3. Audra
Three weeks later…
It's been three weeks. And something is… off. Not bad. Not exactly good either. Just strange. Like the universe tilted slightly and forgot to tell me.
"Anything yet?" Annette asks the second I answer the phone.
I tuck it between my ear and shoulder while wiping down the stainless-steel exam table at work. A golden retriever just left behind enough fur to build a second dog. "Nope."
"Seriously?"
"Nothing. No ticket. No fine. No court date. No sternly worded letter about the dangers of designer knockoffs."
"That's so weird," she sounds out of breath. She's probably on her treadmill. "Lynn got hers last week. Josie too. They both had to go in, plead it down, and pay a fine."
So I'd heard. "I know."
"And you haven't heard a thing?"
"Not a peep." I grin. "Maybe they lost me."
Annette gasps theatrically. "Oh my God. Maybe they did."
"Maybe I slipped through the cracks."
"Lucky duck."
We both giggle. It feels absurd. Like we got away with something far bigger.
Making me feel years younger, like back when conspiring and sneaking behind your parents' backs was fun.
Now it's more like I'm sneaking behind Pete's.
He already accused Annette of being a bad influence, one I would be better off staying away from.
I thought about it. I did. But for the life of me, I can't figure out why Annette would be a bad influence.
It's not like we went to buy Coke and got arrested.
I gave up all my old friends long ago, because Pete had been right. They had been a bad influence on me. But Annette? I shake my head.
Besides her having everything I've always dreamed of, she makes me feel… alive. It's good to have someone to call me, to text me with something besides a need or a request. I don't think Pete and I are going to agree on this matter.
We haven't agreed on much lately. It started the night of the purse party. He was supportive when he picked me up. Calm. Reliable. Like always. But the second we got home, something shifted.
"Go take a shower," he said, shaking his head. "You smell like… jail."
I blinked at him. Jail? And a long-forgotten part of me snickered inside my head: How would he even know what that smells like?
Still, I did it. Because I would've anyway. By the time I came back out, he was waiting.
"Did you know those parties were illegal?" he wanted to know, arms crossed. "Why didn't you tell me? Why did you even go?"
I stared at him.
"Excuse me?" My voice came out sharper than I expected. "You're the one who encouraged me to go. You gave me the money. Didn't you know?"
He just stared at me. Like I'd said something wrong. Like I'd crossed a line I didn't even see.
I'd never talked to him like that before. And God help me—it felt pretty damn good. At least for a few seconds. But he didn't let go. He never does.
"Audra, you need to think before you do things," he chastised in a tight voice. So controlled. "We've talked about this. I thought you were stronger than that. Better."
Better.
The word landed heavier than it should. That's what I'd been trying to be for years. We went in circles for what felt like hours. Him repeating. Me trying to explain. Him not really listening.
Until I was just… tired.
"I know." I finally threw in the towel, softening my voice. "I'm sorry, Pete. It was thoughtless." That was what he wanted to hear. "I'll do better."
His shoulders relaxed immediately. "Of course, sweetheart," he pulled me into a hug. "I'd do anything for you."
I nodded. Of course, he would. Just not this. Not letting me be me. Not meeting me even halfway. He's always working. Always too busy. Never wants to go anywhere, do anything. And somehow, I'm still the one who needs fixing.
"How's that purse of yours?" Annette's voice rips me from my thoughts.
I hesitate. That's another funny thing. Just days after my arrest—God, I still get goosebumps thinking about that night—a package showed up at our door.
There was nothing written on it, just my name, like a special delivery.
Only, nobody rang the doorbell. Inside was a card: Congratulations. You won.
Won what?
I don't remember entering a contest. But this is Vegas.
I sign receipts without reading them. I click boxes online.
Maybe I accidentally entered something. Still.
Weird. Because inside that box was the exact purse.
The same one. Blood red. The Gucci. Not just the purse.
The wallet. A matching makeup case. A keyring.
Even a phone cover that fit my ancient ten-year-old phone like it had been molded for it. It was surreal.
"It's real," I confide to Annette. "I had it appraised. I took it to a luxury resale boutique downtown under the pretense of just being curious. The sales lady examined every stitch, every seam, every piece of hardware. And then she said, It's authentic, all of it, and brand-new."
