“I think it went pretty well,” Mark says, leaning against the shower door. “I mean, as well as can be expected. He may not be the most polished guy, but he’s super connected to law enforcement in Montgomery County, and I think he’ll be a real asset in sorting all this out.”
“Umm, I should hope so.”
“Listen, about the flirting thing. I shouldn’t have said that.”
I look at him in the mirror, waiting to see if there’s more to this anemic apology. But he doesn’t add anything else. I know I should tell him about Paul Adamson. I’ve told the lawyer. I’ve told Leah. So why can’t I tell my own husband? Because I’m afraid of his reaction, I realize, and I’m kind of pissed at him. He can barely handle that I flirted a little at a party. What would he say if he knew that I had slept with my teacher, my married teacher, in high school? I decide to let the tiniest drip of truth out. A test.
“There’s this guy, kind of an ex, from high school?” I turn around to face him. “I think there’s a chance he may be involved.”
“Why do you think that?” Mark crosses his arms over his chest.
Not a good sign. But I plow ahead. “The Overton T-shirt—”
“Which you ordered.”
“I didn’t order it, Mark.”
“I found the box, Allie.”
“You know what? Forget it.” I turn back to the mirror and open the medicine cabinet, slamming around expensive little glass bottles with satisfaction.
“Do you know you drank more than half a bottle of wine tonight?”
I spin around. “And? The police searched our house, Mark. I think if there was ever a time to drink, tonight was the night.”
“I think you have a problem, Allie. A drinking problem.”
“Is that right?” I stomp over to the shower and turn the water on. “I’d like to take a shower now. Please leave.”
He stares at me, working his jaw.
I usually try so hard to keep him happy, to make peace, but tonight I just don’t have it in me. “Now.”
“This is why I think we ought to talk about the place Caitlin mentioned. The one outside Baltimore.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, your rehab-that’s-not-really-a-rehab? No thank you.” I open the door and gesture for him to leave. He walks through, and I slam it shut.
A twinge of sadness runs through me, but only a twinge.
Mostly I am filled with anger.
33
Saturdays are often workdays for photographers, and despite what is going on in my personal life, I can’t afford Mike thinking I’m not up to the job. I’m still on probation, after all.
I spend the day with back-to-back shoots—the first at Dumbarton Oaks, a historic estate in Georgetown—and the second on the cobbled pathways along the C&O Canal. By the time I am finished and get home, it’s dark. Mark is parked in front of the TV watching the Nationals, studiously ignoring me, and Cole’s glued to some animated film.
I don’t disturb either of them. I am exhausted, mentally and physically. I don’t have the energy to fight with Mark or the patience to nurture Cole tonight. I scrounge dinner—yogurt and a banana—take a quick shower, and fall asleep.
The next morning, I wake with a confirmation text from Madeline that she can meet me. Mark begrudgingly agrees to “watch Cole” even though I hate the way he says it. As if I am the default parent and he is doing me a favor by hanging out with his own kid.
I leave them still in their pajamas and, following the prompts from my phone, drive toward the coffee shop in Alexandria that Madeline suggested. Normally, on a Sunday morning, I would be driving up to meet Sharon. But I was just there on Friday, so I’m letting myself off the hook.
As I cross the Potomac into Virginia, I think of when we first told Mark’s family we were moving back to D.C. Caitlin and her husband suggested we look for a house in Northern Virginia, and we acted like we might consider it. But in private, we agreed that putting a river between me and his sister was not such a bad idea.
I smile at the memory. It was only a few months ago, but it seems like ages. I thought adjusting to a new neighborhood and making new friends were problems. Now I wish that were all I was dealing with.
Soon my car is bumping along the cobbled streets of Old Town Alexandria. This is my first time here, and under other circumstances, I would allow myself to enjoy the quaint old buildings that now house shops and restaurants. Instead, I am walking briskly along a brick sidewalk buckling with age, looking for Compass Coffee. The shop is part of a local chain founded by two former Marines. There’s one about a mile from my house, and just spotting the familiar orange-and-blue logo feels reassuring.
I order an espresso at the front counter, and once it is in my hand, I start toward the back, looking for a lone woman about my age. In the back corner, sitting at a table below a shelf of board games, is a woman in a navy fleece and mom jeans, staring intently at her phone—Madeline.
Gone is the severe blunt cut from high school that stopped at her chin and took hours of straightening each morning. She’s wearing her dark hair naturally, cut short. But her square jaw and large, intense dark eyes are unmistakable.
I stare, fascinated by the ways she has changed and the ways in which she has not. It’s silly. It’s been sixteen years. Did I expect she would still have the same hairstyle and those plastic tortoiseshell glasses?
I approach with a smile that I hope is friendly, though it feels artificial. “Madeline?” I ask. “Madeline Ashford?”
She looks up from her phone, concern evident in the deep grooves between her eyebrows. “It’s Ashford-Brown, actually.” She motions toward the empty chair like a prospective employer
