I spent the whole long drive back from Los Angeles preparing to confront a criminal—grinding my way through the storm, thinking, I can do this! I am capable, I am strong! I am Vanessa Fucking Liebling!—only to find this, an attentive husband, harmless as a teddy bear. I remind myself that this—he!—is just an illusion. But it’s such a convincing one.
Who is Vanessa Fucking Liebling, anyway? A basket case; a weakling, hiding behind a name that’s lost all of its weight.
I pull back. “You got a haircut,” I notice.
“You like it, yeah? I remembered you preferred it shorter.” He runs a hand through his hair, tousling it so that a black curl falls over one eye. He smiles at me from underneath it, and I feel desire rising inside me despite myself. I follow him into the kitchen, where a fire leaps in the hearth and something roasts in the oven—a chicken? potatoes?—that smells of home. I’m so overwhelmed I want to weep; the conviction drains from me along with the snow from my boots.
He pours himself a fresh glass of wine and then turns to look at me. I stand just inside the door, motionless, still in my coat, the wine in my hand untouched. The smile falls off his face in tiny pieces, then all at once.
“Is something wrong?” he asks.
Outside, the snow is coming down thick and fast, burying Stonehaven in a silent shroud. Three feet is expected tonight. The weather report is calling it the biggest storm of the season: a dump. (Oh, the irony!) I’m lucky I’m here at all: I had barely driven over the summit before the highway patrol closed the roads entirely.
Despite the warmth from the fire, the steam clouding the windows, I’m freezing cold.
I don’t realize that I’m about to speak until the words are suddenly out there, like a grenade slipping thoughtlessly from a hand. (Too soon! I’m not ready!)
“Who are you?”
He places the glass of wine down, his brows puckering with mild puzzlement. “Michael O’Brien?”
“That’s your name. But who are you really?”
He’s smiling again, bemusement twitching his upper lip. “Asks the queen of duplicity.”
This stops me. Me? “What do you mean?”
“Your career has been all about spinning lies. Putting up a pretty facade for public consumption when you’re a mess underneath. Selling a life that doesn’t really exist. You don’t see that as a lie?”
“That doesn’t hurt anyone!” (Does it?)
He shrugs and sits down on a stool. He settles the glass on the marble counter with a soft clink, spins it until it is perfectly aligned with the edge. “You can see it that way if you like. I’d disagree. You’ve been profiting off a mythical version of yourself, promoting unachievable aspiration, giving your half-million followers insecurity complexes and dooming them to a lifetime of FOMO therapy. You’re a huckster, darling. Like the rest of your kind.”
My head feels thick, muddied. It’s maddening, how calm he is. He’s trying to confuse me; he’s succeeding, too.
What do I say? I’m afraid of upsetting him. I still remember the horrible heft of that poker in his hand, the fury on his face when I told him I wasn’t as rich as he thought I was. There are knives in this kitchen; there are heavy cast-iron skillets and burning logs and all sorts of dangerous things. I don’t want a big confrontation. I just want him to leave.
I try again.
“Look, I’ve just been thinking.” (Gentle! I make my voice sound so gentle and unsure; which, really, isn’t much of a stretch.) “Is this really working, you and me? Together?”
He spins the glass of wine on the counter. It wobbles drunkenly, threatening to tip over and shatter; and I’m about to lunge to grab it when he stabs the stem with a finger, anchoring it in place. “What? You’re unhappy, is it?”
“I was just thinking.” I glance at the clock over the door. It’s only five P.M., but outside the kitchen windows I can’t see anything, only darkness; not even the lake, not