Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Mara
I’m on my nightly walk with Rufus, Dufus, and Bob when my phone dings with a text. I shuffle the leashes to one hand and pull my phone from the pocket of my jeans.
It’s from Lark. And it’s only one word: Emergency.
My stomach drops.
I picture the worst. Lark in the hospital. Lark stuck on the highway with a flat tire. Or worse, Mrs. McIntyre is back for Finn’s quarterly nail trim.
I press call and hold my breath, waiting for her to pick up. She answers on the first ring, her voice breathless.
“Drop whatever you’re doing!”
I glance at the leashes in my hand. “Not possible.”
“You’re never gonna believe this.”
I tug on the leashes, steering Bob away from an unidentified object in the bushes. My heart is in my throat, but I can’t let Bob eat poop.
“Are you okay?” I demand.
“I’m fine,” she says. “It’s you I’m worried about.”
“I’m just out with the Spicer’s dogs.” I yank Bob away from the mound in the dirt, which is definitely poop—that dog tries to consume everything— and start the short walk back to their house. “What’s the emergency? You scared the bejeezus out of me.”
Lark pauses for effect. I can hear her breathing, letting the suspense build. “You’re being catfished.”
I stop in my tracks, blinking in surprise. “What?”
“That guy from the app that you’ve been texting with every night?”
“Graham? My date for the fundraiser?”
We’d had some of the most interesting conversations I’ve ever had over text. I hadn’t known conversations like that were even possible. Graham is different than any man I’ve ever chatted with on an app. He’s funny and flirty. He makes me feel special, and I haven’t even met him yet.
Please, don’t let him be a catfish.
“I knew I recognized him. I did a reverse image search, and sure enough, his name isn’t Graham.” She sighs dramatically. “It’s Peter.”
“Are you sure?” Denial is not a river in Egypt, it’s my only hope.
Her voice softens. “I know you were really starting to like him.”
That’s the understatement of the year. I was falling for him. And I hadn’t even met him yet. “Maybe it’s a mistake.”
“Nope. I never forget a face. I knew it the moment I saw him.”
I navigate the dogs up their front steps, and their owner meets me at the door. I tell Lark to hold on and put my phone in my pocket before handing the leashes over.
“Everyone pooped. Bob tried to eat poop, but I didn’t let him. And they all got their milk bones.”
“Thank you, Mara. See you tomorrow.”
“See you. Bye Rufus, Dufus, and Bob.” I give them all another milk bone and a pat on the head. And owners wonder why their dogs love to see me coming. It’s all about the milk bones.
When I’m back on the sidewalk, walking toward home, I take my phone out of my pocket. “Still there?”
“Yep.”
“Where were we?”
“You—getting catfished. Me—remembering being slapped in the face with a banana peel.”
My step falters. “Do you have a new kink I should know about?”
“No. Well, yes, but not banana peels. I used to babysit his kid—that’s how I recognized him. That little shit threw a banana peel at me. Hit me square in the face. I couldn’t stomach the scent of bananas for a month.”
My stomach drops. “This isn’t good. Graham isn’t Graham?”
“He’s Peter.” Sympathy drips from her voice.
“This whole thing was your idea. I never even wanted a date.”
“It gets worse,” she says in a hushed voice. “He’s married.”
“No way.”
“ Way .”
Determination lengthens my stride. I’m nearly home and now I’m fired up to do something. Anything. Married men on the apps disgust me. Can they get any lower?
“I’m gonna bust him.”
“That’s the spirit!” I can all but see Lark punching her fist in the air. “Expose his fishy ass.”
“He might not even be Peter.” It’s been all over social media the way men use attractive photos to trick women. “He’s probably some kid, playing pranks.”
“Ooooh!” Lark breathes heavily into the phone. “Or he’s a serial killer hoping to catch another victim. You really dodged a bullet.”
I think Lark may have been listening to too many true crime podcasts. “I’ll ask him to do a video call. That will expose him.”
“Good idea!”
We hang up, and I swipe to the app, firing off a message asking Graham to call me before I can wallow in self-pity for too long. I thought he was one of the good ones. I should have known better.
“What’s your number?”
“How about a video chat?”
“Not a good time.”
Of course! Anger boils my blood. What a liar! “Why not? Is your wife around?”
Green conversation dots appear, then disappear. Finally, he writes back. “I’m not married. Why would you think that?”
“What’s your real name?”
“Graham.”
I roll my eyes to heaven and back. “Whatever you say, PETER.”
The conversation dots are back, then gone, then back again. “It’s not what you think.”
I bark out a laugh and stalk to the kitchen, where I grab a bottle of Chardonnay from the fridge before typing out a reply. “That’s what all the catfish say.”
“I’m not a catfish.”
“Is that your picture on the profile?”
“No.”
“Buh-bye.” I toss the phone onto the counter and pour wine all the way to the rim of the glass.
Now, I must start over finding a date to the fundraiser, and I’m not sure I want one.
The heaviness in my heart hurts as I slide onto a stool. Graham/Peter had made me excited about the prospect of dating again. The illusion bursts like a painful blister.
I don’t think I’ll ever find someone who’s right for me. I might as well start adopting cats.
I’ve always wanted a Siamese.
The ding! of his response comes before I can take the first sip of wine. Despite my annoyance, I pick up my phone and check his message.
“It’s for privacy.”
Is this guy for real? I take a long sip before replying. “Why do you need privacy? From your wife?”
“I told you—I’m not married.”
I sip while waiting for him to elaborate. Finally, his message appears.
“I’m in the public eye.”
I groan. “Let me guess. You’re famous?”
“Sort of.”
I can almost hear Lark’s voice in my head, telling me I need to be firm. Take control.
“Two choices: video chat or find another date.”
There’s a long pause during which I down half my glass of wine, staring at my phone the entire time. I’m about to give in and text him again when the chime sounds.
“Fine. What’s your number?”
I text him my number, then panic. I’m sure I’m a mess. I haven’t even looked in the mirror.
I waste precious moments running to the bathroom and applying a quick coat of lip gloss and fluffing my hair. It shouldn’t matter if I look good or not. He’s the one catfishing.
Then, I remember our flirty banter and easy conversation over text. My belly tightens. I really don’t want him to be a catfish. Please let this all be one big mistake.
The possibility that he’s a murderer flits through my mind. I sure as hell hope Lark isn’t right about that.
I’m about to find out.
My phone rings, and I sprint to the living room. No way he’s seeing me in the bathroom for the first time. I position myself on my sofa with my favorite painting behind me on the wall.
Pressing accept, I hold my breath, then remember to breathe, then exhale through my teeth.
The screen lights up, wavers for a moment and is blurry. I can see the shape of a man, but not clearly.
This is freaking torture.
Then the picture clears, and I see Graham for the first time.
My stomach plummets, because it’s not the first time I’ve seen Graham.
He’s the writer from the café.