She grabs her own phone and reads through her texts:
Ella:We’ll have talking points for Shandy Shane this afternoon. How lucky are we?
Noreen:Final paperwork for the listing needs to be signed by y’all ASAP. Or whenever you get a chance because I know the hype has gotten overwhelming and you’re underwater but ASAP. I can bring it to you. Just say the where and when!
Ilena:Dinner tonight. A gender-reveal party. Don’t ask. Had no choice.
A dinner party? Now? For a baby that isn’t actually Ilena’s?
Aubrey:Did Ilena text you? Am I supposed to bring a gift? I’d already said yes to drinks tonight with Ethan.
617-555-4090:Mr. Harley’s waiting for you at Dog Eat Dogday care! We’ll keep snuggling him, but it’s an extra $30 per half-hour past pickup!
Aubrey:Can I bring Ethan?
Aubrey:Should I?
Ilena:I’m seating you next to James. See what you can find out.
What are they doing? This isn’t real life! We’re not just settling in here!
Her hand reaches for the marks on her arm and she kneads so hard that if she had flint in her hand, she’d ignite.
Her phone rings. It’s a New York area code.Shandy Shane.She has to answer, she wants to answer, but what if they ask about Grayson? Should she act like she knows he’s unavailable or pretend she’s as shocked as everyone else by his sudden trip? And why does she suddenly sound so very much like Aubrey?
She clutches the phone to her chest. It’s going to go to voicemail if she doesn’t pick up. She takes off the cat-eyed reading glasses and answers the call. “This is Mallory Latham.”
“Ms. Latham, this is Georgina, assistant producer atThe Shandy Shane Show. We wanted to confirm—”
The wail of sirens eclipses the producer. Mallory presses her finger in her ear.
“...availability for—”
Flashing red lights ricochet through Noreen’s hatchback. A rumble of an engine from behind announces the black-and-white car that boxes her in. A Cambridge police car.
Mallory struggles to summon saliva. “Yes, good, good, all good. I’m sorry, I have to run.”
She lowers her phone. Drops it in the cupholder. She’s too late. Maybe Grayson’s elevator did have a camera or the penthousehad a hidden home security monitor or maybe the goddamn eavesdropping Alexa or Google Home or whatever they have here ratted her out. She’s never getting home. She’s going to miss everything, in both worlds.
She places her hands on the wheel and waits.
“Step out of the car...”
Shit.
“Miss MallieMoo.”
Excuse me?
Her rearview mirror frames the driver’s-side door as it swings open and a man in a police uniform steps out. He’s tall and thick like a linebacker but with the slightest rounded belly and lag in his gait that confirms his playing days are long behind him. Dark gray sunglasses rest beneath a close-cropped haircut that’s meant to mask a severely receding hairline. His tight jaw twitches as he approaches. Mallory inhales a breath and opens the car door.
The police officer’s arms extend like a T. “There she is. I was starting to think you were a figment of your mom’s and my imagination.”
Mallory flinches.
“Oh, come on, was it the lights thing?” He lowers his arms. “You used to love it as a kid.”
“Kid?”
