I shake the thoughts from my mind and leave my bedroom, heading for the front door. When I open it, I find a food delivery. Not the takeout type, but a box of groceries. I wonder if maybe this is Jack’s way of apologizing. I bring the box in the house and set it on the kitchen counter. I pull out small glass bottles of milk, cream, and local honey. That’s it. Why would Jack order such a random arrangement of items? I empty the box and find a small notecard in the bottom that says:
Check your email.
My heartbeat ticks up a few notches. I put the milk and cream in the fridge and then lean against the counter as I openthe email app on my phone and refresh my inbox. There it is, another email from The Society.
Dread freezes me. This is it. This is where I find out exactly what they want from me, and what it has to do with my dad.
Special farm-to-table delivery for your next target. Leave the honey and cream at the office for his afternoon tea and the milk in his fridge at home. You’re the only one he trusts. Dozens of women are counting on you. Don’t disappoint us.
Angry tears fill my eyes as I hit delete on the message and close my email. All I keep thinking is,what’s in that fucking milk?I think back on the cows and bees surrounding the estate in Westchester the weekend I visited. Maybe it’s just that—maybe it’s just fresh milk and locally-sourced honey... or maybe it’s not. No, it’sdefinitelynot. I think back on the email.You’re the only one he trusts.My stomach turns in painful cartwheels. I just found out my father isn’t who he says he is, and now I’m expected to act out some sort of revenge? On the only man who was there for me? The man who raised me and kept me safe and...fathered another child?I swallow down the painful realization before I set my phone down and head back into my bedroom. I need to get out of this apartment—I feel like I’m going stir crazy. In twenty-four hours, my entire world has turned upside down. I want to jump in an Uber and go to Westchester and demand answers, but at the same time I want to head in the opposite direction and never look back. I want to forget the last twenty-four hours even happened. But how could I ever? I have a life here. My father is my boss—my father is my husband’s boss. I think how deep the implications of this run.
I wander to my walk-in closet and find my favorite outfit, a knee-length, floral summer dress that always makes me feel good when I wear it. It’s simple, breezy, and makes me feel like I’m about to sip cocktails on the beach in Montauk. Jack always compliments me when I wear it, so I wear it a lot in the summer. Fifteen minutes later I’ve added a little blush to my cheeks and slipped on a pair of simple flats and am walking the half dozen blocks to The Peninsula Hotel. It has a spectacular rooftop view of 5th Avenue, especially after dark, and it’s the place where Jack and I had one of our first dates. It’s always been nostalgic for me, and I’ve been meaning to ask him if he wants to go since we haven’t been there in a long time, but we’ve been so veryofflately.
I reach the rooftop in fifteen minutes and am settling myself at a quiet corner of the bar when I see him.
Jack.
He’s probably here for a client meeting. But... didn’t he say he was spending the night in Jersey? Maybe his plans fell through or a client cancelled. His face looks drawn and exhausted, like a man who slept on the couch last night. A pang of guilt shoots through me for adding stress to his life. On some level he’s right—he does work hard, and maybe I should be more aware of that. I decide to walk over to him, if only just to offer him a quick hug, but then I see her.
She walks around the corner, her eyes trained squarely on my husband. I choke on anxiety as it registers that she looks like she’s on a date—slinky red dress and dark red lips. She looks beautiful, and every part the woman I am not. Elegant, poised, polished,stunning.Her kohl-lined eyes scan the room and her gaze catches mine. I am chilled to the bone. Her smile falters, and then she seems to change course and aim directly for me.
She pauses in front of me. “El—crazy seeing you here.”
“Hi, Aubrey.”
“What brings you here?” she asks.
The bartender hovers to take my order but I wave him off, asking for a moment longer. “Just thought I’d take myself out for a date. You?”
“I’m meeting an old friend,” is all she says, eyes scanning the bar as if she’s looking for someone. “It doesn’t look like they’re here yet though.”
I glance over her shoulder to see that my husband is sitting by himself, looking anywhere but over here.
“Hey—I was gonna ask if you wanted to grab lunch with me tomorrow afternoon,” she says. “There’s this new noodle bar near Lincoln Center I’ve been wanting to check out.”
“Yeah—ugh—I’d love to but I have to go over some reports for a big client before Monday, so I’d hate to commit and then cancel.”
“Okay—well, just let me know. I could always bring you takeout too—”
“Thanks, you’re sweet,” I give her a forced smile. “I’ll let you know.”
“Okay.” Her eyes linger a few silent beats on mine before she smiles with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Well, I’ll leave you alone. Text me later.”
“Sure,” I shoot back, shifting my gaze to the bartender just to have anything other than her to look at. She turns, crossing the length of the bar before settling at the opposite end, nearest to my husband. She shifts awkwardly on the barstool, eyes cast down to a cocktail menu in front of her.
The bartender returns to me then, and I shake my head. “I’m not feeling well after all—I think I’m going to skip a drink. Thank you, though.”
I stand, gathering my bag and attempting to control my rioting emotions before turning to walk back down the hall to the elevators. I punch the down arrow, and the doors slide open silently. I step inside, thankful to finally be alone. As the doors close, stubborn tears begin a slow slide down my cheeks as one thought runs on repeat in my mind.
Is Aubrey having an affair with my husband?
Twenty-Three
Ellie
As soon as I walk into the apartment I find my laptop and open an internet search engine. I type in “psychosis” and then “schizophrenia,” and spend the next twenty minutes reading about the different symptoms of the disorders. I keep hearing Jack’s accusation in my mind:you might be having a psychotic break.I don’t think I am, not based on the internet’s diagnosis anyway, but the disorders have a spectrum of symptoms and a few of them match: difficulty sleeping, obviously, but also paranoia, mood swings, and withdrawing from social situations. I think of mentioning it to my therapist, but I’ve cancelled the last few appointments because I’ve been so busy, and she took me off her schedule, so I’m not even sure when I’ll see her again.
Then I type in the name of the facility my mother was admitted to and the year she died. I was only five and don’t know many details—by the time I was old enough to ask questions, my father had moved on and never seemed to want to discuss it. He often said that thinking about it was like rubbing salt in the wound, so he preferred to keep his head down and stay firmly rooted in the present.
