Dr. Salam folds her hands over her lap. “I read it.” She sits up straighter. “Let me ask you this: What do you make of it?” She blinks and points her chin forward, shifting back into shrink mode.

“I believed it, at first,” I answer honestly. “But now I can’t stop going back and forth in my head. Sometimes I’m almost certain he’s telling the truth. It’s his handwriting, it sounds like his voice. And the digital diary never sounded right to me, it sounded too cool and sinister and conniving. But then I think, that’s absurd, that’s obviously the real Burke, and the one in the Moleskine is the fake version that he gave me for our entire relationship. I—I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

Dr. Salam crosses her legs.

“My dad has this theory that Burke’s wife is involved. God, I haven’t even told you this part yet.” I tell Dr. Salam about the conversation I had with my father several days ago, after our meeting with Davis. I explain Heather Price’s close friendship with my mother, and their intense falling-out after Heather’s brother’s death.

“Oh, Skye,” Dr. Salam says when I’ve finished. “I’m so sorry. This—this is a lot to take in. And all the missing pages and holes in the journal, it’s all very … confusing. Has your father presented his theory to the lawyer?”

I shake my head. “No. That’s why he brought it up with me, I guess. He thinks if we mention it to Davis, Davis is going to want to go after Heather, too, and it’s going to prolong the whole legal process. And my dad doesn’t think that will be good for me. He thinks the sooner this is all over, the better. And as things stand now, Davis thinks it’s going to be at least a few more months until the plea hearing is even scheduled. And then we’re also planning a civil suit, which is separate.”

Dr. Salam nods, taking all of this in. “And in terms of investigating Heather’s involvement, you don’t know what you want?” Her tone makes it more of a statement than a question.

“I—I don’t know. Clearly there’s something Burke isn’t telling me—something he can’t tell me. But maybe my dad is right, that prolonging all this is a bad idea. And when I last spoke with Davis he said”—my voice cracks—“he said Burke will likely go to prison for five years.” There’s a fullness behind my eyes and in my throat. “Five years, Dr. Salam. And then I read the Moleskine, and this letter, and—it’s a love letter. And if I’m being honest with myself, I still love Burke. I do. I mean, we got married not that long ago. I can’t just turn that off.”

“Of course you can’t.” Dr. Salam’s voice is warm but pained.

“But he’s a sociopath. I know that, rationally. He’s a sociopath who plotted to ruin my life. And God knows what’s missing from those pages of the Moleskine and why. This is probably all just some ploy to make me soft, to fuck with me, to manipulate me into asking Davis to lessen his jail time or something. And I should want to put him in jail. But then … he’s also the man that I love, and imagining him sitting behind bars is just—it’s agony, it makes me sick.” The tears are falling now, dripping down my cheeks. “Maybe I have been brainwashed, Dr. Salam. I’m just so confused.”

Dr. Salam’s brow creases and she hands me the box of Kleenex from her desk, as she’s done countless time before.

“And then”—I exhale—“then there’s something else I haven’t told you about. It involves Max.”

“Max LaPointe?”

“Yes.” I sniffle, rubbing my nose with a tissue. “He’s been … contacting me. I should’ve told you about it a while ago but I didn’t because I—well, you know I hate rehashing that part of my life.” I tell Dr. Salam how Max started emailing me right after Burke and I got engaged. I show her his most recent message from a few days earlier, the day Burke’s Moleskine arrived in the mail.

“I don’t understand.” Dr. Salam shakes her head, her voice thick. “I can’t believe Max has been contacting you … so aggressively like this.”

“It’s weird.” I nod, hesitating. “It’s a little too weird. Maybe I’m crazy, but I have this feeling that Max might be … involved in this situation somehow. With Burke.”

Dr. Salam presses her lips together. “Why would that be?”

“I’m not sure.” I let my shoulders drop.

“Well, we know Max has sadistic tendencies, Skye. You don’t think his timing is merely a coincidence?”

“I really don’t know.” I feel helpless, anxiety worming its way into my hands. I stab at the cuticle of my thumbnail with my pointer finger.

