
Now she does touch my leg. “I never meant to hurt Dave that bad. I
just wanted to prove to you that Justin could hurt you. Did hurt you. So
you’d believe me.”
“You actually tried to run over my husband?” I shake my leg to get
her hand off me.
She stops touching me. “Ex-husband.” She sighs. “I’m so sorry.”
“You abused me the way Justin abuses you. You used sex to
manipulate me.”
Her palm slaps the concrete. “No! You wanted the phone sex. I was
just talking and acting like Justin does with women. I did whatever
you’d want him to do. I never forced you.”
And more of the pieces click into place. “Does he force you?”
Her face freezes. “He would have done the same thing to you if you
hadn’t gotten so sick at the party.” She looks me straight in the eyes, hers
clouding with pain. “Justin drugged your drink.”
Every muscle in my body tenses, and suddenly everything I didn’t
understand about that night makes sense, far too late. Those personal
conversations in the library carrel, Justin’s flirtatious touches to make me
question whether or not he was interested, the compliments I drank in,
my joy when he invited me to the frat party—all a ploy to sexually
assault me.
I feel sympathy for Olivia, because no woman should ever have to
experience rape, but I’m also so angry that I bark, “You knew Justin
drugged me? And didn’t care?”
She snatches the pendant from my hand. “I only found out today.
But Tyler knew—or suspected.”
I fall back against the pipe. A wave of dizziness makes the
basement spin. I struggle to focus on her. “Is Tyler dead in that freezer,
Olivia?”
She opens her mouth, and a deep, keening wail of grief, misery, and
loss breaks free, as though she hasn’t sobbed in years. It echoes in the
basement and lasts so long that I can’t stand it. I extend my leg to touch
her foot.
“This wasn’t the life I was supposed to have,” she says, when she’s
finally out of tears.
“Me neither.”
I cough, and she lays her hand on my back, like I did with Ava
when she was young. I hate Olivia for holding me hostage, but deep
down, I don’t think this is what she truly wants. “I’ll help you. That’s
what you wanted. This doesn’t have to be your life. Tell me, how did
Tyler die?”
The wood beams above our heads vibrate with the loud, pounding
music.
She comes closer to me and says in my ear, “If I tell you, we can
never let you go. You know that, right?”
Now I huff a raspy laugh. “Were you ever going to let me go?”
I might never get out of here alive, but maybe if Olivia tells me,
she’ll eventually be able to tell Tyler’s family what happened to him.
And tell mine what happened to me. Gently, I say, “Let go of the burden.
I know you want to.”
Suddenly the music stops. Heavy footsteps tread above our heads.
There’s a long, loud creak, like a heavy door is opening.
Hope rises inside me. “It sounds like Justin is leaving. You can let
me go,” I beg. “Please, Olivia. I think he coerced you into hiding Tyler’s
body because you’re terrified of him. I think Justin killed Tyler, and
you’re covering for him. I’ll go with you to the police. It’s not too late.”
Olivia opens her mouth.
A female voice rings out, loud and clear, through the ceiling.
“Hey, Justin. I hope it’s okay I just showed up.”
Justin’s response is harsh. “It’s not okay. You can’t be here,
Madison.”
A bold laugh. “Oh, you’re going to want to hear what I have to say.
I’m a minor. I have screenshots of everything. The police, media, your
neighbors would be very interested if they saw them. I think you should
let me inside.”
My blood runs cold. I know that husky, melodic voice and cocky
laugh. And now I’ll do anything for her to hear me. “Oh my God.”
 Olivia holds her fingers over her lips, then murmurs, “That’s a girl
Justin’s been chatting with. He’ll find a way to get her to leave. Just be
quiet.”
I shake my head furiously. “No. That’s not some girl,” I hiss
through my teeth. “That’s my daughter. It’s Ava.”

