“That’s Scotland’s flag,” Susan says, her voice brimming with pride.
“Terrific.” I force a smile.
“I thought it would be a nice touch,” Susan says. “These gave me the idea.” Susan cups her ears to showcase her Union Jack earrings. “I printed them out, and we cut and taped them together, didn’t we, Cole?”
Cole doesn’t answer. He’s returned to the task at hand—taping the unused toothpicks together end-to-end with the focus of a neurosurgeon.
Susan points to a plate filled with overbaked edges and broken cookie pieces. “These are the ones that didn’t make the cut. Help yourself; they’re still delicious.”
Susan pushes the plate toward me. I get the feeling she won’t stop until I try one, so I pop a piece in my mouth.
I wonder if there’s some way I can get out of going tonight. Maybe Mark can take Cole, and I can stay home.
Cole looks up at me from his work. “Where’s Daddy? Is he coming with us or meeting us at school? Ava said I could walk around with her. Can we walk around alone together, Mommy? No grown-ups? Please.”
Amid this torrent of words, my phone chimes. I glance at it. It’s a text from Dustin.
Found name connected to license plate: Jon Block.
I type back: Name means nothing to me.
“Mommy, are you listening?” Cole pulls at my sleeve. “I want to walk around with Ava. Her mom said it was okay with her if it’s okay with you.”
Dustin texts: He works for a private investigation company called LFW Research.
“Mommy!” Cole yells.
I put down the phone, sure I have seen the name LFW Research somewhere recently.
“What? Yeah, that’s fine, hon.” I don’t really know what I have agreed to, but it elicits a fist pump from Cole. He jumps off his stool, making his pink tulle princess dress rustle.
“Why don’t you get changed, and I’ll see if Leah can take you and Ava over.”
He frowns. “What do you mean? You’re not coming?”
“I mean, Dad will be there, later.” I remember how ticked Mark got when Cole pulled an envelope from his briefcase thinking it contained family photos. It had LFW Research as the return address.
Cole’s chin trembles. “No, no, no. You have to be there. What if I don’t like it? What if I want to come home? You said you would be at the England table. Mommy, you promised.”
“Okay, sweetie, I’ll go.” I give his tiny little shoulders a squeeze. I can go for a little while, until Mark shows. “Let’s get changed.”
“I don’t want to change,” Cole says.
“Cole, go change. It’s cold out there.”
He rolls his eyes, but the iron in my voice sends him stomping upstairs. Knowing Cole, it will take him at least twenty minutes to pick out an outfit. Twenty minutes I can use to search the house for that envelope.
Now I just need to get rid of Susan.
“So, thanks for everything, Susan.” I pour myself a glass of wine and stand there expectantly.
“Not a problem.” Susan flits around the kitchen, tidying and chatting, oblivious to my chilliness. Her bubbly cheer, normally so reassuring, grates on me today like the tinny tune of a jack-in-the-box playing over and over. The clock on the wall ticks. I’m not sure how to make her leave without seeming rude.
“You probably want to get home to walk Marnie. I can take it from here.”
“Oh.” She straightens up, sponge in mid-swipe. “You sure? I feel like I’ve left you a mess here.”
“You’re sweet, but I can clean up later.”
As soon as she’s gone, I head to the guest room and begin looking through the boxes that contain our files. Even in moving boxes, Mark is a meticulous filer. No months-old receipts or scraps of paper with mysterious numbers scrawled on them. Each file gets its own folder, labeled Utilities, Health Care, House, et cetera. Nothing out of place.
And nothing that says LFW Research.
I sit on the floor and drink my wine. Who was I kidding? He wouldn’t just file it away under L.
I stand up, wondering where to look next. In the bedroom, I rummage through Mark’s dresser drawers, sliding my hands between his neatly folded clothing, searching for something out of the norm. In his bottom drawer, beneath plaid flannel pajamas, my fingers touch something crinkly.
I pull out a manila envelope, the same one that I saw in the kitchen, marked with a return address for LFW Research.
My heart thumps as I open it.
On top are several recent photographs of me—walking Cole to school, entering my mother’s assisted living facility, leaving the Mike Chau studio. It all falls into place. This must be who Mark was talking to the other night. The private investigator he hired.
As disturbing as these images are, in some way they comfort me. I wasn’t being paranoid. I was being followed.
A woman’s shrill laugh from downstairs catches me off guard. Someone is in the house. I flip past the photos to a photocopy of two newspaper articles laid side by side, both from the Stamford Advocate. The first headline reads: POPULAR PREP-SCHOOL TEACHER CHARGED WITH STATUTORY RAPE.
My eyes drop to the second headline: RAPE CHARGES DROPPED.
My breath is ripped from my lungs. I struggle to breathe deeply. I know the articles well. I cut them out when they were first published sixteen years ago and took them into my room, weeping.
“What are you doing?” Cole asks, appearing in the doorway of the bedroom.
Quickly, I try to stuff the papers back into the envelope. “Nothing.”
He tugs at the waistband of the sweatpants he’s pulled on beneath his dress. “What’re those? I want to see.”
I shove the envelope under Mark’s flannel pajamas and shut the drawer. “Did I hear someone downstairs?”
He nods solemnly, still eyeing the drawer.
“Let’s go say hi.” I stand up and take his hand.
But all I can think of on the way down is: Mark knows.
In my kitchen, I find Daisy, Leah, and Ava. Mother and daughter wear skinny jeans and light blue tees with blue Hebrew letters