“Have you told Davis?” Dr. Salam asks. “About Max?”

“No, but I’ve been wondering if I should. I mean, the last thing I want to do is tell Davis about Max—about … what he did to me. My father and Nancy don’t know, I never told them. But there’s this feeling I can’t shake. If Max is somehow behind any of this, if he’s the one who’s gotten Burke in trouble…” I sigh. “I won’t let him ruin my life again.”

“Oh, Skye.” Dr. Salam stares past my shoulder, her gaze glassy and distracted. “I suppose—I suppose maybe you’re right to let Davis in on all the facts.”

I tear at the cuticle until a strip of skin peels back. The layer underneath is red and raw, pulsing blood. I cringe and look up at Dr. Salam, waiting for a piece of thoughtful advice or guidance, something to hold on to, some port in the storm that’s unfurling around me.

“I’m so sorry, Skye.” She shakes her head ever so slightly. “I wish I could tell you what to do, but I can’t. But be gentle towards yourself. The truth will come.”

“Will it?”

“It may take time, but yes. It always reveals itself eventually.” Dr. Salam stands and smooths her pencil skirt. “I hate to do this, but we’re already past the hour and my three o’clock is here.” She taps her watch. “We’ll pick this up during the next session, okay?”

I nod. My stomach is a hard knot as I stand and poke my arms into my black puffy jacket. “Can I ask you just one more question, Dr. Salam?”

“Anything.”

“Do you think it’s possible that what Burke wrote in his letter and in the Moleskine could be true? That he wasn’t supposed to marry me, but did anyway? Because he really does love me?” Stale air escapes my lungs—a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. I mentally replay Burke’s letter. You deserve to know that I loved you when I married you, and that I still love you. I know that’s not enough. Love isn’t enough. I never used to understand that expression, but I do now. You can love someone completely, and it still isn’t enough to make it work.

Dr. Salam is silent for several moments, her gaze fixed toward the window past my shoulder.

“Skye,” she says finally. “I wish I could answer that, but I can’t.” She sighs. “Love is a mystery. But I believe you’ll find a way to answer that question yourself.” She gives me a small smile and squeezes my arm.

“I’m scared.” The words come out hushed; I barely realize I’ve spoken them aloud.

Dr. Salam nods, her chocolate eyes landing on mine. “Being scared is a part of this journey called life. And sometimes fear has something to teach us.” She glances at her watch. “Come back and see me as soon as you wish. And call me if you need anything at all.”

I nod, biting my bottom lip. Dr. Salam waits patiently while I do my knocks on her office door. I want so badly to stay in the sheltered cocoon of her office, protected from the world. But I can already hear her calling the next patient’s name as I leave the room.

Chapter Forty-Five

Burke

NOVEMBER 2019—FORTY-FOUR DAYS WITHOUT SKYE

I’ve spent the past six weeks living in Todd’s guest room, waiting for what’s next.

The night I’d first arrived at Todd’s, suitcases in either hand, he sat me down and I came clean about everything. After I’d finished explaining the entire preposterous saga, he paced the apartment for about five minutes without speaking. Then he finally said, “I never could wrap my head around the fact that you’d taken a job in Dubai,” and we both burst out laughing. That’s the difference between women and men, I suppose—what might constitute a betrayal between women is swept under the rug by men. Or maybe that’s just Todd. He’s probably the most nonjudgmental person I know.

Todd was alarmed. He continues to be alarmed. I continue to be alarmed. Some nights, when Todd and I are grilling steaks and he’s drinking bourbon, the past year feels like a crazy dream, the kind you’re relieved to wake up from.

They officially arrested me a couple of weeks ago. It was nothing like my first arrest—when the FBI stormed my apartment and cuffed me in front of Heather at the crack of dawn—and I’m thankful for that. This time, all I got was a phone called from the NYPD telling me to come in to the station. I did—I wasn’t going to fight them. Bail was set for ten thousand dollars, and Todd—bless his soul—dug into his savings and got me out.