All the Broken People

by Leah Konen

  “And then?” I asked.

  “I’m still me,” Vera said. “I keep my contacts in Manhattan. I keep my career. John’s paintings would sell—especially after such a tragic accident. Sam Alby won’t have a damn thing left to do. He won’t have anyone to sue or threaten. I could even come back occasionally. How could he stop me?”

  John ran his hands through his hair. “She’s right. As drastic as the idea is, as hesitant as I’ve been to accept it, it would be a fresh start.”

  “But what if someone recognizes you?” I asked. “If your accident gets in the news?”

  Vera’s eyes caught mine. “I thought of that, but more people die on hikes than you’d think. It’s usually a quick news item. Maybe there’s a photo, maybe not. Even when it is, it’s a blurry one dug up on Facebook, unless the family releases a better one. And up near Lake George, once you go west, even fifty miles, you’re completely off the beaten path. It’s not like this, there aren’t people coming up from the city every second—it’s practically Canada. There are places that are so removed from everything—places so insular and rural, I wouldn’t worry about anyone recognizing him, especially if he shaves his beard, changes his hairstyle a little. John could build something new. Away from everyone.”

  I felt a tug, deep inside, because she was right. People from Brooklyn came up here all the time. Davis had never had an interest in Woodstock, but there was no guarantee he wouldn’t change his mind. The thought of being even harder to find was tempting. I bet there were places, up in the woods, where you didn’t even run into cars, acres and acres of property where Dusty could just . . . run. Our little threesome could turn into a real family.

  “There’s this area, a protected wild forest. The towns in it are so small they’re hardly a spot on the map. And they’re so cheap. John could pay with cash. He’d have to use a different ID, but I think I could manage that, too,” Vera said as John nodded along. “It sounds nuts, but I think it would actually work.”

  “It would be better than living like this,” John added. “Than not even being able to go out in public without causing a scene.”

  A knife of a thought struck me, sharp and intrusive.

  “It won’t,” I said.

  Vera sucked in a breath. “What do you mean?”

  “Everyone knows you guys are in trouble. Like you said, people talk.” I let the knife cut deeper, the thought slice further. “Haven’t you watched any old movies?” My mom and I used to watch them all, every noir we could get our hands on. “You’re his wife,” I said to Vera. “If you tell people you watched your husband fall off a cliff, no one will believe you. They’d expect you, of all people, to be angry about . . . about everything.”

  “I know that, but really. My record is clean. John and I have never had so much as a public disturbance. And besides, I love him,” Vera said, squeezing his hand. “Anyone who knows us can see that.” Her eyes glistened. “I stuck by him through all of this. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

  She had no idea the depths people went to hurt each other, the way love could turn so quickly into violence. “You can’t be the witness,” I said. “You can’t be the only one, at least.”

  “What are you saying?” John’s eyebrows furrowed.

  “I’m saying, if you were actually going to fake your death, you’d need a witness who was unbiased, who wasn’t married to someone being sued, who wasn’t completely wrapped up personally and financially in all of this.”

  They stared, waiting.

  “You’d need me.”

  FOURTEEN

  I woke the next morning with a pounding headache, the previous night’s discussion seeming far-fetched in the harsh light of day, a whiskey-fueled flight of imagination.

  But as I made my way to the kitchen, brewed coffee, and urged Dusty out the doggie door and into the fenced bit of yard, the night replayed in my head: how a makeshift plan had bloomed between us, rising like steam on Manhattan’s streets. Me, their witness. Me, involved. Me, with them.

  I took a bitter sip of coffee, willing it to go straight to my head. Even if I wanted to help them, how could I risk it? I’d been so careful. I’d pulled the damn thing off. Davis didn’t know where I was. Could I really chance blowing that all up for an idea so wild?

  Around two, my hangover began to ease, and I left the cottage, Dusty leashed up for a proper walk. On the road, I turned left, away from Vera and John’s.

  Maggie’s front door burst open as soon as I walked past. “Lucy,” she called eagerly. “You have perfect timing!”