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
OLIVIA

Olivia stares at Eden, who wrenches hard enough on the ropes binding
her wrists to make something crack.
“Let me go!” she shrieks so loudly that Olivia’s ears ring.
Olivia slaps her hand over Eden’s mouth. “Shut up!”
Eden bites down on her palm, and Olivia howls, pulling her hand
from Eden’s sharp teeth.
“Ava! It’s me! Mom!” she screams.
“Stop it! You’re delirious! It’s not Ava,” Olivia hisses. “Do you
want Justin to come down here?”
“I know my daughter’s voice.” A moment ago, Eden was so weak
she could barely sit up. Now her voice is steel, and she’s rattling the pipe
with all her might.
“Please. Stop!” Olivia darts her eyes to the ceiling. “I’m telling you
that’s Madison. A girl Justin’s been texting with. I saw the messages.”
“A girl Justin or you’ve been texting with? Oh my God, did you
catfish my daughter too?” She kicks out again and again, landing a hard
blow to Olivia’s ankle. Then she howls, “Ava! I’m in the basement! Run
and call the police!”
Eden’s writhing like a woman possessed, and Olivia doesn’t know
what to do. If Madison hears her, she’ll call the police—if she can get
out the door fast enough. If she can’t, there’s no limit to what Justin is
capable of. Like a snake, he strikes when cornered.
“I am her mother. That’s Ava. I don’t care what you do to me, but
get her out of here safely.” Eden gets on her knees, spittle hanging out of
her mouth. “Please. I’m begging you. I don’t know how she knew I was
here, but I think she came to find me.”
Olivia needs Eden to stop talking so she can think. Before Justin
answered the door to that girl, she was about to reveal everything,
because there’s no way Justin is letting Eden out of here alive. If it’s true
that Ava is upstairs, the rules have all changed.
Everything is too loud—her breathing, Eden’s voice, the argument
upstairs, and all the dead men in her life. Could it be Ava is Madison,
who asked for a job with Justin, then flirted, made plans to meet him at a
bar she couldn’t get into? From what Olivia’s seen on Ava’s TikTok and
Instagram accounts, the teenager is focused on music and other girls.
Eden slams her elbow into the pipe over and over. “Do you ever
take any responsibility? You hid a dead body, lied to the police, let
Tyler’s family suffer, ruined my life, and now my daughter is upstairs
with your abusive husband. Let me go! Do you want to be like Justin?”
Eden’s skin is clammy, and sweat covers her forehead despite how
cold it is down here. Olivia pulls her shirt over her hand and gently
wipes Eden’s face. No, she doesn’t want to be anything like Justin. Ill
and harmless, Eden is the woman who genuinely made Olivia feel like
someone special. She gave her hope. Now all she’s left with is terrible
regret.
“Please, Olivia. If you can’t save me, save my daughter.” Eden
looks at the pendant still in Olivia’s hand. “If not for me, or yourself, do
it in your brother’s memory.”
There’s a horrific crack that rocks the foundation, then the ceiling
shakes with a crash that can only be a body hitting the floor.
“Ava!” Eden screeches, bending her head, curving into herself.
The trapdoor lifts open, creating a diabolical shadow on the
concrete as Justin’s head appears.
“We have a problem.”
“What did you do to my daughter?” Eden screams. “You won’t get
away with this again. Everyone is looking for her!”
Justin waves Eden’s phone. “No, they’re not. Your hubby texted
that Ava called him half an hour ago. She was so upset about your
breakup that she stayed at a friend’s off campus overnight. She turned
off her phone and fell asleep. Dave thinks you’re very relieved and will
be in touch after you speak to Ava and get some more rest.” He snarls,
“Your daughter’s a piece of work.”
“You’re going to get caught, Justin.”
“I see things differently, Eden. And you know what? I tend to come
out on top. Hey,” he says, his eyes on Olivia now, “I thought I told you
to duct-tape her mouth. I need silence.”
Eden struggles against the ropes, her wrists etched with deep
abrasions. Olivia puts her hand under her shirt, feeling her own deep
scratches from being bent over the arm of the Eames chair. The scratches
scar.
Justin turns his attention to Olivia. “I’ll get into Ava’s phone to
erase everything. You deal with the rest.”
And he’s gone. But her secrets are still in the house. She didn’t tell
Eden the whole truth.
Eden bucks uselessly against the ropes.
“I’m so sorry,” Olivia whispers in her ear.
Then she says one more thing, and following Justin’s orders, she
duct tapes Eden’s mouth closed before heading up the ladder.
“Please no,” Olivia says when she gets to the main floor and sees
the horrific scene in front of her.
Justin sits on the bottom step of the staircase in the entryway, where
Ava Miller lies face down, crumpled on the hardwood floor, blood
pouring out of the back of her beautiful brown hair and turning the
purple streaks as crimson as the Persian carpet rolled up near her. More
blood stains her light-gray U-M hoodie. Olivia gasps and turns away.
The sight of blood has always made her light headed. There was no
blood when Tyler died.
If he’d kept his mouth shut the night of the party, never accused or
touched Justin on that balcony, he’d still be alive.
When a terrible whimper came through the open bathroom window,
Tyler growled, “I know you did something to Eden. I’m going to find out
what.”
Then Tyler put his hands on Justin’s shoulders to push him out of
the way so he could get inside the frat house.
Olivia watched Justin shove Tyler’s hands off him, too hard. When
Tyler toppled backward over the railing, she wanted to step forward and
grab Tyler’s shirt, his hand, anything to prevent her friend’s body from
falling through the air to the ground below. She could have stopped it.
But she didn’t move quickly enough. Tyler hit the gravel parking lot with
a thunderous crack.
The music blaring from inside the house and the sounds of
everyone partying were muffled, like she was in a tunnel. Olivia opened
her mouth to scream for help. Justin clapped his hand over her lips.
Drawing her close, he whispered, “Quiet. No one is out here.
Everyone inside is trashed. Not a single person heard.”
“But Tyler—”
She looked down at the golden boy with the sunny smile, her friend,
his eyes closed like he was sleeping.
Torn between right and wrong, Olivia jumped when a door
slammed inside the house. She and Justin whipped their heads to the
sliding glass door and looked into the hallway through Tyler’s bedroom.
Justin put a finger to his lips, tiptoed into Tyler’s room, peered into the
hallway, and closed the door. Then he came back out to the balcony.
Justin brought her body close to his, because she was shaking so
hard. “It was just Eden. Some guy is carrying her downstairs. It’s fine.
No one saw me. She’s still completely wasted. She won’t remember a
thing.” He stroked Olivia’s hair. “But someone else could see us. We
have to get out of here.”
They took Tyler’s red Solo cup and went through the sliding door
into his bedroom and out to the hall, where a fire escape was at the far
end. Quickly, making sure no one was around, they ran down the steep
steps to the back of the house, where Tyler’s body had landed close to
the grass under the balcony.
Justin checked Tyler’s pulse and nudged him with his sneaker.
“He’s dead. There’s nothing we can do for him.”
