Kira took a deep breath. “Okay, so, this is crazy, but I’ve been a little freaked out because”—another deep breath—“I sort of know Isabel’s husband. That’s why I wanted to leave her house so quickly the other day, when we found out about her disappearing. I recognized him. And I didn’t want him to recognize me.” She finally looked up and met my eyes.
“What? Are you serious? How do you know him?” I leaned closer to her, practically salivating at this revelation.
“We went to high school together. On Cape Cod.” She blinked hard. “I had no idea that he was Isabel’s husband until we saw him that day at their house, after she disappeared. I mean, she’d only ever mentioned him by his first name, which I thought nothing of. But of course when I got home that day after we found out she was missing, I googled them, to check if it was really him, and sure enough, it was. I felt so weird bringing it up to you guys. Like it wouldn’t seem believable that I hadn’t realized she was married to someone I knew. And then when I didn’t mention it immediately, I felt like I shouldn’t mention it at all. It’s not like I’m friends with him. We hadn’t seen each other in a long time.”
“That’s definitely a weird coincidence,” I said carefully, processing, “but . . . you didn’t do anything wrong by knowing him. I’m sure Isabel didn’t make the connection, either. And you hadn’t seen him since high school—that’s like forever.” I wasn’t sure why having gone to high school with him was something she felt like she had to hide.
“Well, knowing him isn’t the whole problem.” She took another deep breath and another long sip of wine. Her glass was already almost empty. “I hadn’t seen him since high school . . . until about four years ago. It was when I still lived in Boston. I ran into him at a bar. I saw him but didn’t even plan on saying hi—I didn’t think he’d remember me. But eventually he came up and said I looked familiar, which surprised me, because I was sure he’d never noticed me in high school. He was a total hotshot jock, and I, on the other hand, was very obsessed with my school’s literary magazine—literally worked on that thing every night and weekend like I was the editor of the Times or something—and even though we were in the same year, I don’t think we had a conversation the entire four years of high school.
“Anyway, I was out with some work friends when I saw him. I had just accepted a new job in New York, so this was kind of a send-off for me. Eventually, it got really late and my friends left, but Connor and I were kind of making eyes at each other, or I thought so, anyway, so I stayed. As soon as they left, he was all over me—buying me drinks, flirting. We were drinking whiskey, which he kept ordering. I should never, ever drink whiskey. Seriously. If you ever see me holding a whiskey, send me home immediately.” She laughed a little, but sadly. “The thing is that in high school, I was always kind of that funny, quirky girl that guys were friends with but never dated. I read, like, five books a week instead of going to parties. Hence why I got into publishing, I guess. And Connor was—well, everyone knew Connor. He was six foot three with a five-o’clock shadow when we were, like, thirteen. He was that guy. The guy that never got turned down, that could be with anyone he wanted to be with. Even the senior girls liked him when we were freshmen. He never would have looked at me twice in high school. But I guess, maybe I looked good on this night that I ran into him—my braces were finally off, at least—and we were buzzed. I was way more than buzzed, actually. And I was enjoying the way he was looking at me. At first. You know how it is, when you see someone from high school and it kind of transports you back. Suddenly, I was seventeen-year-old Kira, relishing the attention from the hottest guy in school. I guess I was having a She’s All That moment or something. So pathetic. Anyway, one thing led to another, and . . .”
“And what?”
“You need me to say it, Jenn? I feel so weird even telling you this. We’re close, sure, but the fact is that we really haven’t known each other that long. And I’m telling you that I had sex with the husband of our missing friend. While they were married.” She looked at me wide eyed, waiting for me to say something.
Now I was the one guzzling my wine, trying to modulate the shocked expression on my face. “Did you know he was married, when you—”
“Of course not.” She looked hurt, and I immediately regretted my question. “I didn’t ask, though. I wish I had. But who gets married that young? I just assumed he was single. He seemed very single.”