I don’t have a good answer. But I need another alternative—something else to explain why Owen isn’t coming up as Owen.

“I don’t know. Maybe he’s in witness protection,” I say. “That would explain Grady Bradford.”

“I thought of that. But do you remember my buddy Alex? He has a friend who is pretty high up in the U.S. Marshals’ office, so he looked into it for me. And Owen ain’t being protected.”

“Would he tell you?”

“Yeah.”

“What kind of protection program is that?”

“Not a great one. Anyway, he doesn’t match the profile of someone in witness protection,” he says. “Not his job, which is high-rent, not Sausalito. Protected witnesses sell tires somewhere in Idaho. And those are the lucky ones. It’s not what you see in the movies. Most witnesses just get dropped off in the middle of nowhere with a little cash in their wallets and some new IDs and are told good luck.”

“So then what?”

“For my money? It’s option two. He’s guilty of something and he’s been running from it for a long time. And maybe he got caught up in The Shop because of that. Or maybe it’s unrelated. Hard to know. But it would have caught up with him if he was arrested, so he ran to save himself. Or, maybe it’s like you said, and he ran because he thought it was the best way to protect Bailey. To not get her caught up in whatever he’s done.”

It’s the first thing that Jake says that penetrates. It’s what I keep coming back to myself. If it were just Owen’s mistakes that were going to catch up with him, he would’ve stayed with us. He would’ve faced the firing squad. But if any of this would take Bailey down with him, he would make another decision.

“Jake, even if you’re right, even if I don’t know the whole story about the man I married… I know he would only leave Bailey behind if he absolutely had to,” I say. “Forgetting me for a second, if he were running, without any intention of coming back, he’d take her with him. She’s everything to him. Owen doesn’t have it in him to leave her. And just disappear.”

“Two days ago, did you think he had it in him to make up his entire life history? Because he did do that.”

I stare at the ugly hotel hallway carpet with its patterns of fuchsia roses, trying to find in them something like solace.

This feels impossible. Every bit of this feels impossible. How do you begin to grapple with the idea that your husband is running from the person he used to be, a person whose real name you don’t even know? You want to argue that someone is getting the story wrong. Someone is getting your story wrong. In your story, the one you know by heart, none of this makes sense. Not where this story began, not where it’s going. And certainly not where it’s threatening to end.

“Jake, how do I go back inside and tell Bailey that nothing about her father is what she thinks? I don’t know how to tell her that.”

He gets uncharacteristically quiet. “Maybe tell her something else,” he says.

“Like what?”

“Like you have a plan to get her away from this,” he says. “At least until it’s all sorted out.”

“But I don’t.”

“But you could. You absolutely could get her away from this. Come to New York. Stay with me. Both of you, at least until this is all sorted out. I have friends on the board at Dalton. Bailey can finish out the school year there.”

I close my eyes. How am I here again? On the phone with Jake? How is Jake the one who is helping me? When we ended our relationship, Jake said I’d always felt absent to him. I didn’t argue with him—I couldn’t. Because I was a little absent. It had felt like something was missing with Jake. The very thing I’d thought I had with Owen. But if Jake is correct about Owen, then Owen and I didn’t have what I thought we did. Maybe we didn’t have anything close to it, at all.

“I appreciate the offer. And right now it doesn’t sound so bad.”

“But…” he says.

“From what you’re telling me, we got here because Owen ran away,” I say. “I can’t run away too, not until I get to the bottom of this.”

“Hannah, you really need to think of Bailey here.”

I open the hotel room door and peek in. Bailey is sound asleep on her bed. She is curled up in the fetal position, her purple hair sticking out like a disco ball on the pillows. I close the door, step back into the hall.

“That’s all I’m thinking of, Jake,” I say.

“Not yet it’s not,” he says. “Or you wouldn’t be trying to find the one person that in my opinion you should be keeping her away from.”

“Jake, he’s her father,” I say.

“Maybe someone should remind him,” he says.