  “About to walk Pepper?” Her conveniently timed dog walks had become a bit of a habit, but as long as I didn’t mention Vera or John, they always went fairly smoothly. Maggie was a little clingy, sure, but she was harmless, only wanted a friend.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head but smiling, happy as a kid in a candy store. “Come in for a second.” She motioned to Dusty. “Bring him, too.” She turned before I could protest. Tugging on Dusty’s leash, I followed.

  Her house was small but quaint, all brick on the outside, all patterns and prints within. It was decorated just as you’d expect it—chintz pillows against rose-colored sofas, blue-and-white teacups and china on display, oriental rugs beneath carved wooden furnishings scraped up at the edges. As if someone had gotten lost at an antiques store, using nothing but a credit card to find their way out—the quilt she’d gotten for Rachel, the one that still sat on my bed, would fit right in.

  And then, there she was, as if my very thought had summoned her—Rachel, standing in the entrance to Maggie’s kitchen.

  “Lucy, this is Rachel. Rachel, Lucy,” Maggie said. “She’s the woman who used to live in your place. I’ve been wanting you two to meet.”

  Rachel was draped in diaphanous layers over dark purple leggings, her hair pulled back into a low knot at her neck. Dusty ran toward her eagerly, as if reuniting with a long-lost lover. We both smiled, and Maggie, head pivoting back and forth, placed a hand on her hip. “Wait a second. You’ve already met.”

  “Briefly,” Rachel said, kneeling to pet Dusty. “When Lucy first moved in. I was missing a crucial piece of mail.”

  “You could have asked me,” Maggie said, her voice suddenly hollow. “I would have gone over and gotten it for you.”

  Rachel lifted Dusty and nuzzled him again. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

  “Oh,” Maggie said. “Well, you know if you ever need anything . . . I mean, it’s not like you’re going to ask Vera. Not after everything.”

  Rachel’s lips pressed firmly together and her eyes found mine, only for a moment, as if checking for a reaction before she gingerly set Dusty down. “I know I can always count on you, Maggie,” Rachel said.

  Maggie turned to me, smiling, obviously proud of the fact that she and Rachel were friends. “You want to join us for tea?”

  “Thanks,” I said. “But we really should finish our walk.”

  “Well, next time.” Maggie glanced nervously between us, as if either one of us might disappear from her life at any moment. “Rachel comes over on Thursdays. We’ll make sure to invite you, since you know each other and all.”

  “Every Thursday?” I asked.

  “When I can,” Rachel said quickly. “There’s a miraculously not-yet-shuttered—pardon the pun—photography shop only a mile or so up the road. I get my film developed there, and sometimes I swing by on my way home.”

  They followed me to the door, Dusty hesitant to leave.

  “Next time,” Maggie said again.

  “Yes,” I said, an echo. “Next time. Nice to see you again, Rachel.”

  Maggie shut the door behind me, and I urged Dusty back onto the road. At the end of her driveway, I heard my name. I turned to see Rachel walking toward me, her top flowing in the wind.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I told Maggie I had to ask you ab
out another piece of mail.”

  “Oh, I haven’t seen anything else important. But there’s loads of junk.”

  “No, it’s not that,” Rachel said. “I just didn’t want you to think, based on the way Maggie was talking, that Vera and I are huge enemies. Maggie likes to make it all sound way more dramatic than it is.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “What did happen between you two, then?”

  She shifted from one foot to the other. “Honestly, it was all a big misunderstanding.”

  “Was it about—?”

  “Look,” Rachel said, “I don’t need to go into all the details, but I just wanted you to know, I don’t have any ill will toward Vera. I hope one day she and I can work everything out. So please don’t tell her—as confident, as amazing as Vera is, she really does care about what people think about her. I hope you won’t lead her to believe I’m over here gossiping about her. It isn’t like that at all. You don’t even really need to tell her I’m friendly with Maggie. I’m not sure she’d like it.”

  I nodded, but Rachel stared, wanting further confirmation. “Don’t worry. I won’t say anything.”

