Chapter 1

Eighteen hours earlier, Evan took the gifts I had bought for my parents and put them in Maya's canvas tote.

The navy bag held a bottle of vintage reserve bourbon for my father.

The cream box held an ivory cashmere wrap I had ordered from Scotland for my mother.

"Maya's family is going through enough right now," Evan said, adjusting the handles. "They need this more than your parents do."

Then he set an eight-dollar supermarket pumpkin pie on the counter.

"Take this to Portland tomorrow," he said. "Your mom loves pie anyway."

Maya stood by our entryway, clutching the straps of her tote.

"Thank you, Claire," she whispered, her eyes wide and soft. "I don't know what we would do without you guys."

Two years ago, when Maya lost her job and couldn't pay rent, she slept on our grey linen sofa for ninety days.

I paid for her groceries.

When she finally found a studio in Lincoln Park, I wrote the check for her first month's rent and security deposit.

"It's just for tonight," Evan said, turning to me as he pulled on his wool overcoat. "Her grandmother is in hospice. She just wants to see Maya engaged before she passes. It's a dying woman's wish, Claire. Don't make this difficult."

"You're wearing your bespoke suit for a staged dinner," I said quietly.

"We have to make it look real," Evan replied, checking his watch. "I'll be back tomorrow morning by eight. We can talk before you leave."

The front door clicked shut behind them.

The apartment fell dead silent, except for the hum of the refrigerator.

I walked over to the kitchen island and picked up our shared iPad to check the flight schedule to Portland.

The screen lit up with an unsynced notification from Evan's email account.

It was an order confirmation from a jeweler on Michigan Avenue:

EVAN HART -- OVAL DIAMOND RING FOR MAYA BELL -- $8,750.

I stared at the numbers.

A prop for a dying grandmother didn't cost eight thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars.

My thumb moved over the screen.

I took a screenshot, forwarded the receipt to my private email, and deleted the sent message.

My hands stayed steady as I tapped my mother's contact.

"Mom," I said when she answered on the second ring. "I'm coming home alone tomorrow."

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line.

No questions. No probing.

"Your father and I will be waiting at baggage claim, sweetheart," my mother said softly.

I hung up, and my phone vibrated in my palm.

It was a text from my sister, Natalie: Mom just told me. Are you okay?

I typed back: I'm packing.

Natalie called three seconds later.

"Don't confront him there alone," her voice was firm and low. "Just pack your things and get on that plane tomorrow. We'll deal with everything else once you land."