Hope was at Trevor’s and Maggie still asleep when I got in the car at eight to head to Hyannis. I didn’t leave a note; I figured if the girls weren’t home when we dropped off the car later that day, I’d text them saying that Dad had surprised me with a last-minute vacation, and that we’d call when we got there.
Burke will text me when he wakes up, I told myself as I sped north on I-95. The day was pristine, the air warm but not humid and the sky a rich, cloudless blue. Poor Skye. What a beautiful day for your wedding not to happen.
Traffic was minimal and I reached the ferry terminal in Hyannis just before eleven. Burke still hadn’t texted, and it suddenly occurred to me that he might have poor cell service on the island. I decided to call him, and his phone didn’t even ring before going to voice mail. Bingo—there was no service. I’d worked myself into a frenzy for absolutely no reason. Surely Burke was en route to the ferry, if not already on one. Now I just had to wait.
I sat in the car all day, squinting at the passengers disembarking each boat. But none of them were Burke, and except for a call from Hope, venting about a fight she’d had with Trevor, my phone remained silent. My calls to Burke continued to go straight to voice mail.
I knew from stalking Burke and Skye’s wedding website— www.burkeisskyehigh.com, are you fucking kidding me?—that the ceremony was scheduled for four. When four o’clock came and went, panic began to creep back into my bones. By the time the sun went down, I was in a state of pure, wrenching anxiety. I debated taking the ferry over to Nantucket myself, to find out what the hell was happening. Perhaps Burke had been caught making a run for it and was in trouble. But I couldn’t bring myself to go to Nantucket. If there was a problem, and if Peter Starling saw me and recognized me, that could make things even worse.
The wheels inside my head spun rapidly, and when I looked at the clock, it was almost eleven. I’d been sitting in the parking lot of the terminal for twelve hours, and we’d already missed our flight to the Maldives. I googled the ferry schedule on my phone; the last boat of the evening had arrived in Hyannis at a quarter past ten. My stomach sank, a fresh bout of nerves trembling through me. I debated finding a nearby motel—somewhere to go to rest and think—when suddenly my cell pinged. Finally—a text from Burke.
My phone has been off all day. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t go through with it, and I’m not coming home to you. I married Skye. I love her, and I’m happy. You know it was over for us a long time ago. We’ll figure out a way to pay for Maggie’s college. I’ll always love and support you and the kids. I hope you know that.
The world tipped.
I felt as though I were witnessing Gus drown all over again, sputtering for air against the heavy quell of gravity while I stood knee-deep near the shore, helpless.
Though my entire body was numb with shock, I was conscious that the short text I’d just read had changed everything. My life would never be the same, I knew as I switched to autopilot, starting the engine and putting the car in drive. Barreling south through the night, back the way I’d come, a new kind of wrath leached into my consciousness, wrapping itself around every sensation inside me.
It all boiled down to a single thought, primal and lucid.
No.
The word hammered through me—an echo, a heartbeat.
No. Burke wasn’t going to get away with this. I would do every last thing in my power—whatever it took—to make sure of it.
Chapter Fifty
Skye
FEBRUARY 2020
Heather answered my Facebook message promptly, as I knew she would.
I’m home in Westport for the weekend—I’m there a lot these days—and I’ve brought Lexy with me. I filled Lex and Iz in on everything over Christmas, and Lexy has insisted on accompanying me today. My dad doesn’t ask any questions when I tell him we need to borrow the car to run some errands, and we’re heading north on I-95 just after breakfast.
It snowed a few days ago and the highway is lined with gray slush, but the sky is a sharp, relentless blue. There’s hardly any traffic, and we reach New Haven in just under an hour. I pull into the coffee shop ten minutes before our scheduled meeting time.
“Let me come inside,” Lexy pleads from the passenger seat. “I’ll just sit in the corner at my own table, I promise I won’t say anything. You just—you can’t be alone with her, Skye. She’s a sociopath. She could be dangerous.”
I shake my head. “Lex, it’s a coffee shop. It’s not like she’s going to pull out a knife and stab me. Just stay here, keep the engine running. I’ll text if something comes up, but I need to do this by myself.”
“Okay.” Lexy reaches across the center console and squeezes my hand. “I understand. Proud of you.”
“I love you for being here.”
I take a deep breath and get out of the car. I’m terrified, even though I know what I have to do. I’ve known it since last month, since my meeting with Burke at the Oyster Bar, where I felt it—some complex but enduring semblance of love—still between us.
Heather is early, too. I spot her instantly and feel fleetingly creepy, the way you do when you recognize someone from the person’s social media. She’s sitting at a table by the window, her hair pulled back. I can see the peppered gray roots wiggling their way into the bleached blond. Lines are etched into her forehead and around her mouth, but she’s undeniably pretty, with her high cheekbones and big green eyes. She wears an oversize tomato-red sweater and black leggings with quilted boots. When she sees me, there’s a flash of disgust in her expression.
“Do you want to order something?” She glances down at the steaming mug of black coffee in front of her. Her voice has a crisp delivery I wasn’t expecting.
“No thanks,” I say, though I’m craving caffeine. I just want to get this over with. I slide into the seat across from hers. My heart feels tight inside my chest, as if it were a towel being wrung out. The cafe is busy and most of the other tables are occupied, which gives me a vague sense of security.
“I’m surprised you agreed to meet me.” I say this even though it’s not true. In my Facebook message I’d written that I had some important information to disclose, off the record, regarding Burke’s plea deal. I said a settlement for Heather was possible, given the emotional toil this whole ordeal had inevitably caused her. In other words, I’d used money as bait, knowing Heather would take it.
She shrugs. Even through her thick sweater I can detect the boniness of her shoulders. She’s thin in the natural, waiflike way my mom was.
“Burke’s a manipulative scumbag,” Heather says evenly. “I’m sorry for all he put you through. I’m sorry for both of us.”
“I don’t think you’re sorry, Heather.” I make every effort to keep my voice even, though I’m flailing inside.
“Excuse me?” She tilts her head, and I notice the faint crust of mascara underneath her eyes.
“In fact, I know you’re not sorry.” I fold my hands across the table, my heart thrashing behind my rib cage. “I know you helped Burke. I know you were in on everything. How did you think I wouldn’t find out that you worked for my mother? That you resented her and blamed her for your brother’s death?”