“It’s why I came by the next day,” she says. “I did feel bad. I wanted to check on you, but you seemed fine. And then you kept inviting him over. You told me you kissed him and you seemed happy about it, so I figured you two do this sort of thing all the time.”
“I don’t—” I shut up. I owe her zero explanation. She owes me a million apologies.
“I had no idea you were married. And it’s not my business, but I did find it interesting when your actual husband showed up. But again, I stayed out of it. Just came over because I was curious and wanted to see what the three of you had going on over here. Your husband didn’t seem to know about him, though, and I didn’t know if that was part of the act. But like I said. I stayed out of it.”
“Who is he, Mari?”
“Who? Saint?”
“Yes. If he isn’t a real detective, who is he?”
Mari shrugs. “Now that’s probably where I went wrong. I should have taken a better look at his identification. I was being honest when I said I stay away from the authorities in this town, so I wouldn’t recognize any of them. I don’t know anything about the guy, or if he’s even a police officer at all. I’m just an innocent bystander.”
“No, you’re a guilty participant, Mari!” I stand up, exasperated. Hurt. “I can’t believe you would do this. That youallowedit. It’s ... cruel. It’s cruel and dangerous, and you should honestly be so ashamed of yourself.”
I feel so stupid. So betrayed. I wipe the rest of my tears away with my shirt.
“For what it’s worth, I am sorry. I hope you didn’t get hurt, or taken advantage of, at least.”
I can’t stand being here with her anymore. I want to shake some sense into her. “You allowed a complete stranger to walk inside my cabin at five in the fuckingmorning, Mari! Of course I got hurt! Of course I was taken advantage of! By himandby you!”
“Now, Petra. I can see why you’re mad, but you can see my side of it, right?”
“Don’t even try to get me to play devil’s advocate. You’re an awful person. You can go fuck yourself, you absolute fucking ... doozy!”
I’ve started to walk away from her when she says, “That’s not really how that word is used, but ...”
“Oh,fuck off, Mari!” I open my car door. “I want a full refund!” I slam my car door and put my car in reverse. I glance back at her as I’m pulling onto the road, and Louie is back out on the patio. They’re arguing.
Not my problem. I still have a few hours before Saint is scheduled to show up, so I’ll figure out all the pieces Mari couldn’t put together for me. I also still have time to pack and get the hell out of here.
I floor it and head straight for my cabin.
I need my laptop.
Chapter Twenty-Two
My laptop has been zero help.
When I searched the name Nathaniel Saint, I came up with nothing that would apply to this man. Absolutely nothing. A few dead ends—some obscure references to old obituaries, and even a couple of ancient business listings—but no social media presence, no birth records, no marriage licenses. At least not for a Nathaniel Saint younger than eighty years old.
He lied about his name. I know that much now.
The realization hits me like a ton of bricks, cold and heavy. Every conversation, every touch, every moment we spent together runs through my mind like a distorted film reel. My leg is bouncing wildly under the table, my nerves completely shot.
How could I have missed this? I feel like a fool, like I let him walk right through my life, leaving chaos in his wake, and I never even questioned it.
I’m on edge, so I stand up and begin to pace the length of the room, hoping that activity will help me focus, hoping that somehow, if I keepmoving, the puzzle pieces will start to come together. But the more I think, the more scattered everything feels. My mind spins in circles.
If Nathaniel Saint isn’t his name, how am I supposed to figure out what his real name is? How do you track down someone who doesn’t want to be found? I have nothing to go on. No concrete information. I feel like I’ve been living in a dream, completely unaware that I didn’t even know this man’s real identity.
I rack my brain, trying to recall if he ever gave me any clues. Something I could latch on to now. But I’ve never even asked him what his wife’s name is. Why didn’t I ask more questions? Why didn’t I dig deeper? It’s as if I let myself get wrapped up in this fantasy without any regard for reality, and now I’m paying the price.
Wait.The picture!
I freeze mid-pace, a jolt of adrenaline coursing through me. The selfie I took with him. Maybe I can use that. Maybe I can do an image search on Google and find something that will lead me to who he really is.
I rush back to my laptop, practically throwing myself into the chair. My fingers tremble as I unlock my phone and find the image buried in my private folder. The picture of us together, both smiling, his arm draped casually over my shoulders. It feels eerie now, knowing that the man in the picture isn’t who he said he was. I quickly email the image to myself, my heart hammering in my chest as I open my inbox. The seconds it takes for the email to appear feel like an eternity, but once it’s there, I click on it without hesitation.
