Andie chews her bottom lip. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Skye.”
“I don’t care.” I’m so livid I’m trembling.
“Fine.” She swallows. “But you’re not staying there. Tell him to pack his shit and be out of your apartment by the morning. And then you come right back here.”
“Okay.”
“Tell me you swear.”
I’m suddenly overcome with déjà vu; Andie’s commanding tone is the same as it was that day in seventh grade shortly after Mom died, the afternoon she marched into my room and told me to get out of bed.
“I swear,” I tell her. “I’ll come right back.”
I grab my bag and jacket from the living room couch and head toward the door. I want to scream at the compulsion that stops me in my tracks on the way out of the apartment. There’s a chance you’ll wake up from this nightmare, Skye, but only if you knock on wood.
I do my knocks in a blur of misery, knowing it won’t change a thing but, as always, unable to resist the urge boiling over inside me. I get to every wooden object in Andie’s living room, then finally the door, to leave the apartment. I rush down the stairs and out of Andie’s building toward the open air, where there’s nothing left to knock. Outside is where I’m usually free; today, everywhere is a prison. The sky is bright and piercing blue, and maybe my mind is up there somewhere, tangled in the atmosphere with the rest of the unknown.
I hail a cab to take me back to the West Village. The ride is too short and I don’t have enough time to think about what I’m going to say. All I can feel is an unthinkable rage leaching into my bones as I pay the cabbie on West Eleventh Street, imagining Burke in the apartment. A stranger to me now.
I get out of the taxi and go upstairs.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Burke
OCTOBER 2019—ONE DAY WITHOUT SKYE
Skye is gone.
It’s been over twenty-four hours and I’m in a full-blown panic. I haven’t seen her since ten o’clock yesterday morning when I stepped out to run some errands. She was still sleeping when I left the apartment—we got back from our honeymoon in Italy late Saturday night, and I knew she was exhausted. Unlike me, Skye can never sleep on airplanes. So I left her a note, and off I went.
I did run errands—I was out of shaving cream—but I also needed to walk. Walking is when I do my best thinking, and so much has been on my mind.
When I got back to the apartment around noon, Skye wasn’t there. I figured she’d gone for a jog or out to get breakfast, but when she didn’t come back by two and I couldn’t get her on the phone, I started to worry. Now it’s one in the afternoon on Monday and she still isn’t here, and I’m completely losing my mind. I mean, she’s my wife. I’ve called and texted her countless times, but nothing. I’ve texted her friends; Lexy, Isabel, and Kendall all responded that they hadn’t heard from her. But Andie hasn’t responded, and she didn’t pick up when I called, either.
This gives me a strange sense of hope that Skye and Andie are together. That, at least, Skye is okay, and perhaps, for some bizarre reason, neither of them have their phones. It’s the only reason I haven’t called Mr. Starling—it doesn’t exactly look great to call your new bride’s father two weeks after the wedding asking if he’s seen her—but if I don’t hear from Skye in the next few hours, I will.
Her laptop is sitting on her desk and I stab at the keys—there’s no password—as the machine comes to life. The screen is open to iCloud Photos, to the shared album that Andie started after the wedding. Skye was a perfect bride—beautiful and collected—and I’m pondering which ones to have printed as a surprise for her, when I hear the sound of keys jangling in the lock. I jump to my feet, drenched with a wave of relief.
“Where have you been?” I ask as she walks through the door.
But the second I see her eyes—cold and unfamiliar—I know something is wrong.
Skye drops her bag on the floor. She holds out her phone so that the screen faces me.
“What the fuck is this, Burke?”
“What the fuck is what, Goose?” It’s such a relief to see her, to know that she’s safe. All I want to do is wrap my arms around her, pull her close. My wife. The woman who has, in such a short amount of time, truly become my counterpart.
“Don’t you dare call me that,” she spits, her gaze icy. “Tell me what the fuck this is.”
I take the phone from her grasp, swallowing the lump in my throat. What I’m most afraid of happening cannot be happening. Can it?
Carefully, I look down at the screen. It’s open to an email, one from me to an address I don’t recognize. I read the first few lines:
From: [email protected]
Date: Oct 6, 2019, 8:02 AM
Subject: （no subject）
Andy,
Got your text, sorry I’m just getting back to you now. Skye and I have been on our honeymoon and just got back last night, so I haven’t had much time to myself the past couple of weeks.…
My heart drops into my lap. Instantly, I know I didn’t write or send the email. My head spins violently, an intersection of questions crashing together.
I finish reading the message, a chill in the base of my spine. I read it through a second time, the words blurring together.
I blink to make sure I’m not dreaming.
Skye is watching me, her chocolate eyes panicked and wide—a window into the confusion and fury and sheer horror blowing through her mind.
I can hardly breathe. I force a few choppy inhales, willing myself to think rationally. What I know, and what whoever is trying to frame me knows, is that the message was meant to be sent to Andy Raymond, my old friend from Langs Valley who I paid to be in the wedding. Whoever impersonated me has crafted it to look like an accident on my part, like I made the mistake of sending the email to Skye’s best friend, Andie Roussos, instead of my friend Andy Raymond.
“Burke.” Skye’s voice is shriller than I’ve ever heard it, and I suddenly remember that she’s still staring at me, waiting. “What the fuck is this?”
I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out. How is this happening? What is happening? My mind is racing too fast; I can’t keep up with the thoughts diving in and out. Did Andy Raymond do this? Or was it one of the other “groomsmen” I hired from Langs Valley? Does someone want money? Does someone have an old beef with me? Is this payback for some idiotic crime I committed when I was obliterated out of my mind in high school?
Then I remember the attachment “I” referenced near the end of the email.
I think the letters （attached） will tell you everything you want to know.
I look down at Skye’s phone, still in my hand. My fingers quiver as I open the file, titled “BM Diary.” A Word document fills the screen.
September 8, 2018
Dear Dr. K,
Her hair is yellow and thick, nothing like my wife’s. Isn’t that awful, that when I first notice an attractive woman, I instantly compare her to my wife? I used to think I was a good person, the kind of man who wouldn’t be struck dumb by the tumble of blond hair down a creamy, anonymous back.