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Ariadna squints. “You’d like me to identify an anonymous female lawyer while your accountant is sitting in custody?”

When she says it out loud, it sounds ridiculous.

“Mikhail comes first.”

“That’s a relief.” She uncrosses her legs, standing.

“But after that...” I let the sentence trail off.

“Of course.” The professionalism is back in her voice; no longer judgement now that she has her orders. She gathers the portfolio beneath one arm, gives me a nod, and disappears back into the lake house.

My eyes drift across the lake once more. There are details from that night that were erased by the surge of dopamine, oxytocin, and endorphins. I only vaguely remember those curls and her stature. I do remember that tiny star-shape marked beneath her cheekbone with perfect clarity.

And now, I want to know her name.

Chapter 5

Matilda

Sunday is a dangerous day. Not because anything ever happens on Sundays, but because nothing does. It makes my skin itch with restlessness, but the therapist I briefly saw almost a year ago told me that sometimes “doing nothing is exactly what you need.”

Sounds fake to me, but the tension I feel in my shoulders probably isn’t normal either.

By eleven fifty-three, I’m still wearing the same robe I threw on after my shower, one leg tucked beneath me on the couch and a mug of hot chocolate that’s gone lukewarm somewhere during my mother’s latest story. Sunlight pours through the windows of my apartment, catching dust motes that drift lazily through the air. The city outside is quieter than usual, the constant soundtrack of Manhattan softened by people pretending they have work-life balance.

I don’t.

“I’m telling you, Matty,” my mother says through the speakerphone, “it’s beautiful here.”

“I believe you.”

“No, you don’t. You haven’t taken a vacation in—how long, Ed, has it been?”

“A little while,” I admit. “I believe you two are enjoying your trip to South Carolina. The ‘beautiful’ part is subjective.”

Dad laughs somewhere in the background. “See?” he says. “She gets her optimism from you.”

“I heard that,” Mom calls.

“I know.”

I smile despite myself, curling my fingers tighter around the mug. My parents have been married for twenty-seven years. Long enough to finish each other’s sentences, argue over directions they both know are wrong, and somehow make the exact same vacation seem new every time they take it.

This week’s obsession is Charleston.

Last month was Savannah.

Before that, Asheville.

Apparently, retirement consists of driving up and down the East Coast and talking about how much you hate winter. All the while buying tchotchkes and, for some reason, Christmas ornaments with beach themes.

“We’ve been looking at neighborhoods,” Mom continues.

“Mm.”

“And condos.”

“Dangerous.”