I don’t say anything. I look out over the glass walls and into the atrium below. Work colleagues (complete with their laminated conference name tags) are lounging in the hotel bar, couples are heading out of the restaurant hand in hand, two exhausted parents are carrying their sleeping children and enough LEGOLAND paraphernalia to open a store. From this far away, they all look happy. Though, of course, I don’t really know. But, for just a moment, I wish I could be any of them as opposed to the person I am. Hiding in a hotel hallway, eight floors up. Trying to process that her marriage, her life, is a lie.

I feel anger surging inside of me. Ever since my mother left, I pride myself on the details, seeing the smallest things about a person. And if someone asked me three days ago, I would have said I know everything there is to know about Owen. Everything that matters anyway. But maybe I know nothing. Because here I am, struggling to figure out the most basic details of all.

“Sorry,” Jake says. “That was a little harsh.”

“That was a little harsh?”

“Look, I’m just saying that you’ve got a place here if you decide you want it,” he says. “Both of you do. No strings. But if you decide not to take me up on that, at least make another plan. Before you go ripping that girl’s life apart, convince her you know what you’re doing.”

“Who knows what they’re doing in a situation like this, Jake?” I say. “Who finds themselves in a situation like this?”

“Apparently you do,” he says.

“That’s helpful.”

“Come to New York,” he says. “That’s as helpful as I know how to be.”

Eight Months Ago

“I didn’t agree to this,” Bailey said.

We were standing outside a flea market in Berkeley. And Owen and Bailey were in a rare standoff. He wanted to go in. The only place Bailey wanted to go was home.

“You did agree,” Owen said. “When you agreed to come to San Francisco. So how about sucking it up?”

“I agreed to get dim sum,” she said.

“And the dim sum was good, wasn’t it?” he said. “I gave you my last pork bun. As a matter of fact, so did Hannah. That’s two extra pork buns.”

“What’s your point?” she says.

“How about being a good sport and heading inside with us for thirty minutes or so?”

She turned on her heels and walked into the flea market, ahead of us—the requisite ten feet ahead of us, so no one would guess we were all together.

She was done negotiating with her father. And, apparently, she was done celebrating my birthday.

Owen gave me an apologetic shrug. “Welcome to forty,” he said.

“Oh, I’m not forty,” I said. “I’m twenty-one.”

“Oh, that’s right!” He smiled. “Great. Then I have nineteen more chances to get this right.”

I took his hand, his fingers locking around mine. “Why don’t we just go home?” I said. “Brunch was so nice. If she’s ready to go home…”

“She’s fine.”

“Owen, I’m just saying, this isn’t a big deal.”

“No, it isn’t a big deal,” he said. “It isn’t a big deal for her to suck it up and enjoy a lovely flea market. She’ll be fine walking around for a half hour.”

He leaned down to kiss me and we started to head inside. To find Bailey. We were just through the front gate when a large man on his way out stopped walking and called out after Owen.

“No way,” he said.

He was wearing a baseball cap and a matching jersey, stretched out over his stomach. And he was carrying a lampshade—a yellow, velvet lampshade with the price tag still on it.

He reached out to hug Owen, the lampshade awkwardly knocking Owen on the back.

“I can’t believe it’s you,” he said. “How long has it been?”

Owen pulled away from him, careful to disentangle himself in a way that kept the lampshade safe.

“Twenty years? Twenty-five?” he said. “How does the prom king miss all the reunions?”

“I hate to tell you, pal, but I think you have the wrong guy,” Owen said. “I’ve never been king of anything, just ask my wife.”

Owen gestured to me.

And the guy, this stranger, smiled in my direction. “It’s good to meet you,” he said. “I’m Waylon.”

“Hannah,” I said.

Then he turned back to Owen. “Wait. So you’re telling me that you didn’t go to Roosevelt? Class of 1994?”

“Nope, I went to Newton High in Massachusetts,” Owen said. “You got the year right though.”

“Man, you are a dead ringer for this guy I went to school with. I mean the hair is pretty different and he was more jacked than you. No offense. I was more jacked too, back then.”