A few weeks later I received a text from Burke, a photo of my sapphire-and-diamond ring on Skye’s finger accompanied by the words Engaged. Opening joint account ASAP. Stay tuned.
I had to run to the bathroom and hurl at the image, but afterward I felt okay. Things were on track. Burke would find his way back to me. And Skye would get what was coming to her.
Payments from Burke started coming in in April, $3,500 every two weeks, the sight of each cash deposit quickening the current of my blood.
Despite that the Big Plan was moving forward, I couldn’t shake my resentment of Skye. I detested her, the woman who’d stolen my husband’s affection, the same woman whose tantrum over a beesting had resulted in Gus’s death almost thirty years earlier. The urge to cause her pain was thick and heavy inside me, all-encompassing.
And if anyone was in a position to maximize her suffering, to twist the knife in deep, it was me. I’d spent the better part of Skye’s life watching her from afar, studying her every move with analytical obsession. I remembered the name Max LaPointe from her tagged Facebook pictures all those years ago; for some reason I couldn’t shake the mystery of what had happened between them.
That’s why, on a quiet Tuesday near the end of March, from the midst of my own, obsessive loathing, I logged in to Julia Miller’s Facebook and crafted a message to Max LaPointe, pretending to be a potential employer vetting Skye for a tutoring position. I never knew what had happened between them, only that it clearly didn’t work out.
I wasn’t fully expecting Max to reply, but he did, and after only a couple of hours.
Sure, I know that bitch. She told insane lies about me that got me kicked out of grad school. Starling belongs in an institution.
I wrote the first email from “Max” to Skye later that night, half a bottle of red deep.
A little birdie tells me you’re engaged. That poor, poor guy.
I figured that ought to give her a good scare. Maybe it would even make her OCD flare up, in front of Burke, I hoped. Soon enough my husband would wake up from his trance and remember that Skye was a mental patient, not the kind of girl he could ever actually love.
As promised, Burke came home the third weekend in May for Hope’s college graduation. He seemed tense, but reasonably happy. The visit was quick, then he was gone again.
Throughout the summer Burke didn’t provide much information about the wedding; I only knew it was scheduled for September 21 on Nantucket, and that Burke’s plan was to skip out several hours before the ceremony, while everyone was getting ready and was distracted. He would aim for a midmorning ferry to Hyannis, where I’d be waiting to pick him up. From there we’d drive home to Amity, drop the car—Maggie would need it—grab our suitcases, and cab to Bradley International. I’d already charged two one-way tickets to the Maldives on the Visa. Airfare from Hartford to the island of Hulhulé was exorbitant, but chump change in relation to the two million dollars that would soon be ours. As for that piece, on the way to the airport Burke would use his phone to transfer money out of his joint account with Skye and into a new account he’d set up offshore. Ideally we’d take more than two million, but that’s the maximum amount you can send electronically, and even then there are multiple added layers of security. Burke would have no trouble answering his own security questions, so the transfer would be seamless. The Starlings would be so preoccupied and freaked out about the missing groom, they wouldn’t notice the transaction until Burke and I were checked into the Four Seasons at Kuda Huraa.
I figured it would be nice for Burke and me to have a quiet moment to reconnect and recharge after the commotion of the past year, and the Maldives had been on my bucket list for ages, ever since I read a feature on them in Travel + Leisure. In the mindless hours I spent behind the Uber wheel, I would dream of the glittering turquoise ocean, white-sand beaches, and exotic web of sandbars and lagoons. And a private beach bungalow at the Four Seasons would be exquisite, a literal dream come true for us. After all of his hard work, Burke deserved a lavish taste of the luxurious lifestyle that real money allowed.
The Maldives would only be temporary; of all the countries without extradition, I didn’t exactly imagine us settling somewhere quite so remote. And two million dollars wouldn’t make us rich enough to stay at the Four Seasons indefinitely—not even close. We’d have to be strategic with our fortune, make smart investments so that it accumulated and lasted.
Regardless, we’d have to wait and see how things unfolded back in the States before putting down roots anywhere. Once we had a better idea of whether the Starlings were going to press charges—I was convinced there was a significant possibility that they’d be too humiliated to make the situation public—we’d be able to determine our next move, something that made sense for the kids. After all, we were doing this for their benefit, too.
Maggie still had another year of high school, which worried me a bit, but Hope had started a job at a communications firm in New Haven and was living at home, which brought me some peace of mind. She’d be there for her little sister while Burke and I figured out what to do.
The summer crawled by as I waited for the wedding to arrive. Though Hope technically lived at home, she spent most nights at her boyfriend Trevor’s apartment downtown, claiming it was more convenient being closer to her office. I dragged Maggie on a few college visits, but the bulk of the summer she spent at her waitressing job or out with her friends when she wasn’t working. The days alone in the house with an estranged husband continued to be long and dull. To make matters even more unbearable, Mrs. Lucas’s cancer had come back with a vengeance, and this time it was terminal—the doctors were giving her six months to a year, tops. I’d been shaken when I’d heard the news. Sweet and sassy Mrs. Lucas, with the giddy way she laughed after half a glass of Cabernet and her love for old Audrey Hepburn movies, was the closest friend I had. And she was dying. I’d kept up my biweekly visits next door, but with her heavy medication and the constant presence of the nurses, spending time with Mrs. Lucas wasn’t the same.
September finally came, the temperature cooling slightly and the edges of the leaves just beginning to turn. I realized, with strange indifference, that I wouldn’t be here for the real blaze of fall, that I might never see autumn in New England again.
Burke and I hardly communicated the week leading up to the wedding, but I imagined he was swamped with last-minute details and, knowing him, emotionally drained. The morning of September 20 I sent him a text: All good for tomorrow? I’ll be in Hyannis by eleven-thirty.
I waited all day and night for his response, which never came. I knew the rehearsal dinner would be followed by a welcome party, so perhaps the evening would run late. I drank three-quarters of a bottle of Malbec to calm my nerves and turned out the light at eleven, willing myself to get some sleep. But my mind wouldn’t rest. I tossed and turned through the night, checking my phone every five minutes like a teenager, aching for a reply text from Burke.
I finally drifted off late, but I woke early, exhaustion burning my eyelids. Burke still hadn’t replied, so I sent him a follow-up text: Let me know … we’re almost to the finish line.