Olivia started to cry, but Justin shook his head. “Listen to me. We
were never here. Say it.”
“What? No. We can’t just leave him here, Justin. It was an accident.
We have to tell the police.”
He cupped her chin. “We can’t go to the police. He fell backward. It
could be hard to prove it was an accident, especially when your mother
also died in a fall. And with Alistair’s issues . . . I worry you’ll be held
responsible for this.”
 “But it was an accident. And I wasn’t even facing him. I was next to
him.”
“But no one knows I was even upstairs. Tons of people might have
seen you crying or talking to him. Before Eden basically attacked me in
the hallway on my way to the bathroom, I was jamming with my band in
the living room. The rest of the guys were smoking a bong. I’m sure
they’re too high to even notice how long I’ve been gone.” His face
suddenly went white. “No one knows you and I are together, because
you wanted it that way. Tons of people probably saw Eden all over me.”
Olivia’s chest skittered with fear. “What are you saying? You’ll
make me look responsible?”
“Of course not. I’d never do that to you. I love you. I need to
protect you. Can you imagine how furious your father will be if he
knows you were with Tyler when he fell? That you were drinking and
smoking?”
Olivia panicked. Justin was right. If Olivia was in any way
connected to a scandal or simply behaving in an uncouth manner, he’d
punish her by taking access to Alistair away.
“We were never here,” she said, because she wanted to believe it so
much. She didn’t want to even think about what Tyler thought Justin did
to Eden. It was so obvious to her that Eden was just another girl
infatuated with Justin Ward. He didn’t need to do anything for Eden to
throw herself at him. Most girls did, just like Olivia had.
She started to walk away, but then she remembered the cigarette.
“Justin,” she whispered frantically. “Tyler and I shared a smoke.”
His eyes widened. “Shit. We have to find it.”
They ducked and ran under the balcony, where dirt, leaves, and
other garbage were piled in mounds on the grass.
Olivia dropped to her knees and pulled a lighter out of her pocket to
see better in the dark, but it kept burning her fingers.
“I don’t have a flashlight, and we can’t turn on the headlights on the
van.” He pointed to the Screaming Demons’ white van parked across
from the balcony with the other cars.
Olivia couldn’t hold back her tears. They leaked out of her eyes and
down her cheeks. Even if she found a cigarette, how would she know it
was hers? She’d chewed her lipstick off hours ago, and so many people
smoked Marlboro Reds.
 “This is really bad. The police could find your cigarette.” He pulled
her toward him, his broad chest comforting against hers, slowing her
racing heartbeat. “I’m so in love with you. We’re more than soulmates.
Plato says that humans can be split in two. Halves of the same whole.
It’s called twin flames. That’s what we are. It’s you and me. Always. I’m
going to marry you one day, Olivia Walker. And I’ll bring Alistair home
to you.”
She’d waited her whole life for a love like this. Someone who
wouldn’t leave her; someone who would take care of her and her brother.
So, she stayed quiet and helped Justin move Tyler’s body into the
back of the band’s van and cover him with blankets. They came up with
their alibis. Justin went back to the living room to take a hit from the
bong with the band, and Olivia started walking. In thirty minutes, he met
her in a woodsy area about twenty minutes from the Tudor.
Once at the Tudor, knowing her father wasn’t going to be home for
a few days, they turned on the freezer in the basement, which no one had
been allowed to enter since her mother’s death. Then they placed Tyler’s
body inside, shut the top, and padlocked it.
Tyler’s fatal injuries must have been internal—a broken neck or
spine, maybe a traumatic brain injury. There was no evidence to clean
up, except the cigarette she and Justin could never find—and the only
witness now in their basement while her daughter lies in a pool of blood
on their floor.
“Is she dead?” Olivia finally asks, wanting desperately to run to the
teenage girl.
Justin doesn’t answer.
Olivia ventures a few steps toward Ava and forces herself to look to
see if she’s still breathing. She’s too afraid to touch her. She’s always so
afraid.
“What did you do to her?” she asks Justin, who is eerily nonchalant.
“Me? Are you kidding me? You’re the one who involved us with
this family. She thought I was seeing her mother and threatened that if I
didn’t stop, she’d post screenshots of our texts. And she blathered on
about some guitar she wants. She tried to blackmail me.”
Olivia bends down and touches Ava’s delicate neck to feel for a
pulse. When the beat moves faintly under her fingers, Olivia strokes the
unconscious girl’s cheek. She turns to Justin, still sitting on the stairs.
“We have to help her. This isn’t right. None of this is right.”
He laughs coldly. “She targeted me, seduced me, tried to entrap
me.” He stands and approaches Olivia. “And you, my sweetheart, are in
big trouble for getting me into this.”
Olivia doesn’t step back. What’s the point? He’s going to kill her
eventually. She’s gone too far.
From beneath her, it’s silent. Eden isn’t rattling the pipe. Olivia
looks again at Ava, not knowing how she even knew about Justin.
“You did this, Justin. Your mother is right. You’re worthless.”
He seizes Olivia by the throat, lifting her off her feet. She hears a
gurgling moan. It’s not coming from her.
Ava is waking up. Justin has heard it too.
He drops Olivia, who falls to the floor, and he moves toward Ava.
The girl is prone, and with her fingernails digging into the plank
floorboards, she drags herself forward, collapses, then rises to her hands
and knees, crawling ever so slowly toward the front door.
“Mom,” she says in a desperate whisper.
Justin steps over Olivia and presses his steel-toed boot to Ava’s
back, pushing her down to the floor.
Olivia can’t bear to watch. She closes her eyes, but they open when
Justin yanks her head back by her hair. “Help me, goddamn it. We have
to cover her mouth and stop her from moving. Give me the duct tape.”
“I . . . I left it in the basement.”
“Moron. The rope then.”
On autopilot, no fight left in her, Olivia rises. She brings him the
toolbox, clicks it open, and takes out the rope, avoiding the terror in
Ava’s eyes, trying to block out her own from making her collapse to the
floor again, herself.
Justin flips Ava over onto her back, and his boot now holds her
down by her stomach. He spits in her face. “All you women are out to
ruin my life. You’re trash.”
Ava spits right back at him. It’s clear that Ava is petrified, but she
has an inner will only possible because she was raised by an excellent
mother. Maybe if Olivia and Alistair’s mother had been able to take them
away from this house, she and Alistair would be together now. None of
this would be happening. She disappears into that reverie, into her mind,
so she doesn’t have to watch when Justin places himself in front of Ava,
swinging his boot back and smashing her in the face. But no amount of
daydreaming can block out the sickening crunch of bone breaking.
“Get the fuck away from my daughter!” Eden screams, pulling
herself out of the trapdoor, the yellow ropes dangling from her bleeding
wrists as she rushes toward Justin.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
EDEN

