“How’s Waylen?” she asks.
“Doing much better,” I say. “But this isn’t going to be one of those situations where a near-death experience changes our relationship.” That may not be entirely true, but I’m still processing everything. “I don’t know if I’m ready to give up saving the world. Call me an optimist, but I think things can improve if enough of us do the right work. But maybe switching it up a bit wouldn’t be a bad idea.”
Elodie nods. “It’s a good time for a shift in motivations.”
“Yes,” I say. “I can stop trying to absolve myself of the past and focus on the future.”
Elodie raps her manicured nail on the rim of my coffee cup. “That’s poetic.” She lights up. “You could teach anonline course. A motivational summit. We could make an Instagram, memes—”
I hold a hand up. “Please stop.”
“All right,” she sighs. “Spoilsport.”
“But I am open to yourotheroffer,” I say. She raises her eyebrow. “Friendship. Since you saved my life and all.”
“Oh, honey, that’s a given,” she says. “You’re stuck with me whether you like it or not.”
The conversation shifts—mercifully—to our girls. They’ve struck up a friendship, and I’m grateful for the normalcy this brings to Collette’s life. When all is said and done, and we’re back home again, I’m going to tell her everything. The fire, her uncle—all of it. One thing I’ve learned is that you can’t rid yourself of the past without first confronting it. I don’t want her to grow up bearing any of my burdens. She deserves to know the truth.
That evening, for the first time all week, I step out of the hospital for some fresh air. The bitter early December cold has a cleansing effect, like the whole world has been scrubbed clean.
I sit at a coffee shop across the street, and I order a comically large cinnamon bun with extra frosting. I’m just taking my first bite when I feel the shadow looming over me. By now, I’m familiar with his presence, his carefully curated scent, and the uncertain shuffle in his otherwise confident gait.
Bertram Casimir is wearing a white cotton sweatshirt and jeans. His thousand-dollar haircut is mussed by the wind. He gives me a cautious smile.
“Still tracking me down, I see.” I nod to the empty seat across from me. He slides into it tenuously.
“I swear I’m not stalking you,” he says. “I called Elodie to see how you were doing, and she suggested I meet you here.”
When I look at Bertram now, suddenly it all makes sense. I was questioning my instincts because I knew—Iknew—that he wasn’t what “Erin” was portraying to me. Just like his manicured hands, his record is impeccably clean.
“I’m sorry for everything that happened,” I tell him. “That I had to lie to you, and that I caused you so much trouble.”
“You didn’t,” he says. “If anything, you got pulled into my web. But now the truth is out. The police are looking for Annie, and I doubt she’ll be stupid enough to try anything.”
I snort. “For now, anyway.”
He smiles. “Maybe I’ll get lucky and she’ll just wander off into the ether. Or find some other poor bloke to harass.”
“I’d believe that.”
The words hang in the silence between us, but it’s not an uncomfortable one. Believe. The word at the heart of all of this. Because I believed him, I didn’t quite play into Annie’s hands. But when I think about how close I was to ignoring my instincts and blowing up my marriage on top of that, it’s enough to make me question everything I’ve done in my adult life.
“I suppose it’s wrong to play judge, jury, and executioner,” I say.
“There’s nuance,” he says. “But if you ever wanted to take a break from saving the world, I was thinking it would be nice to write that book.”
I look up from my plate. “I’m not really a writer. You know that, don’t you?”
He shrugs. “You’ve heard a lot of stories. You even have a couple of your own. Why not write one of them down?”
“I’ll think about it,” I say. “Interior decorating has never really been my life’s passion. You know, I’m not sure what is.”
“Good time to find out. Better late than never.” Although his appearance hasn’t changed, he seems different somehow. Like he’s letting me see the real him.
So I decide to let him see the real me. Just a little bit of it, anyway.
“You’re the first person I’m telling this to, but I’m about to retire from vigilantism,” I say. “I’ve decided to apply to law school.”
