Still, I knew that Skye and Max were at the same birthday party in November because from my anonymous handle I watched Lexy Hill’s Instagram stories—@lexyblanehill posted incessantly—and decided it would be a perfect night to send Skye another chilling email from Max’s fake account. I had to keep that girl on her toes.
The first week of December, a couple of men showed up at the house and asked me a bunch of questions about Burke, and about his relationship with our late neighbor Georgina Lucas. I kept my voice level as I answered the questions, my tone passive.
A month or so later, on a frigid January day, I was, as usual, alone in the house. The money from Mrs. Lucas’s will was officially in my account; it had been for a few weeks. I put on my new Moncler parka and drove to the Chase branch a couple miles from my house, which had a recent FOR SALE sign staked in the front yard. At the bank, I approached the kind-faced teller and withdrew $2,000 from my account—the daily limit. A layer of fizz prickled my skin as I pocketed the white envelope filled with crisp bills and headed home.
It was the tenth day of my doing this, and I’d collected $20,000 in cash. A hefty sum, but a fraction of the two million that belonged to me. Two million dollars that, in one way or another, I’d earned.
I lay down on the king-size bed I now slept in alone. I took the $20,000—all of which I’d requested in twenties—and, because I could, sprinkled it around me and over me, let it fall like twirling snowflakes from the sky. I lay flat like a starfish, as if I could make snow angels out of the one thousand twenty-dollar bills that were finally mine. I closed my eyes and inhaled the sharp, chemical scent of money, peace washing over me like a warm bath. Hope tingled in the tips of my fingers.
If there was one thing Libby had been right about, it was that you’ve got to make your own future happen. I had finally claimed the one I’d always been meant to have.
The image of Burke’s face caught in my mind—those telltale dimples, brilliant blue eyes. I let it pass.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Skye
FEBRUARY 2020
The weekend before the plea hearing is scheduled, I’m home in Westport. I’ve just finished my first week at a new gig, an internship in social work at SCO Family of Services that I got through a referral of Kendall’s. The organization provides a range of services to children and families across New York City and Long Island, and on any given day, I could be shuttling between three different boroughs, with infants in the morning and teenagers in the afternoon. It’s strange to be an intern again, to be starting at the bottom, but already the work feels right. Much more so than book editing ever did, oddly enough. I’m realizing that the thing I liked most about working with Jan was the age group she wrote for, and the messages that she was trying to convey to them at a formative time in their lives. At SCO, I’m constantly reminded of how our childhood experiences shape us. I’ve started working on my application to the exploratory program at NYU’s Silver School of Social Work, an option for students who haven’t yet been admitted to the master’s program, but want to learn more. If accepted, I’ll start classes in the fall.
Winter has been long and lingering, but today is unseasonably warm, and I swear I can hear the faint chattering of birds. My father is putzing around and the boys are out with friends, so it’s just Nancy and me in the house. She suggests we go for a walk, which is perfect, because I’ve been needing to talk to her.
After lunch we head to Aspetuck, Westport’s local land trust, and Nancy and my dad’s favorite place for an easy hike. It’s overcast but the sun hangs behind thin clouds, and even though it’s still February, I can feel the promise of spring on the horizon.
We walk for a while, our boots crunching through an old, hardened layer of snow.
“Nance,” I say, after we’ve gone a little over a mile, “I want to tell you something.”
“Yeah?”
“I haven’t told my dad yet. I will. But I wanted to tell you first.”
“Okay. Should I be worried?”
We reach the top of a small hill, on the verge of entering the woods. I pause and turn to face my stepmother.
“I’m not going to testify against Burke in the criminal case. And I’m going to tell Davis I want to drop the civil suit altogether.” The decision has been cooped up inside me for weeks, marinating; it’s a relief and a terror at once to set the words loose.
Nancy says nothing. Silence permeates the woods.
“What do you mean, Skye?” she asks finally.
I look up at the bare treetops against the clouds, their branches swaying in the light wind. In a month or so they’ll start budding, and the forest will fill with green. Early spring—the hope, the burgeoning life of it—is my favorite time of year.
“What you told me a few months ago, about choosing love even when it’s the hardest choice?” I clip my gaze back to Nancy’s. “I haven’t forgotten that. And it’s what I have to do. It’s taken me a long time to come to this decision, but I just—ever since I saw Burke back in January, I’ve known. It might not work out—I mean, there’s a good chance it won’t—but if I don’t do this, if I don’t at least try to fight for the possibility of what we could have, I’ll never forgive myself. And I’ll always wonder.”
“Wow.” Nancy folds her arms across her chest, nodding slowly. After a few long beats, she smiles. “I think that is a difficult, and brave, and noble choice, Skye.”
“I mean, the last I heard from Davis, he said he was almost positive Burke could get locked up for seven years. Seven years. I can’t let that happen to Burke. He fucked up hugely, yes, but so much of this was Heather’s doing.” I shake my head.
“But, Skye—and I’m playing devil’s advocate here—are you sure letting Burke walk is something you even have the power to do? I know it’s in your control to drop the civil suit, but the state is charging him with grand larceny. That’s a criminal charge.”
“I know. But it’s also contingent on my testimony. Burke had access to our joint checking account. If I don’t testify, there’s no way to prove Burke is guilty.”
Nancy nods. “I see you’ve thought this through. He would still get time for bigamy, then?”
“I don’t know.” I stuff my hands inside the pockets of my jacket. “Davis says it isn’t a serious offense, so maybe not. But regardless … I know he’s not innocent, Nancy.”
“No, he’s certainly not.” She swallows. “But I understand where your head is in all this. And your heart. For what it’s worth, I’m exceptionally proud of you.”
“Thanks, Nance. For saying that, and for understanding. I hoped you would. I’m going to need someone on my side because Davis is going to hate me. So is Frank, the state prosecutor. They aren’t going to get it, and neither is my dad.”
“I’ll talk to your dad.” Her tone is decisive and warm, and I feel a weight fall from my shoulders.
“Also, I—I didn’t tell you this, but a few weeks ago I drove up to New Haven and had coffee with Heather.”