A few days later I was browsing through Skye’s Instagram—thankfully a public account, and the social media platform where she now posted far more frequently than on Facebook—when a recent upload caught my eye. The picture showed Skye and her skinny brunette friend, the two of them arm in arm on a deck overlooking the ocean. They wore expensive-looking sundresses, and each held a bright orange cocktail that matched the sunset behind them.

Skye’s caption read, Missing this view, can’t wait to be back this weekend with my soul sista @andieroussos. The location, marked at the top of the picture, read Gurney’s Montauk Resort & Seawater Spa.

That afternoon, I called Gurney’s and booked Burke a room for Saturday. I packed him an overnight bag with the preppiest beach attire I could find in his closet and informed him of his first task. When he protested—claiming he had zero clue how to flirt anymore, he’d been out of the game for thirty years—I told him to confide in Todd, to get a few tips from his friend. Everyone knew Todd cheated on his wife.

“Don’t tell him everything,” I added. “Just say that you’ve met a younger woman but you don’t know how to make the first move. That slimeball won’t judge you.”

Burke nodded reluctantly, his expression resigned.

The Big Plan was on. It was go time.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Skye

DECEMBER 2019

Time creeps by while I wait for the plea hearing, which isn’t even scheduled yet. Davis has brought the criminal case against Burke to the state, which will prosecute. In the meantime, his team is focusing on the civil suit. Everything is moving more slowly than I anticipated.

I hardly leave my apartment except to run along the West Side Highway. Andie comes over most evenings when she’s finished with work. She brings red wine and a little dinner and sits with me. One night the first week of December, I finally tell her about Burke’s letter and the Moleskine, and about Max’s emails.

Andie stares at me with her mouth half-open, her bottom lip stained with wine. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I don’t know,” I say truthfully. “I should have. I’m sorry.”

She asks me what I’m going to do about work, and I shrug. She tells me that Jan is probably going to fire me.

“I know,” I say, without much feeling at all.

I drink the wine as if it were water, so that it’s warm in my stomach and a film covers my thoughts, rinsing the lines from Burke’s letter that stick stubbornly on repeat inside my head: I know that I am not the love of your life, Skye Starling, but for what it’s worth, know that you are mine.

On Monday afternoon, the inevitable email from Jan finally lands in my in-box.

Skye—I can’t imagine what you’re going through right now; I can only assume it’s worse than I can possibly guess based on your extreme lack of communication this past month. But my career is on the line, and I can’t cut you any more slack. An editor from Putnam was at the launch party last week, and we talked. You and I need to do the same. Thursday 10 am at Stumptown? Please confirm that you’ll be there.

I type a oneline response and click Send: I’ll be there. I’m so sorry, Jan.

I close my laptop and feel a sickness wobble through me, deep down, underneath everything else.

Above are the thoughts that won’t leave me alone, a repeating cycle. Burke. The digital journal. The Moleskine. Heather. Heather’s brother. My mother. My father. Max.

Max. Thoughts of him slow to a stop in the front of my mind. It’s been a while since he’s emailed me—a month, at least. I still haven’t said anything to Davis about his messages, but I think it’s time. I click on the window of my computer that’s open to Gmail and type Max’s name into the search box. When I do this, I notice something I haven’t before. Two email addresses pop up: [email protected] and [email protected]

I click on the first address, watching as Gmail filters and loads all emails from [email protected] These are the strange, threatening messages Max sent me starting in April, right after Burke proposed. But nothing from that address dates back further than that.

Then I click the second, [email protected], and watch as a new, larger batch of emails fills the screen. The most recent one is from July 2013, over six years ago—an email Max forwarded me containing the address of the share house in Montauk.

I stare at the screen for several minutes, reading through old emails from Max, from the years we spent weaving in and out of each other’s lives. Links to songs and YouTube videos we sent each other, our old G-chats, a few lengthy, emotionally charged emails that make me cringe to read. All from the old email address. He must’ve gotten a new one.

But something isn’t sitting right, and without thinking I pick up my phone and call Isabel.

