Then
Monday, June 14
Brooklyn, New York
You’re gorgeous, you know that.” George kissed me one more time on the mouth, biting the edge of my bottom lip as he pulled away. “I have to hop in the shower. Don’t rush out.”
He crossed the wildly spacious bedroom in three strides, his body, right down to his bare ass, lithe and strong. People with money always hired the best personal trainers. Even Jack’s ass was more toned than mine, despite his age. Then George slipped into an en suite bathroom that was bigger than my entire bedroom growing up. Closed the door behind him.
A distinct turn of the lock. Presumptuous much? Did he think I was going to follow him in there and beg for another go? Still, I decided it was a good thing. The lock itself was super loud. A little warning for me before he opened the door again.
My phone buzzed with a text from Jack—Hope you had fun and aren’t feeling it too hard this morning! Jack is asking for you ♥—but I ignored it, hopping out of bed to the sound of water running. I stuffed my dirty underwear in the bottom of my purse and pulled my silk dress over my head.
I scanned the room, looking. Classic Brooklyn. Crown molding. White walls. Black chandelier. Framed modern art. Fiddle-leaf fig. Rich-people décor. Mary had said the safe was in the bedroom, but where? A few quick steps and I was in front of the big art piece. Carefully, I lifted the corner an inch off the wall—nothing but drywall and dust. Then I turned, looking at the bed. Bingo. Flanked by nightstands, each beneath a small framed print. With this much space, you’d think they’d get another big painting or even some huge mirror so they could watch themselves fuck.
No, these prints seemed purposely put there to cover something.
Listening to the pulse of the shower, I beelined to George’s side of the bed and slid the frame one inch, two inches, and then . . .
Jackpot. The wealthy truly were such clichés. Hiding valuables in a wall safe like this was a goddamn Agatha Christie novel.
The thing was black steel, simple. Didn’t even look biometric. Basic, like the ones they give you in hotel rooms. Mary had once called George a Luddite. Apparently, that was going to work in my favor.
The shower was still running, and my fingers pulsed at the thought of what must lie mere inches away. I glanced at the safe’s ten-digit keypad, a keyhole beneath. Two nightstands. George wouldn’t write the code down, would he? Leave the key? Not likely, but I had to check. I tugged on the handle of the nightstand, found a mess. Loads of cash, for one thing, wads of it, crumpled and tossed in. No way he even knew how much was in there. To guys like George, cash came out of wallets and went into drawers. Privileged fuck. I took two twenties and slipped them into my bra, then tried to sort through the rest: Business cards. Cuff links. Nothing unexpected.
Another squeak of pipes. My shoulders jolted. Was George one of those speed-showerers? If so, it would totally throw me off. A moment, and then the sound of water continued. He must have been adjusting the temperature. I popped the frame back into place, went around to Mary’s side. This one was neat and tidy, full-on Marie Kondo–ized. Not one but two vibrators (good for you, Mary!), plus some serious-looking book that proudly proclaimed its National Book Award Finalist status with a gaudy gold label. Huh. I’d always pictured her as a mystery kind of girl like me, all Gillian Flynn and Patricia Highsmith, but maybe she was an intellectual at heart. Underneath the book: a receipt from Blue Bottle Coffee and a tag for bougie lingerie. And at the very bottom, black velvet, a Made in Italy sticker on the back. Clear, crystal edges. A picture frame, the kind a Great-Aunt Lydia would insist on giving for a wedding. I flipped it over, saw Alex first. His soft brown curls, his overeager kid smile. The laughter in his eyes. Behind Alex, George. Next to him, Mary. There it was again, that slick and oily feeling from last night. Guilt.
I’d never duped a woman before. Never pretended to be someone’s friend.
Never actually made a friend entirely by accident.
She doesn’t deserve this.
The thought was strong, cutting, as I looked at the photo, Mary’s hair tousled by the wind, flipping out slightly at the bottom. But what was I supposed to do now? Leave? Never see George again? Stay with Jack, love on Jack Junior? Go to the park with Mary and Alex? Actually be the person I’d done such a good job pretending to be?
It wouldn’t last, anyway. Jack would get tired of me, or I would get tired of him. Then I’d be on to the next one, yet again.
I wasn’t getting any younger. I couldn’t keep this up forever . . .
My phone buzzed, and I jumped, dropping the frame back into the drawer.
It was so good to hang last night, feeling it this morning though! Love ya, and sorry about my drunken ramblings. Obviously I was just joking. Tequila, you know!
Mary. God. Mary, whose husband I’d just fucked. Whose things I was picking through right now.
Why did she have to be so nice? So lovely?
My stomach roiled, the guilt sloshing around like a poison.
It still wasn’t too late to stop. George would never tell her he was sleeping with other people. But my eyes locked back on the print, on the safe waiting behind it. On the trove of jewelry within.
How could I walk away now?
The Haywoods had to pay for what they’d done.
And I was happy to cash in on that payment.