Then
Monday, August 16
Woodstock, New York
My phone buzzed with a text when I was standing in front of the address George had sent me, building up the nerve to go in.
Did you take care of it?
I slid the phone back into my purse, took a deep breath, and walked up the sidewalk, onto the porch.
I’m about to, Cass, I thought. I promise I’m about to.
I approached the door, a part of it painted in a red that reminded me of the door to Mary’s brownstone.
I had to go into this with confidence, I thought. It was like putting a toddler to sleep. If they could smell your fear, it never, ever worked.
I knocked twice, firmly.
Nothing. No movement.
I knocked two more times, and then I heard a shuffle of footsteps.
The door opened, and there he was.
George wore a casual short-sleeve shirt, the top two buttons undone, and designer jeans, his feet bare. He was freshly shaven, freshly showered, his hair combed back in that way that looked messy but I knew took ages.
He smiled at me—smirked, really. “You made the smart choice.”
I didn’t ask, just pushed my way in, taking in the living room, almost comically hip. Every little detail making this look like a cozy-modern cabin where Brooklyn- and Manhattanites would want to come up and spend loads of money. The only thing that threw off the vibe was a can of paint in the corner.
“So?” he asked. “Where is it?”
I clutched my purse to my side, didn’t answer.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t bring it?”
“There’s nothing to bring,” I said, forcing calm into my voice. I straightened my spine, made myself taller. “I came to tell you to stop harassing me.”
He stepped forward, and instinctively I stepped back, my body closing in on a corner where an antique guitar hung.
“I know you took it,” George said. “I know that’s why you’re here. And you’re going to give me what’s mine.”
“It’s not yours,” I spat.
George laughed. “So you do have it.”
I stared at him, gaze sharp. “It doesn’t matter if I do,” I said. “Because, like I said, it’s not yours. It’s Cass—Cassandra’s. Mary told me herself.”
I waited for it to hit him, and it took a couple of beats to do so.
He’d terrified me last night, showing up at Rich’s house, threatening me like he had, and at first I’d thought he’d surely seen me with Mary, but it was only late into the night, really turning it over, that it became clear.
He’d seen me on Saturday, sitting outside the pub. He must have followed me that afternoon—it wasn’t a long walk to Rich’s. But that was as far as his knowledge went. George was up here to get Mary back—to him, I was nothing more than a bit of convenience. Win your ex back and catch the slut who ran off with the contents of your safe.
Two birds, one precious stone.
No, George didn’t know I was friends with Mary.
If he did, he wouldn’t be acting like this.
Not now, when things were actually progressing with her . . .
After so many months of separation, she’d finally given him what he’d always wanted—a chance. She’d slept with him, and a man like George would call that a win. He wanted Mary back. His property. His wife. He didn’t want to end up like Henry. Drunk and sad and alone. Sleeping with escorts and fighting with people on Twitter. He was the respectable brother, and he had to keep it that way.
But Mary would never take him back if she knew that while he was supposedly begging for her return, he’d been fucking one of her closest friends.
“Didn’t know I knew her, did you?”
“She never—”
“Mentioned me? And why would she? She met me at the playground after she walked away from your sorry ass.”
George’s face reddened, sweat beading on his upper lip. “Alex, you—”
“Knew him? Yeah. Another thing you didn’t pick up on. Just thought I was exceedingly good with the kid you’ve barely paid any attention to. Hell, I’ve probably had more quality time with him than you have.”
“Shut up,” George said, stepping closer. “Just shut the fuck up.”
“Oh, I will,” I said. “I’ll be out of your life, you’ll never have to see me again. Because you don’t want me to tell Mary everything, do you? How we fucked in your marriage bed—was it three times that one night? How you let me spend time with Alex. How while you were professing your love for her, how much you wanted her back, you were putting me up at one of your family properties, texting me all sorts of dirty, dirty things?”
“You would never—”
“No, I wouldn’t. Because Mary is this close to taking you back. She even told me last night,” I said, stretching the truth a good bit. “And my silence is worth more to you than some jewelry that isn’t even yours.”
He knew I was right, and it had him fuming. “I told Mary I would have it for her,” he said. “I told her I’d give it back.”
“So?” I asked. “I’m sure you’ll be able to come up with a lie about that. And I’m sure you’ll find a way to fool her into thinking she’s better off with you. You’re about to get exactly what you want. You don’t want silly little me to mess it up, do you?”
“Get out,” he said. “Just get the fuck out.”
“With pleasure,” I said.
I made for the door, reaching for the handle, knowing I’d done it, taken care of it, like I’d promised Cass I would. I could leave now, I could go. This was done. Cass had said the buyer was set up for next week. It would finally, finally be over.
But I looked back at George, taking in his miserable, entitled, privileged face.
I remembered all that Mary had told me, the mess she was undeniably still in.
It wasn’t fair. That he could do this to people. That he could do this and move on, still get everything in the world he wanted.
He deserved to be hit, punched, worse . . .
He deserved all the rage in the world.
Mary’s—mine—Cass’s—everyone’s.
“Mary may not have talked about me, but she sure as hell talked about you,” I said.
George’s face got even redder.
“How you destroyed her things, ripped your own son’s blanket.”
“That was an accident,” George said. “You don’t know anything about it.”
“Real big man you are,” I taunted. “Fucking up your wife’s career because you got mad. Bet your own son is better behaved than you.”
“Stop it,” he said. “You don’t know anything. About her. About me.”
“The only thing you’ve ever accomplished in your whole miserable life is being born into a rich family. You had every chance in the world and look how you turned out. A useless man. Spending Daddy’s money. Throwing tantrums when he doesn’t get all the wittle things he wants,” I said, putting on my best baby voice. “But why am I surprised? All you fucks are the same.”
I saw the snap. Saw his eyes light up, the violence—the anger—push through them, and I knew I’d made a mistake. I knew I’d gone too far. I knew I should have kept my mouth shut.
It was too late.
He lunged.