Chapter 4
Tuesday evening. Sophie is in my kitchen.
She brought the wine — a C?tes du Rh?ne, not the Trader Joe's one after all, because she "saw this and thought of you.
" She's sitting on the counter with her legs crossed, holding her glass, watching me cook.
I'm making a pepper tasting — small bites designed to showcase each of the varieties I bought Saturday.
Aleppo on goat cheese crostini. Chipotle folded into dark chocolate ganache.
The Sichuan peppercorn toasted and ground over cold sesame noodles.
"This is insane," Sophie says, eating a crostini. "You just — do this? Just make food that tastes like a restaurant?"
"It's my job."
"Your job is at a lab. This is your gift." She takes another bite. Closes her eyes. "The Aleppo is like — fruity? But also warm? I can't describe it."
"Fruity, warm, moderate heat, slight oiliness. Almost raisin-like." I'm on autopilot. My hands know what to do — toast, grind, plate. My brain is somewhere else entirely.
It's been forty-eight hours since I saw the website. I haven't looked at it again. I haven't responded to Cara or Rachel. I've done nothing except go to work, come home, and lie in bed next to Matt replaying every interaction I've had with Sophie in the last two months.
And I can't find anything wrong.
That's the problem. I keep looking for the seam — the place where the performance shows through — and I can't find it. She's warm. She's present. She asks about my work, my family, my marriage. She remembers things. She shows up.
If she's lying about who she is, she's better at it than any compound I've ever worked with.
The best synthetic flavors in the world still have a tell — a slightly linear quality, a missing harmonic, a top note that arrives too clean.
Natural flavors have complexity because they're built from dozens of minor compounds that you can't always identify individually but that create depth in aggregate.
Sophie has depth. Or something that feels like depth.
"You're quiet tonight," she says.
I look up. She's watching me with that expression — tilted head, soft concern. The one that says I see you and I'm paying attention.
"Sorry. Work stuff."
"The nut clusters?"
"Yeah. The maple is reading too sweet in panels. I need to dial it back."
"Can you add salt? To balance it?"
"That's — actually exactly what I'm considering." I smile despite myself. "Are you sure you're not a food scientist?"
"In another life." She lifts her glass. "In this life, I'm just the friend who drinks your wine and asks good questions."
I pour myself more wine. The Rh?ne is good — peppery, dark fruit, a leather note on the finish that lingers. Whoever selected this knew what they were choosing. Not a generic grab-and-go bottle.
"Can I ask you something?" I say.
"Anything."
"Do you have other friends here? In Atlanta?"
She blinks. Sets her glass down. "Why?"
"I just realized — you always text me. We always hang out together. I've never met anyone else in your life here."
She's quiet for a second. Then she laughs — short, a little embarrassed. "God. That makes me sound like a stalker."
My stomach drops. Not because she said it. Because of how fast she said it. Like the word was already in her mouth. Ready.
"No — I didn't mean—"
"It's okay. It's a fair question." She picks up her glass again.
Swirls the wine. "I had a falling out with my friend group in Portland.
It was ugly — a misunderstanding that turned into a whole thing, and I lost basically everyone.
That's actually why I moved here. Fresh start.
" She shrugs. "So no. I don't really have other people here. It's just you."
"I'm sorry. About Portland."
"It's fine. It was a long time ago." She smiles. "And now I have you. So it worked out."
The words are warm. The sentiment is kind. And something in the back of my brain — the part trained to detect off-notes in flavor profiles, the part that knows when a sample has been adulterated even if I can't name the compound yet — that part pings.
She targets married women who are isolated. New to a city. Lacking friends.
I push the thought down. Take a sip of wine. Offer Sophie the chocolate-chipotle ganache.
"Oh my God." She presses a hand to her chest. "Priya. What is this?"
"Seventy-two percent dark chocolate with chipotle compound butter folded in at tempering. The smoke note comes from the chipotle being dried over mesquite."
"I'm going to die. This is the best thing I've ever eaten."
We spend the rest of the evening on the couch. Sophie tells me about a guy she went on two dates with through Hinge — "boring, talked about CrossFit for forty minutes" — and asks me about Matt. How we met. How we decided to move.
"Do you guys fight?" she asks. Her feet are tucked under her. Second glass of wine. The question is casual. Light.
"Not really. We bicker. Normal stuff."
"What about?"
"Dishes. His family visiting too often. The fact that he leaves cabinet doors open and I walk into them."
Sophie laughs. "That's healthy. The couples who never fight are the ones hiding something."
"Do you think?"
"Totally. My parents never fought. Turns out my dad was having an affair for seven years." She says it like it's nothing. A fact from her past, delivered flat.
"God. I'm sorry."
"It's fine. Ancient history." She waves her hand. "Anyway. Matt seems great. Really attentive. He noticed I was using the wrong soil amendment and corrected me at the garden last week — most people wouldn't bother."
"When was this?"
"Thursday? I was there early, before yoga, and he was dropping something off at your plot. We chatted for like ten minutes."
Thursday. I was at yoga. Matt told me he went to the hardware store.
"He didn't mention that," I say.
"It was nothing. Literally just — hey, your nitrogen is off, try this one instead." She laughs. "He's like a plant doctor."
I laugh too. It comes out right. Normal.
But the math is wrong. Matt said hardware store. Matt was at the garden. With Sophie. On Thursday. While I was at yoga.
It's not a lie. Not exactly. He went to the hardware store AND the garden. He just didn't mention the garden. Didn't mention Sophie. There are a hundred innocent explanations.
But I think about the website. Nine photos. Nine cities. She befriends the wife, then systematically pursues the husband.
After Sophie leaves — hugging me at the door, smelling like my wine and my chocolate and the vanilla of her lotion — I clean the kitchen slowly. Wash each glass by hand. Wipe down the counters. Put the leftover ganache in the fridge.
Then I sit at the table with my phone and I open the deleted messages and I restore Rachel's text.
Priya — you don't know me. My name is Rachel. The woman who moved in next to you is not who she says she is. I know that sounds insane. Please don't delete this. I can prove it.
I stare at it for a long time.
Then I open the website again. The Same Face Project. Nine faces. The timeline. Portland 2023-2024. Minneapolis 2025. Atlanta 2026.
I click on "Kate — Portland."
A testimonial from someone named Nina:
She moved into my apartment building. We met at the mailboxes.
She was new to the city, didn't know anyone.
We became instant friends. Within two months, she was texting my husband daily.
I thought it was harmless — they had a shared interest (running).
Three months later, I found hotel receipts.
He said nothing happened. She moved away the week I confronted her. I never found out her real name.
I close my eyes.
Community garden. Shared interest. New to the city. Didn't know anyone. Instant friends.
I open Cara's text. The 312 number.
I type: This is Priya. I looked at the website. I need to know everything.
I send it before I can change my mind.
The response comes in eleven seconds: Thank God. Are you somewhere safe to talk?
I look around my kitchen. Matt is upstairs watching TV. Sophie is home. The house is quiet.
Yes.
My phone rings. I answer it.
"Priya." A woman's voice. Steady, warm, tired. "I'm Cara. I'm so glad you called. Let me tell you what's happening to you."