by Kira Peikoff
She didn’t care anymore about Greg’s rigid stance. They still lived like kings, and their son’s family was hurting. Nothing else mattered.
Greg didn’t know what she was planning. She was going to surprise him after it was too late to back out.
If you can have secrets, she thought, then so can I.
A gust of cool air-conditioning welcomed her as she stepped inside the office of Corcoran, a real estate agency on 80th and Broadway. The sleepy receptionist perked up, taking in Joan’s three-carat diamond ring, her silk chiffon white dress, and her red-soled Louboutin heels. Her blond hair was curled in loose waves around her face.
The receptionist smiled at her. “Hi, how can I help you?”
“I’d like to speak with an agent,” Joan said. “About buying an apartment.”
“Of course, right this way.”
Joan followed her down a hall lined with pictures of extravagant apartments—floor-to-ceiling windows, magnificent city views, marble Jacuzzi tubs. They turned into a corner office where a woman about her own age was at a computer, clicking the keys with long manicured fingernails. When she smiled, her thick foundation broke into tiny cracks around her lips.
After introducing herself, Joan sat across from her and explained what she was looking for—a two- or three-bedroom apartment in the neighborhood for her son’s growing family, preferably in a doorman building with an elevator, very bright, and kid-friendly.
“Oh,” she added, “and not more than fifteen blocks from Eighty-sixth Street. I don’t want to have to take a cab to get there.”
The agent’s first question rolled off her lips. “And your budget?”
Joan ran a quick calculation in her head: If she could put one hundred fifty thousand dollars toward a ten percent down payment, then . . .
“Not more than one point five,” she said. What was one and a half million when Adam’s inheritance was bound to be at least double that? Greg had been storing it in a private trust account for years. It didn’t make sense not to touch it now, when he needed it most.
“That sounds reasonable.” The agent looked pleased. “As you probably know, it’s a buyer’s market. We have amazing apartments that have been sitting for months, so it’s a good time to look. Why don’t I pull up some listings for you right now?”
Joan felt a little thrill zip through her. There was no question she was doing the right thing. “Please do.”
The agent brought up a website, then tiled the screen toward her. A long list of available apartments showed up, ranging from the most expensive—$48 million—to the least.
“I have a darling place in mind,” the agent said as she clicked through the pages, getting to the lower-end apartments. “It’s a two-bed on Eighty-second and Columbus, newly renovated with a cook’s kitchen, oak hardwood—”
“Stop!” Joan suddenly cried.
The agent’s hands froze over her keyboard. “What?”
Before she knew it, Joan had sprung to her feet and was leaning over the agent’s chair to stare at the screen.
“Show me that,” she demanded, pointing to a listing of an apartment for sale in the $5 million range. The picture on the screen showed a spacious living room refinished in dark cherrywood, with a vast window overlooking the Hudson.
“Oh, that’s a bit out of your range,” the agent said delicately. “I was thinking more of—”
“No, please,” Joan said, her voice bordering on desperation. “Click that.”
The woman obeyed.
Up popped more pictures: a kitchen with rare blue-black Italian granite; a master bathroom with a steam room and six showerheads; a dining room sun-drenched from a wall of windows, outfitted with a crystal chandelier and seating for six.
“That’s the dream, right?” The agent cocked her head. “The perfect apartment.”
Joan’s voice came out strangled. “How long has it been on the market?”
“About two months.”
“You’re joking.”
“It’s not really that long. As I said, inventory’s just been sitting.”
Joan stared at the pictures, unable to speak or move.
“Ma’am . . . are you okay?”
“No,” was all she could manage. Her mind was blank. A sense of surreal devastation penetrated the edges of her being.
Her hand flew to her throat, where a sob was fighting to escape.
The agent touched her arm. “What’s wrong?”
“That apartment—” she broke off.
“Yes?”
“That apartment is mine.”
CHAPTER 11
Isabel
12 days before, Key West
What Isabel was looking at made no sense: the sea stretched endlessly around her. She squinted into the setting sun, but there was no promising speck on the horizon. Only the distant shore, no larger than a sandbox.
Her kayak was gone.
Kicking her plastic fins, she held her brother’s arm and tried not to show panic. They were alone, about to return home after two hours of snorkeling out on the reef. Now the water was getting cold, the tide choppy.
Andy bobbed up and down in the rippling current, held upright by his life jacket. His plastic air tube hung near his mouth. “Where’s the boat?”
Her gaze swept the surface with increasing urgency. Surely it was somewhere close. It had to be.
“Izz.” Andy was watching her through his goggles, his brown eyes unnaturally magnified. “Where’d it go?”
Just a few hours before, they had dropped anchor near a certain rock outcropping that served as an orientation point for snorkelers. Spending time there was her and Andy’s favorite shared hobby on weekends. Key West locals knew it as the best destination to spot sea turtles, and all afternoon, the area was crowded with other marine sightseers. But they had outlasted everyone else, swimming out farther and farther to follow a playful turtle that kept eluding them. By the time they returned to the rock, it was already getting dark and no one was left.
