I skip ahead, praying that she won’t be there, praying that this isn’t what it looks like. She’s a fiction writer, after all. These could be characters. Ideas, even.
But then, I find her name.
Caroline Churchwell. 22. 5.10. Blonde. 3 months. Stunning. He’s in love.
There are a few more names, then the final one.
Brie MacKenzie. 29. 5.9. Brunette. 1 month and counting. Clearly in love again.
I reread the entry, then flip through the rest of the notebook, hoping to find something to explain what the hell I’m reading. But the rest of the pages are blank, and I have to admit the obvious: It’s a list of affairs. Suspected affairs, I tell myself, as if that makes it any better. But if she was right about me and Bradley from the beginning, why wouldn’t she be right about all these other women?
I count the entries. 52. There are no dates, but assuming the notebook starts from when they got together, then Bradley was with 52 other women during the course of his relationship with Grace.
I’m about to read through the notebook again when I hear a knock on the front door. I go to the window and look down to see who it is. I pray it isn’t the police—and as the person steps off the veranda, I see that for once my prayers have been answered. It’s Jesse, Grace’s agent. He wanders away, as if accepting that no one’s home. But after walking a dozen feet, he stops and looks back at the house, directly at me.
“Grace!” he yells.
And then he begins to sprint.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
I clamber down the attic stairs as fast as I can.
He said Grace, and I can’t blame him. I’m wearing her clothes and makeup, standing in her office. I must look like a ghost. Except he doesn’t know Grace is dead, so he must think I’m the real deal.
I make it to the landing by the time Jesse gets through the front door. He sees me from the bottom of the stairs and calls up.
“Babe, where have you been? I’ve missed you. I’ve needed you.”
He takes the stairs two at a time, and when he gets to the landing, his face falls.
“You’re not Grace.”
I attempt a casual wave, but it feels more like a strange salute. “Hi Jesse.”
“What’s going on?” He takes in my outfit. “What were you doing in her office? And why are you wearing her clothes?”
“I’m, I’m—” I stammer, unable to finish a sentence. What explanation could there possibly be? “Bradley said it was OK.”
“Who gives a shit what Bradley says? What did Grace say?” He steps towards me, frowning. “Where is she, anyway?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is she on the property?”
“I don’t—” I cut myself off. “She’s missing.”
“Missing?”
“We haven’t seen her in a week. Bradley called the police. They’re looking for her, I guess.”
He raises his voice. “You guess, do you? Jesus Christ, a week? And no one thought to tell me?” He makes a fist with his right hand. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his beard has become disheveled. “I thought she’d—” He stops himself, staring at me. “Go get changed.”
“Excuse me?”
“Get out of her clothes! If she finds out?—”
He looks at me with contempt. To him, I’m just a servant who’s been caught stealing.
