Back at home, Mack was itching to go outside. Romy had stayed away longer than she’d intended—having a late lunch with Alicia to absorb the wine before her drive, then she’d hit traffic around the capital, though it wasn’t nearly as bad as she imagined it was prepandemic.
“Sorry you were on the porch for so long, boy,” Romy told Mack as she watched him let loose a long stream of urine on the far edge of the property, then picked up the rest of his bodily waste with a bag. She could have done without this part of dog care but at least he was well house-trained. She certainly wouldn’t be able to hold her bladder for as long as he was able to hold his.
She grew somber thinking how Mack would soon be living with his proper owner but at least he’d be right next door. That is, if she moved back to Brooklyn permanently. Her grandmother’s house deserved more than to sit abandoned, surrendered to rot and termites. And she didn’t have the energy or money to buy a car and all that entailed with insurance and parking (a nightmare in the city), so she could get to the house more frequently. She either had to clean the place out and sell it, rent it, or move in.
These past weeks had been some of the happiest in her life, but only because she’d been here with Heath, the man as she’d known him, not as Avery and Gillian had perceived him.
Not to mention she didn’t know what to think about Avery anymore. She’d never imagined he was the type to cheat on his wife but wasn’t naive enough to think cheating wasn’t common. What truly disturbed her was how he’d lied about it, not only flipping the narrative so that Alicia was the cheater but going into elaborate detail, even apparently faking a phone call with his ex.
The significance of this—that her former mentor was not just a liar but a world-class, trophy-taking one, gnawed at her gut like acid.
On the porch, she stared glumly out into the woods, her heart dull and flat, because she knew that her time with Heath was nearing its end if it hadn’t ended already. He was on the verge of a mental breakthrough in which he would remember something that put Romy at the scene of Misty’s death.
Even if he wasn’t, Romy determined she had to tell him. Preferably before he remembered it himself. In her fantasies, he would—perhaps in the future—realize she’d made a horrific mistake but that she’d been an immature and headstrong young girl who’d not meant any serious harm and had no inkling of what she was setting into motion.
Perhaps he could forgive her, eventually. But he certainly wasn’t going to want to continue to make love to her, to live with her, to maybe start a family with her. Not knowing what he knew. What he would know.
Romy had also decided she was leaving tonight, going back to Brooklyn. She would wait until it was darker so there would be minimal traffic. She’d never driven inside of the city and was not looking forward to it. The later the better, she figured. There was no other way to get Mack back into the city except driving; she certainly couldn’t bring him on a train.
She’d take her grandmother’s Volvo as she doubted a rental car place would allow her to place Mack in one of their cars. Besides, it was almost five o’clock. She knew from past excursions that they all closed at five. Since her grandmother’s car wasn’t insured, it was another thing to worry about, but she wasn’t going to stay in the house one more night with Avery’s crazed young mistress on the warpath.
She mostly worried about her own reaction. Seeing Katya again might make Romy angry enough to let Mack loose on her. Even though the “little girl” was trespassing, Romy still didn’t want to risk the dog getting in trouble if he bit her.
After packing, she texted Heath: “Hey, sorry to do this to you but I’ve decided to come back early. You can stay if you think you’re unsafe at home. We’ll figure out arrangements. By the way, we need to talk. It’s important. See you soon.”
She left what “arrangements” she was referring to open but damned if she was going to give up her entire apartment. She hoped like hell she wasn’t going to walk in the door to find a dumbfounded, furious, or devastated Heath who knew Romy was responsible for Misty and his unborn child’s drowning. That plus city driving for the first time was really too much for any human!
By eight p.m., it was getting darker, and she scoured the porch, trying to pick up all of Mack’s slobber-smelling chew toys. She needed to keep him occupied on the drive.
Then she wrapped some things in old newspaper that she wanted to bring with her—hand-painted china, silver-plated utensils, and knickknacks, including Nana’s collection of snow globes. Once, she’d asked Nana why snow globes, and Nana only replied, “They’re pretty.”
That was Nana for you, she didn’t try to make a simple thing unnecessarily complex.
None of the items Romy wanted to take back to Brooklyn were valuable except to her heart, and she figured she was going to need all the heart-soothing she could get in the near future.
As she was packing her things into the back of the Volvo, preparing to get the very last things still inside the house—her travel bag with laptop and personal products, as well as Mack—she remembered something.
Do it later, she thought. Do it when you get home.
But she couldn’t. Once the idea wormed into her brain, she had to know. There was no way she would be able to wait four hours or concentrate enough to navigate the city streets until she knew.
It wouldn’t take long.
She went back inside and got her laptop out of her travel bag, and gave Mack a chew toy to keep him occupied in the living room. Habit made her head to the rollout desk in her grandmother’s room, where she placed the laptop and logged back into her hot spot.
After what Alicia had told her about Avery and Katya, after hearing Avery’s bald-faced lies about what had caused his marriage’s breakdown, she no longer trusted him. And she had a sickening suspicion that he wasn’t what she’d believed he was.
Not now.
Not ever.
She pulled up her email provider, then changed the address to Misty’s.
In the password bar, she typed: “averysands.”
When she got the familiar “incorrect password” message, she was relieved. But she kept going. She couldn’t not keep going.
She typed: “AverySands.”
Suddenly, the email was open. Misty’s life spilled out before her.