She answers on the second ring. “Oh my God, Skye.”

“Hey, Iz. Sorry, I know you’re at work.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s so good to hear from you. I’ve been worried.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“How’re you doing? You’ve been—you’ve been MIA since Will’s birthday. I’ve tried calling so many times. Andie won’t tell us anything.”

My head suddenly feels thick, and very heavy. I’ve almost forgotten that I haven’t told Isabel and Lexy what happened, only that Burke and I split after the honeymoon and that I wasn’t ready to go into details. I stare out the window behind my desk. Little snowflakes float through the sky.

“I’m so sorry, Iz.” I chew my bottom lip, searching for the right words. “Things aren’t okay, really. I promise I’ll explain everything soon, but I need to ask you a question. It’s going to sound really random, but it’s important.”

“Ask me anything, Skye.”

“Did Max LaPointe get a new email address?”

“What? Oh, Skye. You’re not—you and Max aren’t—oh, God—”

“No, Iz, it’s nothing like that. Look, between you and me, I’ve been receiving some strange emails from Max, but I’m not sure it’s actually him. It’s not the email address he was using before, and I just needed to check—” I exhale, my thoughts crashing into each other too quickly, like dominoes. “Can you check and see if he uses the email address [email protected]?”

Isabel repeats the address, and I picture her at her desk, typing it into Gmail. Several moments pass.

“No. I’ve never gotten an email from that address.”

My stomach feels small and twisted. “Okay. But you do get emails from him lately? From a different address, I mean?”

“Yes. He just sent a mass email last week, an invitation for Will and me to some New Year’s party. You know I don’t want to go, I can’t stand Max—”

“And that was from what email address, Iz?”

“Uhh, let’s see.” I listen to her fingers clicking the keyboard. “It’s [email protected] That’s what it’s been for years.”

“Got it. Thanks, Iz. Look, please don’t say anything to Will about this, okay?”

She’s quiet for a few moments. “I won’t. But, Skye, you’re scaring me. Lex and I—we’ve been so worried.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve been a terrible friend. I—I can’t get into it now, but I promise I’ll call you later this week. Okay? I have to go now.”

I tell Isabel I love her and hang up the phone.

I think of Max’s face at Will’s birthday party in November, the cold, genuinely bewildered look in his eyes when I mentioned his emails.

I don’t know what you’re talking about, Starling.

The truth is like a gong striking the center of my chest. Max LaPointe didn’t send me those emails. Someone else did.

I am suddenly overcome with a deep, hollow loneliness. I want to tell Andie to come over, but she and Spencer have tickets to a concert at Brooklyn Steel, some trendy rock band she’s been gushing about for months. I could ask Isabel and Lex, but there’s too much backstory to explain. I reach for my phone and text my father.

Okay if I come out to Westport for the night?

He responds right away: I would love that. Stay as long as you like.

I rinse the coffeepot out in the sink and wipe toast crumbs from the kitchen counter. All I’ve eaten today is a piece of sourdough, but my appetite is extinguished. Tidying the apartment gives me some vague sense of control; when everything is clean, I pack a bag and head to Grand Central to make the 6:20 train to Westport.

Outside the sky is the color of cotton, and it’s snowing heavily by the time the train rolls into the Westport station. As I lug my bag down the platform and squint to find my father’s car in the parking lot, I spot Nancy’s white Volvo SUV instead.

“Where’s my dad?” I blurt as she rolls down the window.

“He’s grabbing takeout.” She smiles brightly, a single crease sharpening between her eyebrows. “He said you’d be here for dinner and there’s really no food in the house, so we ordered Chinese. Just for the three of us, the boys are out. They always seem to be out these days.”

I toss my bag in the back and climb into the passenger seat. Nancy has the heat blasting, and I watch fat snowflakes melt into my wool jacket.

“Some snow we’ve been having, huh?” There is effort in Nancy’s voice.

I nod. “Yeah.”

“The schools were closed today because the roads were so bad earlier. I’m sure the city is a mess.”