This was the ultimate catalyst for Burke, and he applied for work like a madman. Given his felony, I knew his chances of getting hired by a company in the financial sector were slim, but I got nervous when he started applying for positions in other industries, such as marketing and nonprofits.
One morning in July, when Burke hopped in the shower and left his laptop open on the bed, I double-clicked the file for his 2018 resume and took matters into my own hands. I deleted Credit Suisse from his work experience and changed his college GPA from a 3.9 to a 1.9. He didn’t get any interviews for the rest of the summer.
On September 1, I didn’t even have to show Burke the balance in our bank account or on our credit card statements. He already knew our finances had never been direr, and that his three months were up. A look of unprecedented fear swept over my husband’s face as he conceded.
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]?”