The Blanes got divorced Lexy’s freshman year of college and sold the house, and now the memory of spending all those carefree nights there feels like one from another world. But then I think, at least I still have them. At least after all these years I still have Lexy and Andie and Isabel. That’s something.

“Can I get you anything?” My father’s voice pulls me from the well of my nostalgia. He runs a hand through his light brown hair, flecked with grays but not bad for a man in his sixties. “Tea? Water? Wine?” He shifts his weight to one foot. Something about our interaction feels oddly formal, and I can’t remember if it’s always been like this. Maybe it has.

The kitchen is all sleek stone countertops and flat-panel cabinets—another look Mom would’ve hated.

“I’m okay. Thanks.” I slide onto one of the raised metal stools in front of the center island.

“You look tired, sweetheart.”

“I am tired, Dad.”

“Do you—do you want to talk in here?”

My father has never been good at navigating emotional conversations. That was Mom’s forte. His emotion goes into his art, and nowhere else.

I shrug. “I think it’s as good a place as any.”

“Okay.” He exhales. “Tell me what’s going on, Skye.”

I open my mouth to speak and realize I should have thought this through. My throat is so tight it hurts, and I have no idea how to explain any of this to my father. The furrow of his brow—so intense with concern—fills my eyes. Even though he’s terrible at expressing it, I know my father cares deeply in his helpless way. My mother was the best at getting him to open up; I suddenly hope Nancy is, too.

“Skye?” he presses, his voice a whisper.

The tears are too heavy behind my eyes as something breaks loose inside me.

I tell him everything. I tell him what’s happened since Burke and I got back from Italy—the misdirected email to Andie, the sham of our marriage, the stolen two million dollars—all of it. I can’t bring myself to look him in the eye until I’m finished.

I can feel his rage first; I feel it before I drag my gaze up to see an expression on my father’s face that I’ve never witnessed.

“And this—” His voice cracks. “This happened nearly two weeks ago?”

I brace myself for his recriminations, my face hot with shame. “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you. I wanted to, I just—I needed some time. But I canceled all the credit cards, and I took him off the bank account. And I changed the locks. I’m so, so sorry, Da—”

“Stop.” He holds up a hand, and I see that his fingers are trembling. He walks around the island and covers me in his arms, squeezing me closer than he has in years. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Skye. Nothing. This is—this is my fault. I’m your father. I knew there was something off about that man. I sensed it. I just—I guess I just—I wanted you to be happy. And you’d been so, so happy. Oh, Skye. This is not your fault. I’m so terribly sorry.”

Tears stream loose down my face, so many the world blurs. A hardness inside me crumbles, and I realize how badly I’ve needed to hear these words.

“I don’t know what to do, Dad.” My voice is muffled in the soft flannel of his shirt.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” He smooths the back of my hair, and I can’t remember the last time we were this physically close. “I’ll take care of everything. Everything is going to be okay. I promise.”

“But what does that mean?” I pull away, wiping my cheeks. “What’s going to happen? Will Burke go to prison?”

“If I have anything to do with it, he’ll go to prison for a long time.” My father’s voice stiffens, color flushing to his face. “What he’s done is illegal on so many levels, Skye. I’m going to call Davis tomorrow morning. He’ll probably need you to come in and … provide some information. When you’re ready.”

I nod. Davis is our family lawyer. He’s got the bearing of an old New England WASP and the ruthlessness of a mafioso.

“There’s probably something else you should tell Davis,” I say. “When you talk to him.”

“What is it?”

“Burke—Burke went to prison. When he was twenty-four. It was for something white-collar. He said he was the fall guy for something that happened at work, but he spent a year behind bars. He told me some of the details, but now I—I don’t know what’s true. I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you, Dad.”

“What?” Anger flushes my father’s face, but his expression quickly softens. “Oh, Skye. It’s okay. I don’t—I’ll fill Davis in on everything. I’ll have him look into it. I wish you’d told me, but I—I understand your instinct. To protect someone you … love.”

I say nothing.

“And I need you to forward me the bank account statements. And the email. The one Andie got from Burke with the diary attached.” My father begins pacing the kitchen. “Skye.” He pauses. “Is there anything else you’ve found—aside from this digital journal—that incriminates Burke? Not that we need more, but it can’t hurt. Maybe a social media profile? Photos of his—God—his fucking family?” My father’s eyes are hard, two bolts of anger that soften when they land on mine. The color of the ocean when it rains. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I know this is—”

“I did find something.” Nerves prickle my insides. “Burke—he doesn’t have social media. Not even a LinkedIn. He always said he had no interest in using Facebook or Instagram, and I just assumed it was true, the way you’re not on it either. But after what happened, Andie and I went on Facebook and searched for his wife. Her name is Heather, according to the journal entries. So we searched for Heather Michaels. There are tons of women named Heather Michaels, but we narrowed down the search by location, to New Haven, since that’s apparently where they live. And we found her, Dad.” I swallow hard. I pull out my phone and go to my recent photos, where I’ve stored a screenshot of Heather Michaels’s Facebook profile. Her picture is of a family—a petite blond woman in a fitted sweater who must be Heather, three college-aged kids, one of whom is Burke’s doppelg?nger, and Burke. The five of them are standing together at what appears to be his son’s college graduation, their smiles wide and bright. I can’t bear to see the photo again—I’ve looked at it too many times to count since Andie found it—so I hand the phone to my father and stare at the intricacies of the pristine countertop, the tiny speckles of marble buried in the stone.

My father says nothing. At least a full minute passes. When I finally glance up at him, his face is white as a sheet, and I notice the phone is slipping in his fingers.

“Dad?”

“I know her.” He speaks slowly, placing the phone down carefully, as though it were a ticking bomb.

“You do?” I stare at him, shock seizing my chest. “Heather Michaels?”

He nods weakly, finally dropping his gaze to meet my own. “She used to babysit for you and Nate. Heather. Heather Price.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Burke

OCTOBER 2019—TWO DAYS WITHOUT SKYE

Heather claims to be rushing out the door to work. She says the most profitable time for Uber drivers is the night. I don’t believe her—she always used to say early mornings were busiest—but I let her go, for now. I need a moment alone in my house.

When she’s gone, I march straight upstairs to the office where Heather keeps her laptop. I flip it open and turn up the brightener—she always turns the screen light all the way down before she closes it—and type in her password, which I know is her initials followed by the numbers for the kids’ birthdays. But Incorrect password flashes on the screen. I try two more times without success—she changed it. She hasn’t changed her computer password in at least a decade, and now she changes it.

Frustration drowns me and I drop to my hands and knees, scurrying through the papers on the floor and in the desk drawers. It’s mostly recent bills and forms from Maggie’s school, and I’m hit with a sinister wave of dejection at the reminder that I haven’t lived in this house in nearly a year. I haven’t taken Maggie on a single college visit or seen Garrett’s new apartment in Somerville.

I keep digging through the desk. I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for, but there has to be something that will give me answers. I reach into the very back of the bottom drawer, and beyond the edge my hand touches an object—a book of some sort—that feels instantly familiar in its supple leather exterior and frayed edges. I yank it out from where it’s lodged behind the desk, my heart dropping into my lap when I see what it is—my navy blue Moleskine, the one I’ve been missing since the winter.