To the side of the entrance, there’s a smaller table, waxed wood. A glass bowl filled with fake moss spheres sits on top, along with several framed photographs. There are Jake and Sabrina on their wedding day, recessing down the aisle at an outdoor beach ceremony, giant smiles plastered to their faces. There they are on a ski vacation, beaming in front of a dramatic, snow-covered peak. Molly stares at the photo, hit with the reality of how much has changed. The Jake she used to know had never been on skis.
A third picture catches Molly’s eye. It’s a black-and-white image of a young Sabrina—age ten or eleven, by the looks of it—standing beside a chicly dressed woman with a dark bob.
They’re on what appears to be a terrace of some sort, and Sabrina’s arms are wrapped around the woman’s middle in a big bear hug, their smiles broad. Could it be Sabrina’s mother? Molly doubts it. What little Sabrina has shared of her mother makes it clear that theirs has never been a loving relationship. And whatever is happening in this picture, it was obviously a moment of genuine love.
Curious, Molly picks up the photo and examines it more closely. Unlike the others on the table, the frame isn’t fancy. It’s a four-by-six made of cheap plastic, the kind that doubles as a sign holder. Molly flips the frame around and sees the small, handwritten inscription on the back of the picture: Sisi and Lenore, June 2001.
The words are written in faded pencil—barely legible, but there. An icy sliver of dread slinks itself behind Molly’s sternum. Lenore. It’s not a common name, and she knows exactly where she’s heard it before.
She hears Sabrina bounding down the stairs, and rushes to replace the picture on the side table.
“Sorry about that.” Sabrina smiles, sounding cheerier as she slings a different leather purse over her sculpted shoulder, this one butter yellow with an intricate weave. “My wallet wasn’t in the bag I thought it was. But I found it. Ready?” She skips out the front door, Molly numb and speechless in her wake.
“Fuck, it’s hot.” Sabrina climbs into her Range Rover. She starts the engine and rolls down the window. “I’m glad you stopped by. We’ll definitely see you on the twentieth for Stella’s party—it’s a good thing we’ll be back in time. Let me know what I can bring.”
Molly nods absently, forcing a stiff smile and a wave goodbye. As she gets into her own car, she is shaking, her hands sweaty and trembling as she turns the keys in the ignition.
[email protected]. She will never forget, as long as she lives, the name of the person who emailed her the photo of Jake cheating in West Palm Beach all those years ago. More than Maxine, that photo was the catalyst for her trust issues with Jake, the issues that eventually caused their foundation to crumble. Lenore Smith must be Sabrina. Sabrina must be the one who set Jake up. Sabrina—Sisi—must have sent Molly that picture to drive her away from Jake.
The world freezes on its axis. Molly feels the presence of something toxic, like poison—ominous, looming. She is so distracted she forgets she’s supposed to pick Stella up at Becky’s. Instead, she drives straight home, runs upstairs to her bedroom, and lies facedown on the duvet, questioning every decision she’s made since that email from Lenore Smith landed in her inbox nearly nine years earlier.
At some point, her phone rings. Stella, she thinks, lunging for it.
“Hi, Molly, it’s Lisa Ricci.” The doctor’s familiar voice sends a searing jolt to the base of Molly’s spine. Her pulse quickens. This morning’s blood test. The results. How could she have forgotten?
“Molly?” Dr. Ricci continues. “I have some very good news to share with you and Hunter. Congratulations. You’re pregnant.”
Chapter Thirty-four
Jake
2016–2021
Jake arrived back from Europe on a gray, slushy Sunday in March. He wasn’t completely surprised to find that Molly wasn’t home—she’d made it clear on the phone two months earlier that she needed space from their relationship, and they’d hardly talked since. But he wasn’t prepared for the sight of the apartment when he walked through the door.
There was no sign of Molly anywhere. Every trace of her had vanished. All her books, her framed Warhol prints that had lived above the flat-screen, the stack of New Yorkers she’d kept in an old milk crate beside the couch. Her blender. Her mugs. Her toiletries. Her entire dresser was missing, her portion of their small closet cleared out. Molly was gone. Jake understood, with a clarity that immobilized him—that drilled straight into his heart—that she’d left him.