I lunge at Justin, leaping onto his back to force him away from Ava. He
shakes me off easily, and I hit the floor on my tailbone, feeling like my
spine has snapped. I’m close enough to Ava that I see her beautiful face
covered in so much blood that I can’t make out her features.
I don’t have time to look at what Olivia is doing or think about any
of my own pain because Justin grabs for me as Ava rolls onto her
stomach, trying to crawl military-style toward me, the way she did when
she was a baby. Her hand weakly bats at the back of Justin’s leg.
He spins around, kicking out again with his boot right into Ava’s
throat. Using every ounce of power I have, I stand and clutch the back of
his T-shirt, trying to pull him toward me, away from my daughter. It’s
not enough to stop him. Nothing is. He elbows me hard in the chest,
winding me enough that I have to let go. I slam into the brass coatrack
by the front door. It topples into Justin and Olivia’s wedding photo on
the wall, shattering the glass frame, then crashing to the floor.
Justin reaches for something in the toolbox beside him.
He turns. In his hand is a hammer. He swings his arm back. There’s
an almighty scream.
“Stop, Justin! Enough!”
Olivia leaps in front of me, shielding me with her body, taking the
slam of the hammer on her shoulder. But she doesn’t even flinch. With
almost superhuman power, Olivia places her hands on Justin’s chest.
The hammer drops onto the rolled-up Persian carpet with a bang
that rattles the floorboards.
One shove is all it takes.
 Down Justin falls, backward through the open trapdoor. The thud
when he hits the bottom isn’t deafening. But it is final.
Olivia rushes to the trapdoor. I bolt to Ava, who’s crumpled in a
heap in the entryway, covered in blood. I lie down beside her, gently
cradling her against me, my chest to her back, the way I did when she
was a little girl and she’d call for me in the middle of the night when she
had a bad dream.
There’s a hole in the plaster by the front door. I look at the gash at
the back of Ava’s head, now bleeding a light trickle, and realize he must
have cracked her skull against the wall. With the lightest touch, I stroke
Ava’s shoulder, my tears falling onto the floor.
She squeezes my hand and nestles in closer to me. My brave,
reckless daughter, who—for so many reasons I don’t understand—
played Justin like Olivia played me.
“Olivia, call 911!” I yell.
She doesn’t seem to hear me, because she moves from the trapdoor
to the living room where broken pieces of black ceramic surround what
looks like gray piles of dust. On her knees, she grabs a fistful of the dust,
then lets it sift through her fingers back to the floor. She returns to the
trapdoor and peers down into the basement. “I killed him.” She’s not
crying.
I don’t know if her lack of intonation is from shock, grief, guilt,
remorse, or relief. Olivia saved my life and Ava’s. For that, I’m thankful,
even if none of this would have happened had she not deceived me.
I shift slightly from Ava, and after crawling to the trapdoor, I look
down at Justin. His neck is bent at a horrifying angle, his body splayed
out on the floor. Blood seeps out from under him, scarlet against the
light-gray concrete. His gorgeous face is unmarred; his eyes open in a
blank stare. Impaled through his left forearm is a shard of black ceramic.
If not for Ava, I wouldn’t have had the strength to move. Now that
she’s safe, I press my forehead to the floor in thanks and also contrition.
I didn’t want anyone to die, not even the sociopath who tried to destroy
his wife, my daughter, and me.
Revenge isn’t in my blood. Justice is.
I reach for Ava’s phone, which must have skittered across the floor
in her struggle with Justin, and press Emergency Call. I reel off Justin
and Olivia’s address. After the dispatcher assures me that the police and
rescue squad will be here momentarily and that she’ll keep me on the
line talking to her, I can barely speak.
She tells me to open the front door.
Depleted, I crawl over and unlock it. Then I end the call with the
dispatcher, because I want to talk to Dave more than heed her request to
stay connected. I move back to hold Ava again. “I need to phone Dad,
honey. What’s your password?”
“Your anniversary,” she whispers.
And that unravels me. With the deepest cry, I dial Dave’s number
and fill him in as much as I can.
“I love you, Eden. I’m so sorry I’m not there. This is my fault for
hurting both of you. I told Ava where you were.” His voice is hoarse
with emotion. “I love my girls so much.”
He tells me that Jenna and Natalie have been texting and calling
him all morning. Both my best friends knew something was wrong,
because I’d never have gone to a hotel to rest while Ava was still missing
and I hadn’t answered a single one of their messages.
“I should have known. I should know you better,” Dave says, guilt
and regret evident in the sobs I hear through the line. “I should have
called the police. I didn’t think you were in actual danger.”
“This isn’t your fault, Dave. You’re a good man.”
“I want to hold you,” my husband tells me.
“Me too.” It’s the truth. “There’s time for that later, Dave. There’s
time for everything.”
Olivia tears her eyes away from the basement and looks at me.
“You still want to be with him.”
I don’t answer, because sirens ring out in the distance, getting
louder and closer until flashing red lights bounce off the small stained
glass square window on the front door.
A woman in an elegant charcoal pantsuit enters with a man in a
wrinkled sports jacket and jeans. She flashes a badge and quickly
surveys the hole in the wall by the front door, the blood on the floor.
“I’m Detective Lieutenant Linda Phan, and this is Detective Keith
Lonergan. We’re with the sheriff’s office of Washtenaw County.” She
sweeps her eyes around every corner of the dark room before they land
on me. “You’re Eden Miller?”
“Yes,” I say with relief.
 “Is there an active threat in the home?”
I glance at Olivia. “No.”
The detectives step to the side, and two EMTs, a male and female,
carrying a stretcher enter the house. The female, whose name tag reads
RAQUEL, heads straight for Ava, while the male, Frank, points to the
open trapdoor and asks, “Is that ladder safe to climb down?”
I nod. He heads down the ladder, and Raquel flashes a penlight in
Ava’s eyes and checks her vitals. And all the while, my baby girl is
clutching my hand. Or I’m clutching hers. I never want to let go.
Three firefighters come through next, and while two also head
down to the basement, one stays to help Raquel attach a collar around
Ava’s neck and transfer her to a stretcher, which they elevate so she’s
semisitting. Then Raquel inserts an IV into the back of Ava’s small hand.
Olivia has not moved from beside the trapdoor. She only rocks back
and forth. Helplessly, I stroke Ava’s free hand, wanting to beg Raquel to
tell me she’s okay but knowing I have to let everyone do their jobs.
Raquel looks at me. “Ms. Miller is stable. She has a possible
concussion, maybe fractures, and internal injuries.”
I need to release Ava’s hand so Raquel can check my vitals, place
me on a stretcher right next to Ava’s, and secure an IV. “You’re
dehydrated. Definitely some bruising on your lower back, adhesive
trauma around your mouth, and possibly other injuries.”
Then Raquel stands to walk over to Olivia and does the same check
on her. She doesn’t need an IV, and she refuses a stretcher.
Raquel’s radio crackles. “Need an officer down here.”
Detective Lieutenant Phan nods at Detective Lonergan, who
descends the ladder. A moment later, the firefighters run back up the
ladder and out the door, returning with a basket and ropes.
The noise seems to shake Olivia from her stupor. She reaches into
her pocket.
Phan is immediately at Olivia’s side and seizes her arm. “Mrs.
Ward, slowly remove your hand from your pocket, please.”
Olivia complies, pulling out her hand and splaying her fingers. The
