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“Did you kill my husband?” The question leaves my lips before I can calculate if it’s smart or stupid, but Bob doesn’t seem taken aback.
“No.” His half grin is mostly hidden under his beard. “But I wish I did.”
My tone takes on a slightly hysterical pitch. “What the hell does that mean?”
“He wasn’t a good man. We both know it. Let’s be honest now.”
His meaning floods me. Bob must have been a witness to more than I realized.
“Good man?” I explode. “Josh had problems like anyone else. You want honesty? Why don’t you tell me what kind of a person spies on their neighbor for months? You have a lot of fucking nerve claiming the moral upper hand.”
He leans back, as if reevaluating me. “There’s levels of bad.”
“That was our private business,” I spit. “You had no right. No right—” My throat squeezes. Yes, we had problems. I lean my head in my hands. “I can’t do this.”
“You can,” says Bob, reaching forward and clapping a firm hand on my knee. “For Annaleigh.”
You can. Like it’s a matter of willpower and gumption. It grates, and at the same time, I know I will keep pushing on the hope of can. Until I’m dragged away against my will, or my body fails. Can may be a fallacy. But it’s also hope.
“Come on,” he says, rising. “We’ve waited long enough. Should be safe now. I’ll make sandwiches at the house. Then we can make some decisions.”
He turns off the lights and opens the door, bringing a welcome breath of air. Somehow, it’s become full-on night. The moon is a pale glow behind racing clouds. He leads the way across his property. I limp behind.
The back door leads us straight into Bob’s kitchen, where a cat on the counter watches me with cool suspicion. Bob’s house is neat but old-looking, with out-of-date appliances and scuffed hardwoods.
He leads me up carpeted stairs that smell like burnt vacuum, down a short hallway, and into a dark room—the room that faces Annaleigh’s. I reach for the light.
“Wait,” he says, already at the window. “Let me draw the curtains first.”
I flick the light on as soon as we’re secure. The first thing I see is the parent side of my baby monitor. The second, the folding chair by the window where Bob must sit as he spies. Otherwise, the room is full of boxes. The same name is scrawled across all of them. Gianna-CLOTHING. Gianna-BOOKS. Gianna-MEDICAL RECORDS.
I open my mouth to ask why the fuck Bob has my baby monitor and what the fuck his game is. Instead I say, “Who’s Gianna?”
“My daughter,” says Bob. His blue eyes on me are somehow simple. Devoid of any layers. “Gianna was your egg donor.” And finally, that steady voice cracks. “Annaleigh is my granddaughter.”
THEN
“You okay there?” The producer for this segment is right next to me—Prisha, a striking woman in a leather jacket and neon-yellow heels. I remember her from regular filming, and she always struck me as a sharp, single-minded person who’d do anything to capture that wow moment. I like her.
Josh and I flew into LAX this morning, separately, to film the final episode: “After the Proposal.” I’m waiting in the wings for Josh to join me. Even now, I can hear Matt introducing the segment, and the live audience applauding.
“You look a little pale,” adds Prisha.
“Yeah. Just feeling a little sick.” I smile sideways at her.
She lowers her voice and leans close. “You remember it’s in the book on the side table?”
I nod, and then there’s a warm presence next to me. Josh, looking crisp in a new suit, smelling piney from his aftershave.
“Josh,” I say, embracing him. My heart flutters like it always does when I see him after an absence. We’ve been apart for three days; he had to travel to Des Moines for work, and flew in straight from there.
“Your hair,” Prisha objects.
“Sorry,” I laugh, pulling back and focusing on Josh as a few people adjust my hair and someone freshens up my lip gloss. “I’ve missed you, baby.”
“I’ve missed you, too,” says Josh, but he seems tense. A little distant. Something beyond the travel-weary Josh who gets adorably needy after his work trips.
“Is something wrong?” I whisper.
