Chapter 2

My voice had carried. The neighbor on the porch had stopped pretending not to watch. The couple on the path went still.

Celia looked around at all of them, and then her eyes went red. Fast.

"I genuinely don't know what's happening right now," she said, loud enough for everyone. "Elliot arranged all of this. The cottage, the deliveries, the access—all of it. He set it up." She turned to me with something close to pity. "Are you okay? Because you seem really—has someone been telling you things? Because whatever you think is going on—"

"Take off the cardigan," I said.

She blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"It was my grandmother's. You grabbed it off the hook when you came in. Take it off."

From the path outside, not especially quietly: "She drove all the way out here for this?"

Another voice: "Look at her. Honestly, no wonder."

I was in my work jacket. Three hours on the road. Hair up since yesterday. Celia was in a silk blouse with her hair down, wearing a dead woman's cardigan like she'd lived here her whole life.

I knew exactly what they were seeing.

Celia's expression shifted into something gentler. Concerned. "I don't want to fight. I really don't. I just think—maybe you should call someone? A friend, or—are you seeing anyone? Professionally, I mean. Because this kind of thing, showing up like this—"

"You signed for a morning-after pill in my name."

"I used the account Elliot set up for me." Still calm. Patient, even. "Which he did. Because that's what you do when you're with someone."

Someone near the fence said something to someone else. I didn't catch it. I didn't need to.

Her phone was already out. She looked down at it, then up at me—a small, deliberate pause.

"Go ahead," I said. "Put it on speaker. Let's all hear how he explains the car in the driveway."

She almost smiled. Then she called him, and when he picked up she made sure I could hear every word.

"Elliot, you need to come back right now. She just showed up, she won't leave, I don't know what to do—" Her voice broke on the last word, neat as a snapped twig.

His came through sharp and loud: "Who's there? Is someone threatening you?"

"Your wife," I said.

A pause on the line. Then: "Stay there. Don't engage. I'm coming."

Celia hung up. She looked at me almost kindly. "He has a temper," she said. "I'm telling you that to be helpful. You should really just go before he gets here."

One of the neighbors nodded, like this was reasonable advice.

Nobody said a word on my behalf.

Elliot came through the door less than five minutes later, which meant he hadn't been far at all. He looked at me for exactly one second—not guilty, not surprised, just taking in a situation he already knew how to manage.

Then he went to Celia.

He pulled her in with one hand at the back of her head and kissed her—slow, deliberate, long enough that it went quiet outside. When he pulled back she was gripping the front of his jacket.

"I'm sorry," he said, only to her. "I'm sorry you had to deal with this."

He turned to me.

"You need to leave."

"This is my house—"

He grabbed my arm and walked me toward the door. Not frantic. Almost businesslike. My shoulder caught the frame hard and the pain went straight down to my fingers.

He didn't stop.

He'd already turned back, his hand settling at Celia's waist, saying something too low to hear. She nodded. He nodded. I stood in the doorway of my own house with my shoulder burning, and he didn't look at me once.