brown-and-gold pendant that means so much to her is in her palm.
Gently, the detective takes it from her and pats her down. Olivia has
nothing else on her but the tiger eye.
“It was her brother’s,” I tell Phan.
 Olivia’s gray eyes lock on mine. She offers me a small, harrowing
smile and a nod. I nod back. Her eyes move to her wedding photo,
spindly cracks obscuring her and Justin’s faces, on the wall near the front
door, where only a few hours ago, I had entered with no idea how much
danger I’d put myself in by coming here.
“Someone needs to tell Justin’s family that he’s dead.” She closes
her eyes, her body sagging in what to me seems like relief.
Phan stays close to Olivia but focuses on Ava. “You’re all safe
now.” Then she looks at Olivia. “I’d like you to sit there”—she gestures
to the bottom step of the stairs—“and not move. Can you do that?”
Olivia obeys.
With one eye on Olivia, Phan directs her attention to Raquel. “Is it
okay if I ask a few questions before you transport the victims to the
hospital?”
Raquel nods. “Yes. Briefly, please. I’ll document everything while
you do that.”
Phan pulls out a pen and a small spiral notebook, which she flips
open. “Why were you both here today?” She directs the question to me.
“It’s my fault.” Tears run down Ava’s cheeks.
Ava does not cry easily. I don’t actually think she’s cried in front of
me in years. Now, all her anger, pain, and sorrow pour out, and I inhale it
all into me. I reach out to stroke her fingers. It’s the only part of her I can
touch.
“I’m right here, honey. I love you more than anything, no matter
what. Tell Detective Phan everything.”
Her eyes swollen, she sobs, “I’m so sorry, Mommy. I saw all your
messages and”—she shudders—“photos you exchanged with him when
you and Dad came to the dorm after I got caught partying.”
The Mommy sets off a flood of my own tears. I can’t remember the
last time Ava called me that. But it’s crucial she tell the detective, and
me, everything she can before it gets lost in the pain and recovery that is
to come. “You went into my phone?”
“You left your purse on my desk when you and Dad went into the
hall to talk about me. And you were acting all weird. Sweaty and edgy,
and you kept checking your phone.”
Utterly drained, I struggle to recall Saturday. It feels like years ago.
“Why didn’t you ask me about it?”
 Ava makes a sound that might be a sarcastic laugh. Any other time,
I’d be annoyed. Now I’m just grateful she’s still my Ava. “Sure, Mom.
Like we ever talk about that stuff. I only looked at your phone because I
failed some assignments in music theory and philosophy. I was scared
my adviser had emailed you. I wanted to check. But then I found the
messages and thought Justin was why you and Dad separated. You act
like you’re perfect and never do anything wrong, but you sent an almost-
naked selfie!”
My tears soak into the silky top I’d worn for my fake date with
Justin. I want to burn everything on me.
I run my thumb across her fingers—fingers that Dave and I created,
that strum a guitar so exquisitely. “So you catfished the man you thought
I’d betrayed your father with?”
“Kind of. After I read your messages, I went to the ARC, this
alternative rock club at school, to hang out and couldn’t believe it when I
saw his photo with his loser band on the wall, like he was some big star.
I was so angry that this was the guy you wanted instead of Dad. He was
so gross. I assumed Dad never told me the actual reason he left because
he was protecting you.” Her hand flexes. “And I knew Justin was
playing you. I had to do something to get him away from you, so you
and Dad could, I don’t know, start over.”
“It wasn’t Justin messaging me. It was his wife.” I gesture to Olivia,
who’s now silently watching us from the bottom step of the stairs, her
eyes drinking us in.
Ava opens her mouth.
Before she can add anything, I have something to say. “Ava, honey,
your business is mine, at least some of it. But mine isn’t yours. I’m your
mother, an adult, and your father and I weren’t together. As painful as
that is, it’s reality.” I bring her hand to my lips and kiss it. “None of that
is important right now, though. But why Madison?”
A tiny smile plays at the corners of Ava’s lips. “It’s the first name of
the girl in my dorm who narked on me for the party in my room.”
“Oh, Ava.” I sigh sadly. “All I care about is that you’re okay. The
rest we’ll deal with later.”
Detective Lieutenant Phan has been listening and taking notes. Now
she asks Ava, “Did Justin Ward hurt you in any way other than the
physical assault?”
 I’m scared to hear the answer.
Ava vehemently says no. I let out a loud exhale. “No. He never
touched me. It was all texts.” She shudders again. “I knew right away
that he wouldn’t care that I’m seventeen and he’d message me just like
he did to my mom. So, I wanted to catch him in the act.”
Raquel interrupts. “I think that’s enough for right now. We really
need to get them to the hospital.”
Phan nods. “Just one more question for Ms. Miller. Why did you
come here today?”
Ava blushes. “When I spoke to my dad this morning, he was really
scared and really mad that I’d turned off my phone and slept at my
friend’s. My girlfriend’s. Lara.” Another tiny smile appears. “He told me
my mom went to a friend from college’s house to ask for help looking
for me, then to a hotel to get some rest.” She moves her eyes toward me.
“I lied to Dad and said I was going back to my dorm. I knew the friend
must be Justin, so I found his address online in the white pages.” She
winces. “Then I came here to confront Justin and record him. But when I
saw your car parked at the curb, I thought I’d be able to do it in front of
you. You weren’t here, though, or I didn’t think you were, so I decided to
also blackmail him for my Les Paul.”
Phan looks confused for a moment, so I help out. “It’s a kind of
guitar.”
Ava half smiles at me. It’s the best thing I’ve ever seen.
“Your mother is a very good person. I want to be more like her.”
Olivia’s voice, suddenly strong and clear, surprises us all. And her words
help soothe my wounded soul a little bit. I’m far from perfect, but I am a
good person.
While we’ve been up here, there have been voices from the team in
the basement. Still, a bang startles all of us then Phan’s radio bursts to
life. I make out, “Male. Justin Ward. Vital signs absent. Termination of
resuscitation. Dead on scene. Also skeletal remains encased in plastic
sheeting in a chest freezer. Need the coroner and CSI.”
Phan raises her eyebrows at me.
I gesture at Olivia. “It’s her story to tell.”
Phan nods. “She can tell it at the station.” She walks toward Olivia.
“Olivia Ward, please rise and place your hands behind your back.”
Olivia does, and handcuffs snap onto her wrists.
 Phan says, “There is reasonable cause to place you under arrest on
suspicion of kidnapping a minor, kidnapping an adult, forcible
confinement, indignity to a dead body, obstruction of justice, and
voluntary manslaughter.”
Phan reads Olivia her rights, then leads her to the door. But before
they make it, Olivia stops. “Wait.”
The detective grips her arm more tightly. “What is it, Mrs. Ward?”
Looking over her shoulder, Olivia holds my eyes with hers. “Eden,
I’m very sorry I hurt you. I really am. The tiger eye pendant. I want you
to have it.”
The detective shakes her head. “No. It’s evidence.”
Olivia’s face falls for a moment, then something strange but almost
angelic happens. A faint rosy blush spreads across her cheeks, and she
smiles. “That’s okay. She doesn’t need it.”
With my hand in Ava’s, I watch Olivia be taken from her home, no
longer a prisoner here, but hopefully she will never be free to hurt
anyone again.
When Phan opens the front door, I see that the rain has stopped. The
sun has come out. The door slams shut. I focus solely on Ava.
“You’re a badass, Mom.”
I laugh sadly, lay my fingers on the inside of her wrist, and breathe
deeply as her pulse beats against my skin.