“It can’t have just disappeared,” she said matter-of-factly. “That’s impossible.”
Andy hugged his elbows to his skinny naked chest. He was starting to shiver. “Then where is it?”
“I’d love to know.”
“Maybe someone else thought our kayak was theirs?”
“But we had stuff in it. Mom’s red cooler, remember?”
“Oh yeah. She’s gonna be pissed if we lose that.”
“I know.” That was the least of it, but ever since their mother’s illness, he became upset easily; the last thing she needed was to stoke an anxiety attack. She didn’t add that his prescription Xanax, which he carried everywhere in case of emergency, was also in the missing cooler.
“What should we do?” he asked. “You’re the Wild Woman, right?” His teasing nickname—which he’d goaded her with all summer—had lost its edge.
“Yep,” she said. “That’s me.”
It was one thing to be a survival expert with a backup crew, on-site medical help, and multiple contingency plans. It was quite another to be alone, truly alone, in the wild.
She shielded her eyes from the vanishing sun, which was level with her gaze on the horizon. The restless ocean was a mirror of pink and orange clouds. Within minutes, it would turn as black as the sky. No matter how far she strained to see, there was no sign of the boat.
Survival rule number one: assess the facts. Rule two: Act accordingly. No hoping, pitying, or praying. That was time wasted, which meant death.
“Guess what?” She tried to spread her lips into an impish smile. “I just realized what’s going on.”
“What?”
“This is for the show. The producers said they might surprise me with a survival stunt to kick off the new season. You know, raising the bar for the viewers.”
Andy’s mouth fell open. “No way.” He paused. “But why bring me into it?”
“Who cares, you get to be on TV! How freakin’ cool is that? All your friends
will be so jealous.”
She could tell he was starting to buy in, and that was all that mattered.
Survival rule three: attitude was everything.
“So there’s cameras secretly watching us?” he said, looking up. A helicopter was some distance away and he raised his eyebrows meaningfully.
“Yup. But right now, we have to start swimming like our lives depend on it, or else they’ll cut the episode. Race you to the shore?”
He was already extending his arms to get a head start.
“Go!” he shouted, then plunged himself into the surf, thrashing and kicking his small body for all it was worth.
She glided easily past him, calling out in her wake: “You can do better than that!”
He redoubled his efforts, purposefully splashing her as he caught up. They continued to one-up each other for about twenty minutes, as the sky deepened from violet dusk to navy blue.
“Come on, slowpoke,” Isabel shouted, when she noticed he had fallen behind.
“I’m tired,” he whimpered, shivering. “And numb. I can’t feel my arms.”
“You can do it,” she said, though she couldn’t have agreed more. Her own body was weak from hunger and exhaustion; too much more exposure would put them at risk of hypothermia. “I know you can. Look, we’re almost there.”
“No, we’re not! It’s still so far . . .”
“It just looks far. I promise it’s not that bad. Come on, you gonna let me win?”
“I don’t care,” he pouted. “I’m over it. Hey, up there!” he waved his arms wildly. “Come and get me, I give up!”
A pang of guilt shot through her—and fear. A prickling chill told her this was no accident. She paddled back to him and wrapped him in a hug, rubbing his arms in a futile attempt to pass on warmth.
“We can’t give up. If you’re tired, take off your fins and wrap your legs around my waist.”
She had no idea how she could find the strength to swim on her own, let alone with him on her back, but he complied without hesitation. She sank under his weight as though she’d gained a hundred pounds.
“You okay?” he said, holding on to her shoulders.
“Fine. Let’s go.”
Gasping, she pushed through, one stroke after another, kick after kick. The waves grew hostile and rocked them around like a blender, but she went into a trance, heeding nothing but the goal. After she could no longer sense her limbs, the muscle memory of swimming directed her forward. Her eyes and throat burned from the salt, and soon she realized she was slowing down—still too far away for anyone on land to see them in the dark.
“Can’t your stupid producers see we’re practically drowning?” Andy screamed. “Hello, where are you, come get us!”
She had no strength to explain, but struggled on, well past the point that she would have believed possible. On the show, she would have tapped out long ago, and then the shoot would be over. The truth was that she was sorely unaccustomed to actual survival situations, without a crew backing her up every step of the way. Except for that one time getting stranded with her white-water rafting group, but even then, she didn’t have to fight to breathe.
Her chest tightened in a familiar prelude to grief and she tried to push away the memory, but it bubbled up anyway: the recollection of her only other encounter with a real-life survival situation. It was in, of all places, her family’s quaint indie bookstore, The Thumbed Page, a place she had always considered as safe as home. She and her dad had been alone unpacking a new shipment of glossy hardcovers, when, without warning, he let out a strange groan, clutched his chest, and fell hard on his knees. A terrified look contorted his face—his mouth opened but no words came out—and then his eyes had rolled into his head as he toppled face-first to the floor, like one of Andy’s toy soldiers.
