Conceal

* * *

Despite my cries of passion earlier today, I have to leave. My new computer is with me, and I’m trying to figure out what the passcode could be to the server in my old house. I’m not messing around with the site myself. Instead, I’m looking over my old social media account for clues. I don’t even sign in as me.

I did that the other day from Jaxson’s warehouse. He could hack in and make it appear that it was someone from Russia. Even if Riley—or whatever his name is—is looking, he couldn’t trace it back to me.

So now, instead of going in my account, I’m in the dummy account that Jax added to my friends’ list. That way, I can look through my pictures.

Unfortunately for me, there are none of Riley.

Looking back, I realize it was odd he didn’t take any pictures. He’d told me he doesn’t do pictures and was adamant against posting on social media. Even on our wedding day, we only took a few pictures, but I left them in the house. I thought he was camera shy.

But now, I see it for what it was, a plan, a plot to steal my money. I’m looking through Willomena Craft’s pictures, and a wave of nostalgia weaves its way through me.

I miss my family.

I miss my life.

I miss my friends.

Before I know what I’m doing, I’m switching off and opening the photo site I used as a kid.

It’s an older site that no one uses now, and Riley would never think to look at it, so what harm could it do?

I tell myself it’s no big deal, especially since I’m at Starbucks, just in case, so it’s fine.

When I find the album I’m looking for, I spend the next twenty minutes remembering the good times. I look through the pictures before the accident. Before my life changed for the first time.

I stare at my mom, then my dad. Then I click on the pictures of me and Maggie. We were so young, probably twelve years old. It’s the picture of the day she made me memorize her number. I had my dad drive me to her house. We cried and cried, and then she sat there in front of me and made me memorize her number. Saying it over and over again. Promising we would never lose touch . . .

We stayed in contact for a while through middle school, but once we started high school, the distance grew.

We were once speaking every day, then it was once a month, then less. By the time I graduated from high school, it wasn’t even once a year. By the time I met Riley, it had been years.

That was why she was safe. He never knew about her, and I knew I could always count on her. Tears well in my eyes, and I close my computer. I don’t want to cry at Starbucks.

Plus, after seeing this picture, I know what I need to do. I need to tell Maggie everything.

Today.

After I pack up my computer, I set off for her apartment.

It’s empty when I get there.

I’m on the couch when she finally walks in. She must know right off the bat that something is wrong. Maybe it’s the way I’m sitting. Or maybe it’s the tears streaking down my face.

With a worried lip, she steps toward where I am and then sits on the couch next to me.

“I need to talk to you,” I say.

“Okay.” Her voice is low, and I know she’s worried about what I’m going to say.

It’s hard to find the words to say what I need to. Where does one even begin? The marriage part. The death part. Everything sounds crazy when I have to put it into words.

So instead, I lean forward and rip the Band-Aid off.

“My husband is trying to kill me.”

Her eyes widen, and her mouth drops. If this wasn’t such a serious matter, I would probably laugh at the ridiculous look on her face.

She resembles a fish gasping for air.

“Do you want me to start from the beginning?” I ask, and she nods because, apparently, words are still escaping her.

It takes approximately thirty minutes to explain how my life is a shitshow.

How I lost everything.

The story starts the same way most love stories do, but in my story, it ends with what I have to assume was a hit on my life.

I still don’t understand it.

But I guess I never will.

Her mouth is still hanging open by the time I’m done, but she pulls me into her arms.

Her body shakes, and I think she is crying.

“Maggie,” I ask tentatively. “Are you okay?”

The sound of her sobs and hiccups rings through the surrounding air. “Someone wants you dead, and you’re concerned about how I feel?”

“I mean, when you put it that way . . .” That makes Maggie laugh. When she pulls away from me, red blotches stain her cheek, and her eyes have swelled.