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 CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
OLIVIA

Six Months Later

Though Olivia had feared being locked up more than anything, removed
from society like a pariah as her brother had been, she likes her cozy cell
in the mental health unit at the women’s correctional facility. The tiny
room, with only a bed and steel door, keeps her safe. The small space
reminds her of the pantry. Sometimes she dreams about dying so she can
join Alistair, but most of the time Olivia is afraid to die because she
might end up wherever Justin is, bound to him for eternity.
And if she dies, she’ll never see Eden again.
Through therapy, Olivia’s learned that she has borderline
personality disorder, which helps her understand why Alistair hated
medication and the dulling of all his senses. Olivia feels the same way.
And because she’s trying so hard to be good—volunteering in the library
and following every rule set out for her—no one suspects she’s hiding
her pills between her tongue and cheek every dosage time. Olivia doesn’t
need medication, like her mother did. She needs to be sharp.
Olivia learned a lot about how to charm people from Justin. And
she has a new friend in prison. Penny, a guard, has become Olivia’s
confidante, and Olivia is hers. Sometimes, Penny gives Olivia access to
a cell phone. It’s their little secret. Olivia has her own secret to tell, but
not to Penny. She told Justin, in his truck, with Tyler dead in the back,
because she thought he was her twin flame. But he was her captor. It’s
Eden, selfless and good, the very best person Olivia knows, who is the
mirror of everything Olivia can be. But not yet. First, she needs to set
herself free from the deepest darkness inside her and tell it to the person
she betrayed the most.
It’s rest time in the dialectical behavior unit, so Olivia uncaps the
pen she’s allowed to have, now that she’s proved she’s not a risk to
herself or anyone else, along with the journal Penny gave her.
And she writes:

Dear Ally,
I lied to you. I lied to Dad. I lied to everyone. You
didn’t cause Mom’s death. I did.
Everything that happened to you was my fault. I
was the one who took you to the basement that day so
we could sneak ice cream sandwiches from the freezer
when Mom was resting and Dad was working. I was
the one who insisted we play hide-and-seek. And I was
the one who abandoned you in the basement, told you
to count to one hundred, didn’t worry soon enough
when it took you longer than usual to find me.
You never told anyone the truth. Then you started
to believe what Dad had assumed—that you’d gone
down to the basement by yourself and left the trapdoor
open. You got sicker because you protected me by
hurting yourself. I was your big sister and should have
protected you.
Everything you’ve suffered was my fault. I was so
scared of Dad, so frightened not to be his princess
anymore, because he’d spank and slap us every time
we did something wrong. I was afraid he wouldn’t love
me anymore. I let you take the blame when you were
the only person who truly loved me.
I am so deeply sorry. I hope you can forgive me,
because I’m trying to be a better person. I saved Eden’s
life. Maybe you can see me, even though I can’t hear
you anymore. But if you don’t know, I gave her a
broken piece of your urn so she could cut through the
ropes, tear the duct tape from her mouth, and get out of
the basement.
 I’ve been punished. I never had children. I was
abused, assaulted, used, and held captive for almost my
whole life. It was what I deserved. You deserved better
than me.
I’m going to try to be a better friend than I was a
sister to you. I love you forever.
Always,
Your Olly

Olivia quietly, slowly tears the paper from the journal, crumples it
into the tiniest ball possible, and swallows it. It grates against her throat
when it goes down. She won’t leave any evidence behind this time.
The recording Justin made of her confession has never been found,
but the police did, of course, find her silver Mazda with the dented
fender and broken headlight parked in the garage, adding charges of a
hit-and-run and vehicular assault against Dave.
There’s a knock on her cell door.
“Liv, it’s exercise hour in five minutes,” Penny calls out.
She likes the name she’s given herself, a mix of Olivia and Lila. Liv
Walker is what everyone here calls her. One day, Eden will too. It’s also
Penny’s signal that Olivia has five minutes left to use the contraband cell
phone.
That’s all the time she needs. Olivia scrolls and taps. Then she
smiles.
Twin flames might smolder, but they never extinguish.

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 CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
EDEN

