Did she call someone?
The thought sends ice through my veins.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, pulling me out of the spiral.
It’s Marcus.Investor dinner is in 5 days. Thursday.
I stare at the message, my jaw tightening.
Need confirmation she's coming.
Another buzz.
And do you have any photos of you two together? That would really add a lot to building trust.
My thumb hovers over the screen. Photos. He wants photos of us like we're some marketing campaign, some carefully curated image to sell to investors. Like she's a prop in my pitch deck.
She's not a prop, I want to text back.She's everything.
Instead, I type:I'll handle it.
I tossthe phone aside and press the heels of my hands against my eyes until I see stars. I pull on clothes and head across the lawn to the guest house. The morning is bright and warm, the ocean glittering in the distance, and none of it feels real.
I knock on her door. "Jade?"
Nothing.
I knock again, harder. "Jade, can we talk?"
Silence.
My hand goes to my pocket before I can think better of it. The key is there—I've always had a key, it's my property after all.
She's not here, I tell myself.You're just checking.
I unlock the door and step inside.
The guest house is empty. Her sandals are gone. Her bag is gone. But her laptop sits open on the desk, screen still glowing.
I shouldn't look.
But I'm already moving toward it, already bending down to see what's on the screen.
The browser is open. A magazine article, glossy and dated. The headline reads:"Paradise Found: The Crawford Love Story."
The browser is open to Google. Search history visible in the suggestions.
Nicholas Crawford Olive Crawford how they met
Nicholas Crawford paid Olive's debts
Crawford family Maui
My stomach drops straight through the floor.
She knows.
She's been researching my parents. Reading about how they met—the check, the island, the fairy tale that everyone on the outside thinks is so romantic. She's seeing the pattern. Connecting the dots.
