Chapter 22
Mallory
Sunday Afternoon
Three Days After the Outing
Mallory leaves Noreen’s car running in the driveway. She unlocks the door to her mom’s kitchen and files past the photographs
on the refrigerator without a single dart of her eye. She’s down the basement stairs, in front of the freezer, spinning the
padlock and lifting the chest’s lid all in a single breath.
On goes the phone, off goes the blanket, and Mallory steadies her quivering hand to level the device between Grayson’s face
and her own, ignoring the way her heart rams against her rib cage. With the sound of the phone unlocking, the tightrope of
tension in her body ebbs. She wrests her eyes from those dark spikes of his hair and replaces the blanket. She keeps one finger
on the screen so it doesn’t time out as she closes the lid and secures the lock. She’s up the stairs and back in the safety
of Noreen’s car and breathing like she’s just finished two marathons when her own phone buzzes and she wants to throttle it
along with this universe’s Mallory. It’s surely a reminder for some absurdity like blindfolded speed dating or instructions
on how to unlock her own front door.
But Mallory can’t see shit without those stupid reading glasses.
She delves into her purse and shoves them on her face.
She steadies her breath and opens the settings on Grayson’s phone.
Her phone buzzes, and Mallory risks a quick glance.
On her lock screen are missed texts from Ella and Noreen.
This latest buzz is announcing a text from Ilena.
Grayson’s screen darkens in her hand, and she jams a finger to wake it.
She ignores her own texts and finds the setting for facial recognition in Grayson’s phone.
More incoming messages on her own device: Aubrey, followed by an unknown number.
Ella, Noreen, Ilena, Aubrey, Unknown.
A foreboding grips her chest, but Mallory focuses on the thing that has to take precedence because that thing required the
use of a dead body and she’s not doing it again. She taps the button for “facial ID” on Grayson’s phone.
Enter your passcode.
Well, fuckity, fuck, fuck. If she could do that, she wouldn’t need to turn off the goddamn facial ID. Though a scream builds
in her throat, she gently cancels and backs all the way out of the settings. She repeats each step. With the same response.
Twice.
“Son of a bitch!” She slams the heel of her palm against the wheel. Grayson’s phone tumbles from her grip. The screen flashes,
but she shoots out her hand and snatches the device before it goes dark.
So she can’t shut off the facial ID. So she can’t change the passcode. So she’ll have to do this here. Find the right wording
to shut Heidi Hoffman down, to make Grayson disappear, because the alternative is having to preserve Grayson as a popsicle
in her mom’s freezer for the rest of her life and of all the things Mallory can live with, that’s not one of them.
She scans Grayson’s texts: new messages from the names of friends, some of whom she remembers him talking about; a no-show notification for a dinner reservation on Saturday; six “where are you” variations from Heidi Hoffman; and a check-in from his mom.
She has no idea if his mom is the type to be worried about him because she didn’t even know he had a mom.
Well, obviously, of course he would have a mom, technically, but practically?
They never talked about their families. AIM and sex and feeling free in a goddamn elevator, that was her relationship with Grayson. It had been enough.
Exiting his texts, she opens his email and addresses a new message to Heidi Hoffman. With the subject line . . .
Family emergency? Heidi Hoffman probably has Grayson’s family contacts and their medical histories down to their last bowel movements.
Health issue? Kidney stones or panic attack or nervous breakdown? Heidi Hoffman would scour every hospital and doctor in Boston.
Wellness retreat? But if that yoga and meditation setup in his penthouse was for show, then there will be zero buy-in here too.
Secret fling? Witness protection? Monkhood?
What would Mallory believe? What would be worth missing taking AIM public and an appearance on national television?
Unexpected and urgent business opportunity with tremendous potential. In this, Mallory and Grayson are the same. Nothing would
stand in the way of the chance for bigger, greater, more lucrative success.
She reads the email over three times before hitting Send, then creates a generic out-of-office responder for both his email
and his texts. The screen dims, signaling a power down that would sever any remaining tie to Grayson.
She could let it go, let it all end, right here and now.
She could have no way of knowing the truth: if AIM is a lie here too.
If this universe’s Mallory actually did have motive because this Grayson was also inflating the stock price.
