Chapter 30

Laura

September

I'm running late, as always. I've left work early for Ella's soccer game, but I need to stop by Theo's house to check on him first. He hasn't been to work for two weeks, and he hasn't been answering my texts. I have to talk to him about the money that's building up in my account. I need Cody's sister's bank details so I can transfer it to her.

I call Mel.

"Hey, are you free?" I ask. "Can you go to Ella's soccer game for a bit? I'm running late. If someone isn't there, she'll do The Hump."

Mel cracks up. "The Hump" is this thing Ella does where she rages, then sulks, then goes borderline hysterical about something. Pete says he thinks one day her head will start spinning around and we'll have to call a priest.

"Just think what she'll be like when she's a teenager!" Mel says.

"God help us all!" I joke.

Alice has always been so quiet. She's watchful. The kind of girl who reads a room like a map, who spends a lot of time in her head, picking away at her thoughts like a knot she wants to unravel. Not Ella. She stands out, makes noise, gets attention.

"No problem," Mel says. "I'll bring Finn, and we'll have a picnic."

"You're a legend. Thanks, Mel."

I hang up and plug the address I found in our company database earlier today into Google Maps and head to Theo's. I pull up in front of a small, run-down cottage situated on the main street.

I get out and stare up the road. The shop where my art studio was is just two blocks away. Without really thinking about it, my feet start moving in that direction.

It's still warm outside, although most of the tourists have left by this time of year. The air is ripe with the scent of freshly baked bread, the bakery half a block away. When I reach the vacant shop where my art studio used to be, I stop. It's just a barren, black hole with empty walls, broken shelves, crumbling plasterboard now. No paint-splattered tarps. No canvases hung with pride.

I run my fingertips over the F OR R ENT sign in the window. Ten years ago, when I first opened my art studio, the world seemed full of possibilities. Now it feels like a series of dead ends and bad choices. Sometimes I wish I could just start over.

I think of what Pete said to me the day I walked out of here that final time.

No matter what happens, I'm here. I've got you.

I take a deep breath. I have a consistent paycheck. We've paid off most of our bills. We're almost financially free. Jack's right about one thing, at least. I can't be mad about a choice I made.

I turn my back on the empty shop and return to Theo's. The September sun beats down on my scalp, dust shimmering in the still, hot air. As I pass my minivan, I notice something on the dashboard. It's a piece of paper.

My pulse kicks. What the hell?

The paper isn't on my windshield. It's actually inside my car.

I wrench the door open—did I leave it unlocked?—and snatch the note. On it there's a crude drawing of a hangman with a message written in a glittery gold pen: Traitors gonna swing, bitch.

I'm shaking, I realize. I never leave the car unlocked. How the hell did they get in?

I should tell Pete. Or the police. But it could lead them back to Jack's company, to what I've done. I can't risk that.

I shove it deep into my pocket. Later I will tear it into tiny pieces and flush it down the toilet.

I cross the street and knock on Theo's door, calling his name. There's no answer. I cup my palm around my eyes, trying to peer inside, but the sun is too strong.

"Theo?"

Nothing.

I push through the weeds at the side of the house. The back door wrenches open with a squeal.

"What are you doing here?" Theo stands in the shadows of the house, arms over his chest.

"I ..." I'm thrown by how angry he seems. "I was worried about you."

"I've had COVID."

I take a step closer. Even from here, Theo looks wiped out, his face haggard and grim. For the first time, I really see how much he's aged since college. I wonder if he ever looks at me and thinks the same.

"I need Cody's sister's account details."

Theo steps into the light, and I see one of his eyes is black, dried blood crusted around swollen purple skin. There are abrasions and dark bruises on his arms, a bandage wrapped around his left hand.

I gasp. "Theo, what happened?"

"It's nothing." He looks at his hand. "I ... fell down the stairs."

"You fell down the stairs?"

"Yeah. COVID messed with me. I fainted and fell. Scuffed myself up pretty bad."

"Wow. Sounds like a rough few weeks."

"Yeah. But bad news. I caught up with Cody's sister, and she's worried about any money being transferred and leaving a paper trail. If she's ever audited she'd have to pay taxes on it, so she said thanks but no thanks."

"What? That's ridiculous!" I'm stunned. Who turns down money?

"Yeah."

"Well, what about if we just give her cash? Nobody can track cash."

"That's true." He looks thoughtful. "Give me a few days to organize it, okay?"

"Sure."

"You're a good person, Laura O'Brien."

A rush of warmth unspools over me. I don't even correct him when he uses my maiden name. He steps closer to me, the purple skin under his eye glistening in the harsh sun.

"That looks sore." I reach up to touch his cheek.

"Laura." Theo captures my hand, brings it to his lips. A shiver runs down my spine at the intensity in his eyes.

There's a rustle behind me, something moving in the bushes. I glance over my shoulder, my skin prickling in the warm afternoon sun. But there's no one there.

"Come inside."

I close my eyes, and all of it rushes into the black space that's been eating at me. The failure of my art studio. How sad I've felt by its loss. How hard it is being someone you're not, accepting handouts from a brother you barely know anymore.

I nod and follow Theo through the door. He pulls it shut behind him. We stare at each other, the shadows pooling in the dips and curves of our bodies. Suddenly, his lips are on mine, my jaw, my neck, his breath in my ear. We are a tangle of flesh, our hands grasping at each other, thrusting under clothes to bare skin.

And then I hear Pete's voice in my mind. No matter what happens, I'm here. I've got you.

"I can't." I love my husband. What am I doing? "I've gotta ... I'm sorry ..."

I run out of the house, pushing through the bushes and hurrying to my car. But as I start the engine, I look back. And that's when it hits me.

Theo's house doesn't have stairs.

I get all the way to Ella's game, cheering her on, sitting between Pete and Mel on the bleachers, when a thought occurs to me. Something Mel said at brunch a few days ago. She'd mentioned seeing Theo in town, reminiscing about what a creep he was, how he'd been responsible for Cody Leily's overdose when we were in college.

Thank goodness Cody was all right, she'd said.

I remember being surprised. I wouldn't call being in a minimally conscious state okay at all.

Unless he wasn't.

I tell Pete I'm going to the bathroom. The public toilets smell of ripe, hot urine, poop smeared across the cubicle I stand in. Which is fitting, considering what I read when I google Cody Leily's name.

Cody Leily is the owner of an indie production company in Boston, Leily's Records. There's a small photo of him on the About page. It's been over twenty years, but I recognize him instantly. The ratlike features, the freckles, the gap between his front teeth.

Cody Leily isn't ill. Theo never needed money for a care home.

The realization is intense and brutal.

All this time, Theo's been feeding me a bunch of bullshit.