I take a dramatic breath and continue, "I asked her how much it's worth, and she said, With the wallet, case, accessories… you're looking at around ten thousand retail."
Ten thousand!
There's a sharp inhale on the other end from Annette. "Shut up."
"I'm serious."
"Ten grand?" She whistles lowly and repeats. "Lucky duck."
I giggle again. "Don't I know it."
But even as I say it, my mind is already calculating.
If I sold it, I could probably get four.
Maybe five thousand. That's not nothing.
That would pay most of Mom's latest ER bill.
Or it would get new phones for Pete and me, ones that don't freeze when we open more than two apps.
It would give us breathing room. I glance down at the purse sitting inside my locker, looking so pretty.
It's too beautiful for my life. Too bold. Too expensive. I should sell it.
I probably will. I just want to keep it for a few more days. That's what I've been telling myself for over a week.
Pete's solid. He's steady. He's everything a husband should be.
The kind of man who steps in and makes things…
manageable. Who draws quiet lines around your life so you don't have to.
Who teaches you—gently, patiently—how to stay inside them.
The thought makes something warm bloom in my chest. I'm lucky. So lucky. I focus on that warmth.
I don't focus on the other thing.
The other sensation. The one that burns colder. Icy blue eyes. Watching me. Not embarrassed. Not amused. Claiming.
For a split second—just a flicker—it feels familiar in a way I don't want to examine too closely.
Like I've stood in that kind of gaze before.
Like I know exactly what it means to be seen like that.
I don't know his name. I only remember the way the hallway went silent when our eyes met.
The way my skin prickled. The way something inside me… recognized it.
Recognized him.
I shake the thought away. It's nothing. Adrenaline. Leftover nerves. Except… sometimes, when I carry the red purse now, I feel… seen. As if the world shifted, and I'm walking through it slightly off-center.
"Seriously, though," Annette's voice breaks into my thoughts. "That's insane luck."
Luck? Maybe. Or maybe?—
No. I don't finish that thought. Because the alternative would mean someone is watching.
And that would make this something else entirely.
I hang up with Annette and stare at my locker.
The red leather glows even in the dim light.
I should sell it. I probably will. But when I lift it and sling it over my shoulder, a shiver runs through me.
And I can't tell if it's excitement. Or warning.
Mom is waiting for me when I get home. "What took you so long?"
I look at my watch. I'm only half an hour later than usual. "I went to the grocery store to pick up dinner. I thought you might like some ham and sauerkraut? I even got the German dumplings you like."
Mom hasn't been eating again lately. She's already underweight. A hundred and twenty pounds at five foot five.
"My stomach has been acting up again. I can't eat for three days. You know how that goes."
I sigh. I do. Mom is convinced she has Gastritis.
The latest PA we've seen, call me Matthew, has been a real sweetheart.
He's been trying everything to find out why Mom is feeling so bad.
That's her thing. I don't feel good. I feel bad.
I feel off. That's all she can ever say.
No stomach pain. No dizziness. No fever, cough, or runny nose.
No headache. Just weak. Just off. But all his tests always come back negative.
Mom is forty-five, feeling and acting like she's ninety-five.
Matthew said her blood pressure is a little elevated, but her blood work is okay for someone her age.
Nothing alarming. Her Cholesterol is slightly elevated—she won't take statins—her kidney function is off by a few points—also nothing alarming, she just needs to drink more.
They've done scans, ultrasounds, biopsies, X-rays, and drawn blood like there is no tomorrow, and the results are all the same: nothing. She's healthy as a horse.
"Well, why don't you go lie down, Mom? I'll make you some oatmeal."
She huffs. "You know I can't have milk, and that stuff tastes horrible with water."
I put the groceries on the counter. Behind her back, I roll my eyes. I love her. She's my mom. But some days she's just… too much. When she's like this, it feels like she's sucking the energy right out of my body.
My phone rings. "Your car is ready, Mrs. Hale."
"Oh, thank God." I've been taking Pete's for two days. The poor man has been catching rides with his coworker. "What was wrong?"
"It needed a new alternator, like we talked about."
Shit. He did mention that. But that's… a few thousand dollars. We can't just pay that. Pete will have a coronary not being consulted. The garage should have called me. Or…