I did run errands—I was out of shaving cream—but I also needed to walk. Walking is when I do my best thinking, and so much has been on my mind.

When I got back to the apartment around noon, Skye wasn’t there. I figured she’d gone for a jog or out to get breakfast, but when she didn’t come back by two and I couldn’t get her on the phone, I started to worry. Now it’s one in the afternoon on Monday and she still isn’t here, and I’m completely losing my mind. I mean, she’s my wife. I’ve called and texted her countless times, but nothing. I’ve texted her friends; Lexy, Isabel, and Kendall all responded that they hadn’t heard from her. But Andie hasn’t responded, and she didn’t pick up when I called, either.

This gives me a strange sense of hope that Skye and Andie are together. That, at least, Skye is okay, and perhaps, for some bizarre reason, neither of them have their phones. It’s the only reason I haven’t called Mr. Starling—it doesn’t exactly look great to call your new bride’s father two weeks after the wedding asking if he’s seen her—but if I don’t hear from Skye in the next few hours, I will.

Her laptop is sitting on her desk and I stab at the keys—there’s no password—as the machine comes to life. The screen is open to iCloud Photos, to the shared album that Andie started after the wedding. Skye was a perfect bride—beautiful and collected—and I’m pondering which ones to have printed as a surprise for her, when I hear the sound of keys jangling in the lock. I jump to my feet, drenched with a wave of relief.

“Where have you been?” I ask as she walks through the door.

But the second I see her eyes—cold and unfamiliar—I know something is wrong.

Skye drops her bag on the floor. She holds out her phone so that the screen faces me.

“What the fuck is this, Burke?”

“What the fuck is what, Goose?” It’s such a relief to see her, to know that she’s safe. All I want to do is wrap my arms around her, pull her close. My wife. The woman who has, in such a short amount of time, truly become my counterpart.

“Don’t you dare call me that,” she spits, her gaze icy. “Tell me what the fuck this is.”

I take the phone from her grasp, swallowing the lump in my throat. What I’m most afraid of happening cannot be happening. Can it?

Carefully, I look down at the screen. It’s open to an email, one from me to an address I don’t recognize. I read the first few lines:

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Date: Oct 6, 2019, 8:02 AM

Subject: (no subject)

Andy,

Got your text, sorry I’m just getting back to you now. Skye and I have been on our honeymoon and just got back last night, so I haven’t had much time to myself the past couple of weeks.…

My heart drops into my lap. Instantly, I know I didn’t write or send the email. My head spins violently, an intersection of questions crashing together.

I finish reading the message, a chill in the base of my spine. I read it through a second time, the words blurring together.

I blink to make sure I’m not dreaming.

Skye is watching me, her chocolate eyes panicked and wide—a window into the confusion and fury and sheer horror blowing through her mind.

I can hardly breathe. I force a few choppy inhales, willing myself to think rationally. What I know, and what whoever is trying to frame me knows, is that the message was meant to be sent to Andy Raymond, my old friend from Langs Valley who I paid to be in the wedding. Whoever impersonated me has crafted it to look like an accident on my part, like I made the mistake of sending the email to Skye’s best friend, Andie Roussos, instead of my friend Andy Raymond.

“Burke.” Skye’s voice is shriller than I’ve ever heard it, and I suddenly remember that she’s still staring at me, waiting. “What the fuck is this?”

I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out. How is this happening? What is happening? My mind is racing too fast; I can’t keep up with the thoughts diving in and out. Did Andy Raymond do this? Or was it one of the other “groomsmen” I hired from Langs Valley? Does someone want money? Does someone have an old beef with me? Is this payback for some idiotic crime I committed when I was obliterated out of my mind in high school?

Then I remember the attachment “I” referenced near the end of the email.

I think the letters (attached) will tell you everything you want to know.

I look down at Skye’s phone, still in my hand. My fingers quiver as I open the file, titled “BM Diary.” A Word document fills the screen.

September 8, 2018

Dear Dr. K,

Her hair is yellow and thick, nothing like my wife’s. Isn’t that awful, that when I first notice an attractive woman, I instantly compare her to my wife? I used to think I was a good person, the kind of man who wouldn’t be struck dumb by the tumble of blond hair down a creamy, anonymous back.

No. It can’t be.

I scroll through the document, skimming over the digital diary while Skye watches me. It goes on and on; the entries are letters, pages and pages of them, all written from my perspective. But I didn’t write them. I didn’t write a single word.

“I—I didn’t write this, Skye,” I say finally. I step toward her and she backs away, her jaw clenched. “There’s some stuff I need to explain, but I swear I didn’t write any of this. Not the email or the diary. I swear to you on my life.”

“You fucking liar,” she hisses. “I’ve caught you red-handed and you’re still lying? Grow a pair, Burke. Own up to what you’ve done. Own up to the two million dollars you stole from me.”

“What?” My heart storms inside my chest. “Skye, I didn’t steal two million dollars from you. I swear.”

“And why should I believe a fucking word you say?” She’s crying now, thick tears running down the apples of her cheeks. Her skin is mottled and red, but she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. All I want to do is hold her.

“Answer this simple question, Burke.” She wipes her face with her sleeve. “Is it true you have another wife, and children?”

I say nothing. Pressure swells behind my eyes.

Fresh tears spill down her cheeks. “You piece of shit.” Her voice is a cracked whisper.

“I’m so sorry, Skye.” The words feel stuck in my throat. “But I promise I didn’t write that email or those diary entries. For––for what it’s worth.”

Skye shifts in her stance. She rubs the creases of her eyes. “I’m leaving. When I come back here at six tomorrow, I want you out.”

“Skye, please don’t—”

But she’s already doing her knocks on the door, and I feel equally helpless and devastated as I watch her, a slave to her disease even now. And then she’s gone.

My chest feels hollow and tight, as though the wind has been knocked out of me. I am numb as I sink down on the couch and open my laptop. I log into my email. Sure enough, in the sent-items folder is an outgoing message “I” sent to Andie yesterday morning.

I scroll to the bottom of the email and click the attachment. The Word doc floods the screen and I force myself to read it thoroughly, all the way through.

Each letter or diary entry is addressed to Dr. K.

Dr. K.

Why does this sound so familiar?

Dr. K. Dr. K is Dr. Kendrick, our old couples therapist.

A memory of Dr. Kendrick takes shape in my mind. A balding man with a Roman nose in his fifties or sixties, third-floor office near the train station. Blue leather couch, a coffee table strewn with old issues of Psychology Today. We only saw him for a couple months; he didn’t take insurance, but Heather had heard he was one of the best therapists in New Haven and insisted we go. She said couples therapy would be her birthday present to me that year, as if that somehow made it more appealing. I hadn’t even realized our marriage was in such a bind, but in retrospect we weren’t doing well. In the end the therapy was too expensive, and given that money was the source of our problems, we stopped going.

I remember Dr. Kendrick’s advice during one particular appointment, the low, clear sound of his voice: As an assignment, I’d like you each to write in your own journals. Write whatever comes to mind—it can be about each other, or what you’re feeling in general, or anything at all. If it feels more natural, you can write the journal entries as letters to someone—to each other, or even to me. Of course, I’ll never see them. No one will. These are purely for you, an exercise to get to know yourselves better, as individuals independent of your relationship.