Chapter 10
Sunday brunch. Kate brings bagels — everything, sesame, plain — and a container of cream cheese with chives that she made herself because she knows I appreciate homemade.
"I learned it from you," she says, setting the container on my counter. "You ruined store-bought for me forever."
"That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me."
She laughs. I laugh. We eat bagels at my kitchen island and she tells me about a bride who wants live butterflies released during the ceremony and how the vendor she found charges four hundred dollars per hundred butterflies and the groom is allergic to anything with wings.
I listen. I laugh where I'm supposed to. I refill her coffee.
And the whole time I'm looking at her with the same eye I use on photographs. Scanning for the seams. The places where the performance shows.
She's wearing a white linen shirt and jeans. Simple gold hoops. Hair down, slightly curled at the ends. Her nails are short — she keeps them short, she told me once, because she types so much for work. Event planning. All that coordination.
Except I've seen her files now. Her "work" folder on the MacBook — CLIENTS — had exactly three documents in it.
Three. A real event planner would have hundreds.
Contracts, vendor lists, floor plans, timelines.
Kate has three PDFs that look like templates downloaded from a website. Placeholder content.
She doesn't plan events. She never did.
"What are you staring at?" Kate asks. She's smiling. A piece of bagel in her hand.
"Sorry." I blink. "Zoned out. I was thinking about the Hartwell cake — whether gold leaf or gold luster dust reads better on camera."
"Gold leaf. Always. More texture, catches light differently." She points her bagel at me. "You already know that."
"I already know that," I agree.
* * *
After brunch she stays. This is normal — Kate stays for hours. We migrate from kitchen to couch. She puts on some home renovation show she's obsessed with and I bring my laptop and pretend to work on the Hartwell proposal while actually watching her from behind the screen.
Three years. Three years of this exact scene — her on my couch, comfortable, sock feet tucked under the throw pillow, commentary on the host's questionable tile choices.
Three years of letting her into my home, my schedule, my marriage.
My life has a Kate-shaped space carved into it so deep I don't know what it looks like without her.
"Hey." She turns to me during a commercial break. "Can I tell you something?"
"Always."
"I think I might leave Hartford." She says it casually. The way you'd mention changing hairstylists. "I've been thinking about Austin. Or maybe Savannah. Somewhere with a bigger events scene."
My body goes cold. Leave Hartford. Of course. That's what she does — she leaves. Except she's been here three years and hasn't left, and now she's talking about moving.
"When?" I manage.
"Not tomorrow or anything. Just... thinking about it. Six months, maybe. A year." She shrugs. "I love it here. I love you. But I feel like I need a change."
A change. A new city. A new name. A new wife to befriend, a new husband to seduce, a new folder with new initials.
"I'd miss you," I say. True.
"I'd miss you more." She reaches over and squeezes my ankle. "Nothing's decided. I just wanted to float it."
Float it. Test the waters. See if I'd try to stop her.
Rachel's voice in my head: She never stayed before. She always left. And now she's telling me she's thinking of leaving again. Maybe the three-year experiment is winding down. Maybe I'm about to become another terminated file. Maybe the confrontation needs to happen sooner than two weeks.
I text Rachel from the bathroom: She just mentioned moving. Might be planning to disappear again. Timeline may need to accelerate.
Rachel replies in forty seconds: How soon?
I don't know. She said 6 months. But her pattern is to telegraph and then vanish overnight.
Can you get her address confirmation this week?
Yes.
Do it. We'll be ready when you are.
* * *
Kate leaves at 4 PM. I walk her to the door. She hugs me — both arms, tight, her chin on my shoulder.
"Love you, Danny."
"Love you."
The door closes. I stand in my hallway and I count to thirty — making sure she's gone, making sure I hear her car start and pull away. Then I go to the kitchen.
I don't bake. I do something I haven't done in years.
I pull out my grandmother's recipe book — the handwritten one, spiral-bound, grease-stained.
I flip to the page for her vanilla sponge.
The one she made for my eighth birthday.
The one that's just butter and sugar and eggs and flour and nothing complicated but somehow tastes like childhood.
I make it from memory. I don't need the book — I know it by heart. But I need to see the handwriting. I need to see my grandmother's pencil marks and her shorthand and the little note in the margin that says "Danielle loves this one."
Something real. Something that was never faked.
* * *
Monday. Liam is at work. I drive to Kate's apartment with purpose.
I'm not looking through her things this time — I've already taken the hard drive and MacBook.
They're in my studio. What I need now is simpler: her legal identity.
A utility bill. A lease with a name. Anything that connects "Kate" to an address and a last name that either matches or doesn't match Vanessa Reid.
Her mailbox is in the lobby. I use the key — the same set she gave me for Tulum. Small key, brass, apartment 3B.
Three envelopes. A flyer for a pizza place. A catalog for a clothing brand. And a utility bill — electric, from Eversource.
The name on the bill: Katherine Holloway.
Katherine. Kate. Holloway. Not Reid. A different last name.
I photograph the envelope — front and back — with my phone. Date, address, account number visible. Then I put it back. Take nothing. Leave no trace.
In the car, I send the photo to Rachel: Katherine Holloway. That's what she's using here.
Rachel: Checking now. Give me an hour.
I drive to my studio. I work on the Hartwell mock-up — a real cake this time, a paid commission, something that matters and will be eaten and celebrated.
I torte the layers, crumb-coat, chill. I roll fondant.
I press dried fig slices into a dehydrator for garnish.
Normal work. Good work. Work that feeds people.
My phone buzzes at 11:42.
Rachel: Katherine Holloway. CT driver's license issued 2022. Address matches — 44 Birchwood Ln Apt 3B. Photo matches Vanessa Reid. She's using a real ID under a false name — possible identity theft or legally changed name. Lauren is digging into it.
Lauren: Found it. She legally changed her name from Vanessa Reid to Katherine Holloway in 2021. Delaware filing — we have the document. It's technically her legal name now. But she was Vanessa Reid for 33 years before that.
Me: So "Kate" is real. Legally.
Rachel: The name is real. The person is not.
* * *
I set my phone down. I look at the Hartwell cake — smooth white fondant, waiting for decoration. A blank surface. Ready to become whatever I make it.
Kate is legally Katherine Holloway. She changed her name. She built an identity that would hold up to a background check, a lease application, a driver's license. This isn't someone using a fake name at a party. This is someone who went to court and erased herself and started over with paperwork.
Which means she could do it again. Texas. Savannah. Wherever she goes next — she could change her name a second time and vanish from every database we have.
The timeline just compressed.
I text Rachel: We can't wait two weeks. If she's thinking about moving, she could file another name change and disappear.
Rachel: Agreed. How fast can you set up the meeting?
I look at my calendar. The Hartwell delivery is Friday. Kate and I have no plans until next Sunday brunch.
Next Sunday. One week. Can everyone get here?
Silence for four minutes. Then Rachel: Confirming with the group. Stand by.
I stand by. I pipe gold leaf accents onto the fig garnishes — delicate, precise work that requires a steady hand and full attention. Except half my attention is on the phone.
It buzzes again.
Rachel: Everyone confirmed. Sunday. Your apartment. We're coming.
Seven women in my living room. One predator walking into a room full of the people she hurt.
Seven days.
I finish the gold leaf. It catches the studio light and glows. Beautiful. Fragile. One wrong breath and it tears.
Just like everything else right now.