I arch my back, moaning loudly with pleasure, sliding myself down so I

can feel the man inside me as deeply as possible. I then lean forward and
wrap my hands around his wrists, pressing them against the headboard.
“Say my name,” I command, nipping my teeth along his neck.
In response, he makes a sound of pure ecstasy. “Eden.”
I let go of his wrists. “Pull my hair,” I instruct.
He places one hand under my hairline, stroking with sure fingers,
and tugs the hair on my scalp with just the right amount of force and
pressure. We collapse on the bed, and we laugh.
We’ve come a long way, my estranged husband and me.
It hasn’t been an easy six months. There’s been a lot of
communication, tears, and healing for all of us.
Once Dave was discharged from the hospital, Natalie and Jenna
brought him to Ann Arbor, to the hospital where I was being treated for
dehydration and shock and where Ava spent two weeks recovering from
a concussion, a broken cheekbone, and broken ribs.
When Ava was released from the hospital, Dave and I took her
home to Grosse Pointe. Together we all stayed in the house on Ivy Court
for a month. Dave and I slept in the same bed for comfort, talking all
night long, because we both had so much to say to each other before we
were ready to be together romantically again. U-M gave Ava the time
she needed to recover from her recurrent headaches and fogginess and
get caught up with her courses and for the three of us to begin family
counseling. It’s been gut wrenching, eye opening, and ultimately
cathartic.
 “It was a good session yesterday with Dr. Alohi,” Dave says,
referring to the couples therapist we see once a week. “I like her
suggestion that we write notes to each other like my parents did. Have
our own private space to express our needs and wants if verbalizing
them is hard for us.” He pulls me down so I’m lying flat again, and I rest
my head on his shoulder.
I poke him in the ribs. “Brush up on your dirty talk. I have plenty to
write about my fantasy next week.”
Sometimes the fantasy is nothing like the reality. Unless it’s with
someone who will protect your whole heart and who is, at their core, a
good person. Neither Dave nor I know where this new sexual
exploration will lead us. But we want to take the journey together.
“I like this Eden and Dave 2.0.” I flip onto my stomach, sliding my
hand under the covers.
He strokes my hair, which I’ve cut into a shag I love. “You’re going
to kill me.”
I giggle. “Maybe the wrong choice of words.”
I can only laugh about my traumatic experience when I’m with
Dave. He is my best friend, my coparent, and a man I trust to protect my
body, heart, and soul.
I sit up, the sheet pulled to my waist, and look in the mirror across
from Dave’s king-size bed in his condo, where I now sleep a couple of
nights a week. I smile at the rosy flush on my skin and my mussed hair.
Then I move my gaze to the photo he’s recently hung of me, him, and
Ava. Our strong, resilient, brave daughter has the Les Paul that we’d
finally bought her slung over her shoulder, a huge grin on her gorgeous
face. But her mischievous smirk is there too.
Going into my phone then planning to set up a grown man to get
her parents back together was so impetuous and dangerous. But Ava isn’t
perfect. I don’t ever want her to feel like she even has to try. But now at
eighteen, she’s beginning to, if not understand, then accept that her
mother and father’s relationship is separate from our parenting of her,
like Dave had to learn.
While Ava was craftier than we realized—she admitted she’d been
the one who’d opened the basement window; it was how she snuck in
and out of the house without Dave or I ever knowing—she’s also more
self-aware than either of us gave her credit for. No one’s judgment or
opinion of her has ever or will ever stop her from being completely
herself. She’s taught both her parents a lot about self-love.
She’s also kept me apprised of all the social media posts and videos
about Justin and his family, who have been bombarded by the press.
Once she was physically and mentally stronger and ready to return to U-
M, Dave and I drove her there. After kisses goodbye, which she initiated,
he and I went to visit Tyler’s parents. They’d called me after the news
broke and his bones were identified through dental records. They
thanked me for bringing their son home to them. When they hugged me,
I held them tightly. They’ll never stop grieving, but perhaps they can
find some peace finally knowing what happened to their kind, loving,
courageous son.
If not for Tyler, I don’t know if Dave and I would be together.
“I should go home and get changed for work,” I tell Dave, kissing
his cheek and swinging my legs out of the bed. I reach for my phone
next to my pillow, but he holds my arm.
“Or we can both play hooky and spend all day in bed? It’s one of
the perks of being the boss.”
Sylvie welcomed me back to Greenwood Realty, after Olivia
confessed that she’d been the one to report my indiscretion to prove to
me how Justin was ruining my life. But I was ready to soar on my own.
In February, after passing the Michigan Real Estate Broker License
exam, I used my share of the proceeds from the sale of our house to open
my own brokerage and rent a one-bedroom condo. Dave and I haven’t
yet made set plans to live together again, but it’s what we’re working
toward.
I snuggle back into him, trailing my fingers over his chest. “I’ll
stay, but I have to be at Nat’s restaurant at six for Jenna’s birthday.”
My experience inspired Natalie to follow her passion. She quit her
decades-long position as the in-house accountant for a marketing firm
and opened her own Indian restaurant. And Jenna started a campaign
with other doctors to offer free GHB test kits to college students. Once
my story was in the media, ten other women came forward, asserting
that Justin had drugged them too. All but Jenna and I had been sexually
assaulted. The women hadn’t put it together until the news came out.
Neither did Jenna.
 That day on the Diag during homecoming, when I first saw Justin,
Jenna told me he’d hit on her at a bar. It never occurred to her to mention
that he’d tried to buy her a drink, because it didn’t seem significant at the
time. She’d declined, dodging a bullet, intuitively knowing that Justin
was a predator.
My phone pings on the bed. The sound always makes me jump a
little. It’s a trauma response, Nancy’s told me. I went back to therapy
with her on my own, because I was ready to talk openly about all the
uncomfortable, raw, private parts of myself.
And I’m healing from what Olivia did to me, relieved that she’s
getting help and is behind bars in Ann Arbor.
There was no trial. She pleaded guilty to all the charges Detective
Lieutenant Phan arrested her for, plus admitting to a whole host of other
offenses: stalking, theft—she had stolen and copied the key from under
the cushion on our porch swing—and entering our house and turning on
the stove while I slept. She had been behind every strange thing that was
happening in my life. She’s incarcerated for the next twenty-five years,
with the possibility of parole, because her court-appointed attorney
argued battered woman syndrome, which she suffered for decades.
Everyone is moving forward.
Dave’s phone had pinged too. He checks it and grins. “Ava in our
group text.”
I leave my phone where it is and look at his screen.

Ava: Do you guys want to come visit this weekend? I’m

doing an open mic night at Benny’s. But no PDA.

I laugh and Dave blushes, still my awkward, nerdy partner-in-life.

Then he removes his glasses and wipes them with the bedsheet, which is
twisted from our energetic adventures last night and this morning.
He texts Ava a thumbs-up emoji, which earns him an eye-roll emoji
back.
I laugh, get my own phone, and send Dave a text.

I’m up for some more under-the-covers affection if you are.

He tosses his glasses onto the nightstand and dives under the duvet.
 I don’t know what the future holds for us. Losing my marriage, my
daughter, my job, my whole self—all of this has taught me that truly
experiencing life means letting go of the “supposed to” and embracing
the what-ifs.
I’m in love with the real Dave for the first time. It’s never too late to
start over.
There’s another ping on my phone. Expecting it to be Ava, I quickly
glance at the screen. It’s a text from a private caller.

When the time is right, we’ll meet again.

I freeze.
Then Dave presses his mouth to my skin. I block the number, and
gripping the covers, I close my eyes and fall, unafraid, into the moment.

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 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

