I often wondered if she called him Professor, or if to her, he was always Will. Or maybe Professor Foust, but I doubted that somehow. That seemed far too formal for a man you’re sleeping with, even if he is twenty years your senior, a father of two with traces of gray in his hair.

I thought a lot about audacious young women. About what one might look like. Pixie cuts came to mind, as did low-cut blouses, midriff bared; shorts so short the pockets hung out from below. Fishnet stockings, combat boots. Dyed hair.

But maybe I was wrong about that. Maybe she was a self-deprecating young woman, shy, lacking in self-respect. Maybe the marginal attention of a married man was all she had going for her, or maybe she and Will had a connection that went beyond sex and to a like-minded desire to save the world.

In which case, I think she did call him Professor Foust.

I never asked Will what she looked like. I did, and at the same time didn’t, want to know. In the end, I decided that ignorance is bliss and never asked. He would have just lied anyway and told me there wasn’t another woman. That it was only me.

If it wasn’t for the boys, our marriage may have ended in divorce after the affair. I’d suggested it once, that maybe Will and I would be better off if we got a divorce, that the boys would be better off.

“God, no,” Will told me when I’d suggested it. “No, Sadie, no. You said that would never happen to us. That we’d be together forever, that you would never let me go.”

If I said that, I didn’t remember. Either way, that’s the type of ridiculous nonsense people say when they’re falling in love; it doesn’t pass muster in a marriage.

There’s a small part of me that blamed myself for the affair. That believed I’d been the one to push Will into the arms of another woman, because of who I am. I blamed my career, which requires that I be detached. That detachment, the absence of an emotional involvement, works its way into our marriage at times. Intimacy and vulnerability aren’t my strong suit, nor have they ever been. Will thought he could change me. Turns out he was wrong.

SADIE

When I pull into the clinic parking lot, I’m grateful to find it empty. Joyce and Emma will be here soon, but for now it’s only me. My tires skid on the pavement as I make a sharp left turn into my spot, searching the adjacent street for signs of high beams.

I step from the car and make my way across the parking lot. This early in the day, the world is asphyxiated by fog. The air around me is murky, like soup. I can’t see what’s five feet in front of me. My lungs are heavy, and suddenly I don’t know for certain if I’m alone or if there’s someone out there in the fog, watching me. Standing just beyond those five feet where I can’t see. A chill creeps up my spine and I shiver.

I find myself jogging to the door, plunging the key into the lock to let myself in. I push the door closed behind me, and turn the dead bolt before making my way inside. I move down the narrow hall and to the reception area, Emma’s domain.

Before I arrived, there was another doctor in my place, a longtime resident of the island who went on maternity leave and never came back. Joyce and Emma often stand and pass baby photos around and lament how much they miss having Amanda here. They hold me responsible for her leave, as if it’s my fault she had that baby and decided to give motherhood a go.

What I’ve come to discover is that the island residents don’t take well to newcomers. Not unless you’re a child like Tate or gregarious like Will. It takes a rare breed to choose to live on an island, isolated from the rest of the world. Many of the residents who aren’t retired have simply chosen seclusion as a way of life. They’re self-reliant, autonomous, and also insular, moody, obstinate and aloof. Many are artists. The town is littered with pottery shops and galleries because of them, making it cultured but also pretentious.

That said, community is important because of the isolation that comes with island living. The difference between them and me is that they chose to be here.

I run a hand along the wall, feeling for the light switch. The lights above me come to life with a hum. There, on the wall before me, sits a large dry-erase calendar, Dr. Sanders’s and my work schedule. Emma’s brainchild. The schedule is arbitrary and irregular; Dr. Sanders and I are not slated to work the same days from week to week. If there’s any method to the madness, I can’t see it.

I go to the calendar. The ink is smudged, but still I see what it is that I’m looking for. My name, Foust, written under the date December first. The same day Mr. Nilsson supposedly saw Morgan Baines and me arguing. The same day Mr. Nilsson says I savagely tore a handful of hair from the woman’s head.

According to Emma’s calendar, on December first I was scheduled to work a shift that spanned nine hours, from eight in the morning to five that night. In which case, I was here at the clinic when Mr. Nilsson swears I was outside the Baineses’ home. I find my phone in my bag and snap a photo of it for proof.

I sit down at the L-shaped desk. There are notes stuck to it. A reminder for Emma to order more printer ink. For Dr. Sanders to call a patient back with test results. One of our patients is missing her doll. Her mother’s phone number is on the desk, with a request to call if the doll is found. The computer password is there, too.

I revive the computer. Our files are stored on medical software. I don’t know for certain that Mr. Nilsson is a patient of the clinic, but nearly everyone on this island is.

There are any number of eye disorders that affect the elderly, from presbyopia to cataracts and glaucoma, all the way to macular degeneration, one of the leading causes of blindness in older adults. It’s possible Mr. Nilsson suffers from one of these, and that’s the reason he thought he saw me with Mrs. Baines. Because he couldn’t see. Or maybe he’s begun to exhibit the early signs of Alzheimer’s disease and was confused.

I open the computer program. I search for the medical records of George Nilsson, and sure enough, they’re there. I’m quite certain this violates HIPAA laws, and yet I do it regardless, even though I’m not Mr. Nilsson’s physician.