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“Where’s your kid?”

“Asleep,” she says, glancing toward the house.Then, with a shrug.“Don’t worry, this won’t take long.”

“You’re just going to leave her?”

She rolls her eyes.“Well, I’m sure as shit not bringing her along forthis.”

“Is there anyone you can call?”

She ignores me.“So,” she says over her shoulder, “what’s the plan when we get there?Gonna pull her out like some tragic bride at the altar?”

“My plans are none of your business.”

She smirks.“Not a romantic, huh?”

“No.”

“Good.Then you won’t mind when she lets you down.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to just leave your kid.”

She rolls her eyes.“Relax, Rambo.The au pair’s asleep in the guest room.”

She gets in the driver’s seat.I climb in beside her.She turns.“They’ll kill you, you know.”

“Maybe.”

Rachel opens her mouth to speak, then closes it again.In the end, she can’t help herself.“She won’t be the same.”

I don’t ask what she means.I probably should have.

50

Marlowe

Wake.Dress.Smile.Comply.That’s the routine.The order matters.So does the smile—just enough to look recovered, not so much that they’ll worry I’ve tipped the other way.Every gesture is practiced now, polished like silver that no one touches.I’m bathed in lavender-scented water.I’m brushed.Dressed.Told I’m beautiful.Every morning someone new zips me into someone else’s life and says, “There you are.”

The therapist tells me I’m improving.She’s not a real therapist.I don’t think.Just someone Robert pays to babysit me.She’s not the worst I’ve had, this one.She wears pale pink and soft shoes and always crosses her legs the same way.

“You’re sleeping more,” she says.“You’re remembering things.”She says it as though remembering is good.As though it doesn’t burn behind my eyes.She says, “Let’s try one together.”I nod.That’s the part I’m best at.

She prompts me, hand resting lightly on her knee.“I’m grateful to be home.”

“I’m grateful to be home.”

“I was confused.”

“I was confused.”

“I imagined it.”

“I imagined it.”

She beams like we’re making something together.Like this is a craft project and not a script I’ve memorized in my sleep.“Now something just for you.Something you’d say to someone you love.”

Her voice is sugar, but her eyes are sharp.I smile like I’ve missed this.Like I’m grateful.“I missed you,” I say.It comes out smooth.Too smooth.She doesn’t notice.Or she does, and she thinks that means I’m better.

In the afternoons they bring me to my old bedroom.His bedroom.It’s always the same.Soft lighting.Curated music.Air that smells like roses pressed into cashmere.A floor-length mirror glows gold from the lights around its frame.A rack of clothes waits beside it—neutrals, blues, soft grays.Silk blouses.Pencil skirts.Tasteful heels arranged like offerings.