Every time she recalled the moment, she wanted to scream at the mental image of herself to run, call 911, do CPR—anything but the big fat zero she had done to help him. Instead she’d stood perfectly still, lips dumbly parted, staring at his limp body. It had all happened so fast, one minute they were trading fiction recommendations and the next—
She remembered thinking one useless thought: But he never even caught colds. As if pointing out logic would convince fate of its mistake. She had no idea how long she stood there, clutching the spine of a thick blue hardcover, gaping at the back of his head. What did she expect, for him to get up and dust himself off? All the survival skills he’d taught her about CPR and doing chest compressions to the tune of “Stayin’ Alive” totally vanished. It didn’t matter that she knew continued circulation was key to survival after cardiac arrest. Or that the bookstore had a defibrillator on the wall behind a glass case. Still she froze. Her brain was fumbling to grasp the reality of his collapse when a customer stepped into the store, ran at once to his side, and called 911—but by then it was too late. He was gone.
As the freezing water sloshed into her face now, one thought sparked out of the ashes of her guilt: she would not fail Andy like she had failed their dad.
Almost there, she thought, even though she knew it was a lie. The dark blur of the shore remained at a seemingly fixed distance. One more minute, and then that’s it, I’m done. I’ll just float, let the current do the work. Every time she felt her willpower diminishing, she told herself: One more minute. One more yard. One more stroke. The trick of imminent rest coaxed her ahead, at an ever slowing pace. Each minute stretched into its own hellish infinity.
You can do this, she kept urging herself, but after twenty more minutes, letting go became viciously enticing. She finally let her muscles relax and felt the icy water slide over her neck, her cheeks, her forehead. Fully submerged, she resigned her body to the whim of the current. Just for a moment. She was so numb she could barely feel or think. Andy’s legs unlocked around her waist, his weight lifted, and then she felt his hand clamp around her elbow and yank her up. Cold air rushed into her lungs. Her memory of her father’s face started to blur along with her vision.
“Come on, Izz.” Andy’s voice cracked. “You can’t drown.”
Someone wants me to drown. Someone doesn’t care if my brother does, too.
As she stared at his terrified face and quivering lips, a new energy source clicked on inside her: Rage.
“Let’s go,” she declared. “Get back on.”
He obeyed. She pumped one arm in front of the other, running on nothing but the pure hatred of evil—a form of fuel more potent than food. With every stroke, it kicked up a notch, and her leaden body felt lighter, electric, as she lashed out at the invisible enemy. You picked the wrong girl, bastard. No one messes with my family.
As if in validation, the shore at last approached. The dark and barren strip had never looked so beautiful.
They floated the final stretch on the crest of a wave that left them tumbling onto the sand, crying out in triumphant relief.
The rest of the journey home was a blur—flagging down the nearest car, getting driven home to their distraught mother, collapsing into steamy baths. By then Andy had figured out her lie about the show, but he was safe and warm thanks to her, and he knew it. When he told their mother about her “badass” feat, his eyes shone with a new respect, and she suspected that his teasing taunts of Wild Woman were over for good.
Despite being limp with fatigue the next morning, she wasted no time driving to Richard Barnett’s office and storming inside without so much as a knock.
She found him at his desk smoking a cigarette. He blinked several times before standing to greet her with a grin. His slim six-foot-four figure, neat blond hair, and intelligent hazel eyes added up to a man who could have been dignified, she thought. A man who could have been good for the world. But instead, he had chosen to capitalize on the pain and suffering of others.
“Isabel!” He walked around the desk to welcome her. “What a surprise.”
Keeping her feet planted, she scowled at him from the doorway. “I don’t know what sick game you’re playing,
but you’re not going to get away with it.”
He pulled back his hand as if she’d bitten it. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t play dumb.”
He shook his head slowly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh no? Because I’m pretty sure your investor is trying to kill me. And you set the whole thing up.”
CHAPTER 12
Joan
11 days before, New York
“We need to talk.”
Alone in her bedroom, Joan tested the words aloud. They sounded ominous, a surefire way to put Greg on the defensive the second he walked in the door. He’d been away on business since her discovery of the apartment’s on-sale status the day before. Now, any minute, he was set to arrive home, and she still hadn’t figured out how to start off the most significant conversation of their marriage.
Having such a talk over the phone was unthinkable. Maybe Adam’s generation could do that, but they could also have entire relationships over text.
No, she needed to confront her husband face-to-face. But nothing could be more terrifying. She rose from the illusory safety of her satin bedspread and went to wait by the window that overlooked the building’s entrance, fifteen floors below.
She felt like she were standing on the edge of a precipice, staring down the past thirty years of their relationship. He had never deceived her before, except for the slipup with the prescription pill addiction. That he was capable of a lie on this scale—
The thought ended there, for its implications were too staggering to bear.
It wasn’t cold, but she was quivering. The muscles in her arms twitched. She pressed her hand against the window. Her French manicured nails were chipped, her cuticles torn from hours of absentminded abuse.
She couldn’t help recognizing the irony of her situation: for five months, she had been trying to discover some elusive truth he seemed to be hiding. Now, on the verge of forcing it out, she wanted nothing more than to retreat into a shell of ignorance.