As far as I knew, she was still there in Westport, luxuriating in her daily schedule of spa appointments and tennis matches and luncheons at the club. Nate and Skye would be thirteen and nine by now. I’d have been lying if I said I didn’t still think about the Starling family. It was an unshakable obsession, a private indulgence, and certainly something I never mentioned to Burke.

When Burke was at Credit Suisse, I used to dream of the house in Westport that we’d buy one day—a big white Colonial with blue shutters sited on acres of lush kelly-green grass overlooking the ocean. Eventually I’d run into Libby at the supermarket or the post office; she’d be in her forties by then, her eyes sunken, crow’s-feet infesting the skin around them. I’d be golden and glowing, maybe with our third baby on my hip, and Libby would look jealous and tired because she was past her prime and her own children were moody adolescents who avoided her like the plague. If she tried to make small talk, I’d slip in that Burke had had a great year at Credit Suisse and we’d recently bought the big place on the water by the yacht club. Libby’s face would harden because she’d know I hadn’t needed her after all. She’d finally know that her intuition about Burke had been wrong, that he had been the real deal, and that I’d been right to love him, to choose him.

The first week of February, we packed all of our earthly belongings into a U-Haul and headed north for New Haven. As we drove over the Triborough Bridge in the weakening sunlight, I stretched my neck to catch a final glimpse of the city that had been mine for a sweet moment, and the dreams I’d leave behind there, its skyline dipped in muted-orange dusk, an almost unbearable blend of nostalgia and loss and rage tightening its grip around my heart.

Chapter Forty-One

Skye

NOVEMBER 2019

I stare at the open Moleskine. My heart bangs inside my chest as I reread the last sentence of Burke’s final entry.

I know I’m not actually going to go through with marrying Skye—that’s not part of the plan—but it doesn’t make this any easier, or any less evil. I just wish there was a way to—

I flip the pages of the Moleskine, searching for more. But this last entry is from February 23—that was shortly after Burke asked my father’s permission for my hand in marriage. Why isn’t there more? Why does the journal stop there?

Nonetheless, it’s on the page: confirmation, if the journal is authentic, that Burke wasn’t supposed to marry me. But that he did so anyway because he loved me.

Or so he says.

A storm pounds inside my head. My phone vibrates on the desk, Jan Jenkins’s name flashing on the screen. Wrenching guilt floods me, and I stare at the incoming call. I know I should pick it up, but I can’t talk to Jan right now. I just can’t.

I don’t know what to do other than pull on spandex and lace up my running sneakers. Then I’m out the door, skipping down the stairs and out onto the street, where a cold snap of wind hits my face. But it feels good, and I head west until I reach the West Side Highway and turn right on the running path. I always feel the most free when I run outside, where no doors or walls or clocks will hold me back. I run fast, the soles of my Asics hitting the pavement, springing me forward through the chilly air. I don’t know how far I’ve gone when I turn around, and I don’t realize how cold I am until I get back to my building and see my face in the lobby mirror, my nose bright red, the tips of my ears pink.

“Just looking at you makes me cold!” Ivan calls from behind the front desk.

I smile tightly, too numb to speak.

“Skye…” Ivan’s expression softens. “Are you okay?”

No is the answer. No, I am not okay. I am so very far from being okay. But how can I even begin to explain my situation to someone like Ivan, who works around the clock to send half his pay back to Ecuador to his mother and father, whom he hasn’t seen in six years.

“I’m okay,” I tell Ivan. “Thank you for asking.”

I walk the three flights up to my apartment and sink down into the couch, my breath still choppy from the cardio and the cold.

I think about what I’ve just read in Burke’s Moleskine. I think about how anyone familiar with the situation—Andie, my father—would say that this “real” journal is merely a continuation of Burke’s lies.

Yet I know something in my gut, a hunch I can’t shake. Whatever I’ve just read in Burke’s journal doesn’t sound like a lie. It sounds like Burke.

And suddenly I know the truth, and I realize I’ve known it all along. That Word-document diary that landed in Andie’s in-box—that file that turned my world upside down—didn’t sound like him at all.

Chapter Forty-Two

Burke

OCTOBER 2019—TWO DAYS WITHOUT SKYE

My eyes are slits, peering at Heather through the window as she makes her way toward the house. She opens the door. When she sees me sitting at the kitchen table in the dark, she startles. Good. I hope I scared her.

She flips on the overhead light and says nothing. She wears leggings and an old flannel, and her blond hair is dirty and limp. There are new lines around the corners of her liquid green eyes.

“Why’d you do it, Heather?” I spit, standing from the chair. I’m furious. I’m ready now. “Fuck, Heather.”

She places her worn leather bag on the kitchen table and removes her phone. She scrolls through, searching for something.

“Because this is bullshit, Burke.” Her eyes narrow, and she flashes the phone in my direction. “You fucking married her? You gold-digging, idiotic piece of shit. You weren’t supposed to marry her.”

I squint at the screen, at the message Heather has pulled up. It’s the text I sent her after the wedding. Skye and I left for Italy the next day—her grandparents’ private jet flew us from Nantucket to LaGuardia, where we caught a midmorning flight to Florence—and I’d sent the text as we were leaving the reception, while Skye was off saying goodbye to friends. I was rushed, but I also had nothing left to say to Heather.

My phone has been off all day. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t go through with it, and I’m not coming home to you. I married Skye. I love her, and I’m happy. You know it was over for us a long time ago. We’ll figure out a way to pay for Maggie’s college. I’ll always love and support you and the kids. I hope you know that.

“Look, a message I actually wrote.” I glare at Heather. “And I am not a gold digger.”

“So what are you?” Heather scowls. “A man in ‘love’?” She uses air quotes around the word.

“Yes.” My voice is thin, but strong. “I said it in my text and I’ll say it again. I fell in love with someone else. And in return, you fucking framed me. Admit it.”

I swear, her lips are on the verge of a smile.

“Tell me why, Heather,” I say louder. I’m so angry I’m almost laughing. “You set me up. You made me a pawn in your plan and then you turned on me. You left me out to dry.”

“You turned on me, Burke,” she snaps, the vein running across her temple blue and bulging. “We had a plan. The Big Plan. And it was working, it was moving along perfectly until you decided to go fucking rogue. You went and had some melodramatic midlife crisis and convinced yourself you’d fallen in love, then blew the whole thing up.”

“It wasn’t a midlife crisis, Heather. I know that’s what you want it to be, but it’s not.”

“Fuck you, Burke. Don’t be such a victim. You’re a big boy. If you want to bring me down with you, go right ahead. Love is a battlefield.” She draws her shoulders back, a coldness sweeping over her face.

“Goddammit, Heather.” My jaw clenches. “You and I both know I’m not bringing you down with me because we have three children, and after all we’ve overcome, we’re not gonna fuck it up so bad that they have to watch their father and their mother go to prison for this deranged conspiracy.”

“You’re so loyal when you want to be.” Heather’s lips curl into a snarl so that her incisors are bared. “It’s one of the things I’ve always loved about you.”

“Tell me why.” I step toward her, towering over her small, birdlike frame, and I’ve almost forgotten how much taller I am than she is. With Skye, our height difference is only a few inches; with Heather it’s nearly a foot. I could hit her, I think. I could easily hurt her. But she knows I’d never hit a woman, not ever, and she isn’t afraid. “Tell me why you set me up, Heather. I need to know.”

“You ruined my life, Burke.” She moves backward, lowering herself onto one of the kitchen chairs. She looks tired, as though she hasn’t been sleeping. Her voice is calm as her eyes lock onto mine. “I did everything for you, and you ruined my life.”