All I’ve truly ever wanted has been to write and have my work
published. It didn’t happen for me until Woman on the Edge was released
when I was forty-six years old. I will be fifty when you hold A Friend in
the Dark in your hands, and I might never fully believe that I’m
fortunate enough to live my passion every day. My ultimate goal with
every book I write is to push myself outside my comfort zone and create
the best work I can.
All my books are the culmination of not only my own efforts but
also the efforts of the outstanding community of dedicated, hardworking,
talented people I have supporting and believing in me.
If it weren’t for my exceptional agent, Jenny Bent, my decades-held
goals would not have been realized, and she keeps making them happen
for me. I am the luckiest author in the world to have had Jenny in my
corner for ten years. And as well, Victoria Cappello and the Bent Agency
team, who do so much for me.
Megha Parekh, my phenomenal, insightful, brilliant editor at
Thomas & Mercer, read the proposal and first three chapters of A Friend
in the Dark and changed my life. Working with Megha; my
extraordinary developmental editor, Heather Lazare; fantastic production
manager, Miranda Gardner; my sharp-eyed copy editor, Anna Barnes;
keen-sighted proofreader, Jenna Justice; and the entire team at Amazon
Publishing has been a beautiful experience. And the moment I saw the
cover for this book (the pink!), I was madly in love. Huge thanks to
Mumtaz Mustafa and the design team for such creative, gorgeous art. As
well, the Amazon Publishing authors are so warm and welcoming and
have brought me into their family with open arms.
I’m indebted to the experts who so generously give of their time
and knowledge to ensure my books are as accurate as possible. Any
errors are my own and/or artistic license. I’m grateful to Steve Urszenyi
—author of Perfect Shot and former paramedic, tactical medic, and
commander of the Ontario Emergency Medical Assistance Team—who
spent hours answering my medical / crime scene questions and obtained
the information I needed from the Ann Arbor EMS. A massive thank you
to psychotherapist Mitch Smolkin, my go-to for all strange and
uncomfortable questions about the human psyche, and to author, teacher,
and musician Dave Drew Maze for his consulting help.
I’m honored to participate every year in the annual Authors for
Voices of Color, founded by Andrea Bartz and Jennifer Keishin
Armstrong, in support of We Need Diverse Books. This past year, I
auctioned off the opportunity to name a character in my book to benefit
internship grants that support underrepresented college students and
professional development for midlevel diverse employees. The winning
bidder was Bookstagrammer Ali Hird (@my_year.in_books). The name
of Alistair “Ally” Walker is in tribute to her late uncle, Alistair Walker
Hird. While Alistair’s name is real, the character is entirely fictional.
Music is a vital part of my writing process. I make carefully curated
playlists and listen to songs to motivate, inspire, and help me better
access my characters’ mindsets. Since the early ’90s, the Watchmen have
been one of my favorite bands, and I had their music playing on repeat
while writing this book. It’s such a privilege for me to include a portion
of the lyrics from “Run & Hide” in my epigraph. I’m so thankful to
songwriter and guitarist Joey Serlin, for his generosity in allowing me to
use his stunning words; Sammy Kohn for his kindness; and to the entire
band, including Daniel Greaves and Ken Tizzard, for creating music that
fuels my work and brings me so much joy.
The author community is my family. To thank everyone would
require enough pages to fill another book. I do have to give special
thanks to the people who over the last year or so have gone above and
beyond: May Cobb, Vanessa Lillie, Danielle Girard, Robyn Harding,
Christina McDonald, Roz Nay, Dara Levan, Lauri Schoenfeld, Lisa Barr,
Rochelle Weinstein, Barbara Conrey, Lindsay Cameron, Georgina Cross,
Hannah Mary McKinnon, Hank Phillippi Ryan, Jennifer Hillier, Laurie
Elizabeth Flynn, Samantha Downing, Damyanti Biswas, Jaime Lynn
Hendricks, Heather Levy, Tessa Wegert, Elle Marr, Darby Kane, Jon
Lindstrom, Don Bentley, Jeneva Rose, Daniel Kalla, Sheena Kamal,
Ghabiba Weston, Bianca Marais, Cecilia Lyra, Lydia Laceby, Maggie
Giles, Jessica Hamilton, Suzanne Dugard, and Eden Boudreau.
I’m very thankful for all the Bookstagrammers, booksellers,
librarians, BookTokkers, and every single person who helps me promote
my work, fills me with happiness and confidence, and works tirelessly to
give authors a stage simply because they love words. I would not have
been able to achieve any of what I have without you, with shout-outs to
Matt of Matty and the Books, Laurie of the Baking Bookworm, Jenna
from Flowers Favourite Fiction, Blair at Books and Bevies, Katie of the
Insta Bookworm, Jenn at Burlington Biblio, Erin of Girl Well Read,
Stephanie Likes Books, Ashleigh of Teatime with a Book, Sonica at the
Reading Beauty, Dasha Book Girl, Jennie Shaw, all the Canadian Book
Enablers, Dana Orgnero of Danish Mustard Reads, Susie Pasquariello at
SusieQPasq, Carrie Shields of Carrie Reads Them All, Jamie of Beauty
and the Book, Robyn at Robyn Reads 1, Sara DiVello of Mystery and
Thriller Mavens, Tonya Cornish of Blonde Thriller Book Lover and her
amazing team, Gare Billings and Kate Hergott of the Killing the Tea
podcast, Abby from Crime by the Book, Carey Calvert of
Supalovacreads, Alicia at Thriller Chick, and also Joe Shwartz and Jen
Jumba.
My friends are everything to me. I’m incredibly lucky to have them
to lean on and laugh with. Miko, Nicole, Michael, Cheryl, Rachel Y.,
Deb, Lisa G., Helen, Val, Karen J., Jessica, Beth, Frances, Maggie,
Lesley, Catherine M., Hugh, Lisa B., Kathy, Simone, Jenny, Adam,
Sylwia, Karen R., Idan, and Christopher; my godkids, Zackary and Zoe;
and every single person who cares for me, I can’t imagine doing life
without you. And to the late Audrey Spence-Thomas, beautiful, brilliant,
sassy, and classy, I think of you every day.
My Beach Babes, to whom this book is dedicated, are the group of
female authors who have been there for all the highs and lows over the
last twelve years. For nine years, the seven of us have convened in a
beach house for one glorious week a year. Meredith Schorr, my critique
partner extraordinaire; Francine LaSala, an eagle-eyed editor and a
supreme chef; Josie Brown, who has the best snort-laugh I’ve ever
heard; Julie Valerie, my angel; Eileen Goudge, who gives the best foot
rubs; and Jen Tucker, whose heart is more golden than the sun, are my
soul sisters.
 My family has always inspired me to go after everything I want and
embrace every second that I’m given. My parents, Celia and Michael;
my brother, Jonah; my sister-in-law, Perlita; Mommy- and Daddy-in-law,
Eileen and Ron; sisters-in-law Lori and Lindsay; brothers-in-law Todd
and Scott; and nieces and nephews Hannah, Brynna, Mikey, Felix,
Bassie, and Owen, I love you.
To the late Ron Mintz, who was like my second father; was also my
teacher, high school principal, guide, and mentor; was one of the kindest,
most loving people; and who made such a significant impact, you will
live in my heart forever.
Brent, Spencer, Chloe, and my little dog, Jasper, I know that living
with an author can be challenging, especially when I’m on a deadline or
staring into space, conjuring up wicked plots. Without you, my world
wouldn’t turn and my heart wouldn’t beat. I love you so very much.
And to my readers, I cannot thank you enough for the unbelievable
love and support you’ve given me and for taking a chance on me. It
motivates me every time I sit down to work. I write because I want to
entertain you, make you think and feel, and yes, be scared. Because of
all of you, I get to live my dream.

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 ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Photo © 2018 Dahlia Katz Photography

Samantha M. Bailey is the USA Today and #1 international bestselling

author of Woman on the Edge and Watch Out for Her. Her books have
sold in eleven countries. She lives in Toronto, where she can usually be
found tapping away at her computer or curled up on her couch with a
book. Connect with her on Instagram @SBaileyBooks and Facebook
@SamanthaBaileyAuthor, and visit her website at
SamanthaMBailey.com.

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