  She grinned. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” Then she turned, traipsing across the lawn and disappearing back into Maggie’s house.

  Dusty continued on, dragging me toward Rachel’s navy Subaru, which I hadn’t even noticed until now. I chastised myself for that—I should be more aware of my surroundings. Sure, Davis had been silent since that first email, but that didn’t mean I was safe.

  When Dusty stopped to do his business, on a stretch of woods that separated Maggie’s property from the next one, I stole a glance back. I felt strongly that Rachel shouldn’t be here—and weekly, no less. It was too close to Vera and John, to whatever had happened between them. What if I ran into her in the road? Or what if she decided to pop by and check her mail? What if Vera saw us? If she found out that I knew Rachel, even if ever so loosely, and that in all this time we’d spent together, I’d never thought to mention it, it would upset her—I knew it. And besides, now I’d agreed to keep a secret for Rachel. I didn’t like that at all.

  Vera saw the world in black-and-white, John had said. What if she thought that by even talking to Rachel, I’d somehow betrayed her? What if she cut me out, too?

  I shook the thought away, tugging Dusty, turning around and heading back toward the cottage. I was being silly. Vera and I were friends. And Rachel and I barely knew each other.

  Besides, Vera and John were leaving.

  Who knows—maybe I was, too.

  * * *

  • • •

  I spent the rest of the afternoon in solitude, writing new pitches, finishing an article I’d been assigned weeks before that felt particularly apt—“13 Ways to Protect Your Info Without Breaking Up with Big Tech.” Vera called at four, but I ignored it. She called again at five, and that’s when I decided I better head to town, lest she come over uninvited, as had become our way. I wasn’t ready to talk to her, not yet: If she asked me if I’d meant what I said last night, I didn’t know what in the world I was supposed to say.

  Al greeted me with a smile as I walked into Schoolhouse and grabbed an open seat at the counter. The place was decorated for fall, accented with gourds and fake cobwebs. I glanced at my phone, checking the date—October 30. Halloween was tomorrow, and I hadn’t given it so much as a thought. In another life, I would have planned a couples’ costume for Davis and me—Princess Leia and C-3PO was our all-time personal best—but in this life, I wanted nothing to do with it. Fake fear was only fun when you had nothing to truly be scared of.

  She wiped my place down and filled a glass of water. “I finished the Stephen King book you gave me.”

  “And?” I asked. On Writing, one of King’s nonfiction books, had been an eye-opener for me, and I’d picked it up for her at the bookstore down the street last week. A sort of extra tip.

  Al pushed a menu in front of me. “Everything he says makes so much sense, but it’s like, in creative writing class, they never go over any of that. They just tell you to ‘show, don’t tell,’ or whatever.”

  I glanced at the menu, remembering my creative writing professor, sophomore year of college. The only real wisdom she’d imparted, as we workshopped our short stories and she tried not to fall asleep, was to “write from the heart,” which was lovely in theory but useless as advice. “I remember well,” I said. “That’s why it’s good to read things like this on your own.”

  Al leaned against the counter, crossing her arms. She wore a striped shirt in shades of burgundy and a berry lipstick my mother would have found trashy—complete with her copper hair, she was a perfect portrait of fall. “I guess. Anyway, same as usual?”

  “Please.”

  Al snatched my menu away and posted the order in the kitchen. “By the way, when are you going to bring your neighbors in?”

  “They don’t like coming into town,” I said.

  “I know. But you’d think that John would want to show his face. Not be scared off by what people say about him and Vera.”

  I raised an eyebrow. It was the first time she’d ever hinted at what had happened with Vera and John. “So I guess that means you know about all of that?”

  “Everyone knows about that,” Al said, rolling her eyes. “Small town, you know.”

  She flitted down the bar, off to take another order, and I was left staring at the cracks in the wooden countertop, realizing John and Vera were right—it was impossible for them to continue on like normal here.

  I lifted the glass to my lips, wondering again if there was any way to make the plan work. But that’s when I heard a familiar voice behind me.

  When everything I’d built so carefully came crashing down.

  FIFTEEN

  Some things are instinctive:

  Lifting your hands to block an incoming blow.

  Averting your eyes at the sight of blood.

  Turning when your best friend says your name.

  In spite of the shock, her voice sounded bubbly, as it always did. The sound was baked into my bones.

  Ellie stared at me. “Holy shit.”

  Al stared, too, her eyes narrowed, questioning, but she quickly averted her gaze.

  “What are you doing here?” Ellie demanded. Her dirty-blond hair was tucked beneath a teal knit cap. Her cheekbones looked more prominent, as if the ten pounds she’d always been going on about losing had actually been lost over the last month and a half.

  My eyes flitted around the restaurant, hunting for signs of Davis.

  “Ellie,” I said, swallowing the name as soon as I said it, my tongue already thick in my mouth.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked again.

  Darkness crept at my periphery, blurring my vision. Around me, people continued with their lives, perusing menus, ordering craft beers.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, realizing too late that I should have gone to Seattle; I should never have attempted to hide in plain sight.

  She blinked. “We came up for a long weekend.”

  “‘We’?” I grabbed the counter, squeezing it so tight my knuckles turned white, imagining Davis hovering outside, ready to walk in at any moment. Hey, babe.

  “Me and my boyfriend,” she said. “The one I would have told you about if you’d answered a single one of my emails. If you hadn’t changed your number and disappeared.”

  I released my grasp on the counter, trying to understand. She had a boyfriend, so he was the other half of her terrifying we. Part of me wanted to throw my arms around her, ask her to tell me everything. She’d spent the last few years bouncing from one bad date to another, meticulously working through a string of guys who never wanted to commit, a devout Catholic praying over rosary beads. You’re so lucky, she was always telling me. You’re so lucky you have Davis.

  “It�
�s just you two?” I said instead, voice shrill. Al was wiping down the counter now, trying not to stare, but quite obviously listening to our every word.

  “Yes, just us,” Ellie said. “He’s back at the Airbnb because he had to finish up some work, and I came into town to get a beer. The proper bar had awful Yelp reviews, so now I’m here.” Her eyes shot daggers at me. “That’s my story. Now what about you? Why aren’t you in Seattle?”

  Sweat pricked the corners of my forehead. I had to stay calm and think. “Sit down,” I said, pulling out the chair next to mine. “Have your beer. I’ll explain.”

  Ellie looked bewildered, like she’d just woken up from a strange dream, but she hung her coat on the back of the chair and motioned to Al. “Two IPAs,” she said. “Please.”

  “You got it,” Al said, pretending this was normal, like she was not watching her pseudo–writing mentor being grilled about her whereabouts, being exposed as a liar, right before her eyes.

  Ellie pressed both hands to the counter. “I don’t understand,” she said, her voice cracking. “Do you hate me or something?”

  “No,” I said. “God, of course not. I love you.”

  “Then why?” Ellie asked.

  A bell dinged from the kitchen, and Al returned, delivering my eggs, a dish I’d had so many times. Now the smell made my stomach turn.

  “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend,” I said as my mind spun, trying to think of what I could possibly say to her, how to fix this. Al handed us two sweating beers, her eyes searching mine for answers.

  Ellie took a gulp and set the glass down hard. “Yeah,” she said. “I have a boyfriend. His name’s Andre, and we met on Tinder, and I thought it was just going to be a hookup, but look, here we are.” Her voice was suddenly cutting. “And he’s great, not that you give a shit.”

  “I do give a shit, I swear. I’m sorry,” I said. “I know I haven’t been the best about—”

  “You haven’t been the best about anything,” Ellie said, her eyes turning glossy. “I just, I don’t understand. You and Davis broke up, I mean, it’s weird and it’s unexpected, but okay, it happens, but then you don’t even want to talk to me? Why? Because I’m his sister? Not to mention, you change your number? God, I’m your best friend. I knew you long before he did. And now you’re here, and I feel like, I don’t know, like I’m going crazy.”