Ilena wanted to find out. To fix it. Same as in their world. She doesn’t understand.
Mallory was a child who wasn’t scared of monsters under the bed, who grew into a woman who doesn’t shriek at mice. But this?
If Grayson was innocent here, if this AIM had reached two billion all on its own, then this Mallory hadn’t failed. This version
of herself had done what she couldn’t.
With the phone dimming, Mallory hurries to open the auto-lock setting before the device goes to sleep. She isn’t ready to
let go. But she’s also not ready to know the truth. So she simply turns off the auto-lock, which she can thankfully do without
a passcode. She’ll have access to Grayson’s phone so long as she never shuts it off. All she has to do is keep it charged.
Carefully, she places his phone in the cupholder, wishing she had Bubble Wrap.
She grabs her own phone and reads through her texts:
Ella: We’ll have talking points for Shandy Shane this afternoon. How lucky are we?
Noreen: Final paperwork for the listing needs to be signed by y’all ASAP. Or whenever you get a chance because I know the hype has
gotten overwhelming and you’re underwater but ASAP. I can bring it to you. Just say the where and when!
Ilena: Dinner tonight. A gender-reveal party. Don’t ask. Had no choice.
A dinner party? Now? For a baby that isn’t actually Ilena’s?
Aubrey: Did Ilena text you? Am I supposed to bring a gift? I’d already said yes to drinks tonight with Ethan.
617-555-4090: Mr. Harley’s waiting for you at Dog Eat Dog day care! We’ll keep snuggling him, but it’s an extra $30 per half-hour past pickup!
Aubrey: Can I bring Ethan?
Aubrey: Should I?
Ilena: I’m seating you next to James. See what you can find out.
What are they doing? This isn’t real life! We’re not just settling in here!
Her hand reaches for the marks on her arm and she kneads so hard that if she had flint in her hand, she’d ignite.
Her phone rings. It’s a New York area code. Shandy Shane. She has to answer, she wants to answer, but what if they ask about Grayson? Should she act like she knows he’s unavailable
or pretend she’s as shocked as everyone else by his sudden trip? And why does she suddenly sound so very much like Aubrey?
She clutches the phone to her chest. It’s going to go to voicemail if she doesn’t pick up. She takes off the cat-eyed reading
glasses and answers the call. “This is Mallory Latham.”
“Ms. Latham, this is Georgina, assistant producer at The Shandy Shane Show. We wanted to confirm—”
The wail of sirens eclipses the producer. Mallory presses her finger in her ear.
“. . . availability for—”
Flashing red lights ricochet through Noreen’s hatchback. A rumble of an engine from behind announces the black-and-white car
that boxes her in. A Cambridge police car.
Mallory struggles to summon saliva. “Yes, good, good, all good. I’m sorry, I have to run.”
She lowers her phone. Drops it in the cupholder.
She’s too late. Maybe Grayson’s elevator did have a camera or the penthouse had a hidden home security monitor or maybe the goddamn eavesdropping Alexa or Google Home or whatever they have here ratted her out.
She’s never getting home. She’s going to miss everything, in both worlds.
She places her hands on the wheel and waits.
“Step out of the car . . .”
Shit.
“Miss MallieMoo.”
Excuse me?
Her rearview mirror frames the driver’s-side door as it swings open and a man in a police uniform steps out. He’s tall and
thick like a linebacker but with the slightest rounded belly and lag in his gait that confirms his playing days are long behind
him. Dark gray sunglasses rest beneath a close-cropped haircut that’s meant to mask a severely receding hairline. His tight
jaw twitches as he approaches. Mallory inhales a breath and opens the car door.
The police officer’s arms extend like a T. “There she is. I was starting to think you were a figment of your mom’s and my
imagination.”
Mallory flinches.
“Oh, come on, was it the lights thing?” He lowers his arms. “You used to love it as a kid.”
“Kid?”
“I know, I know. Big-time CEO doesn’t want to play cops and robbers with her pops anymore.”
Pops. He’s a “Pops.”
“Can I at least get a hug?”
He lumbers toward her, and his arms encircle her stiff torso. Her eyes lower to the gun on his hip and the realization that
he’s not here to arrest her isn’t as relief-inducing as it should be. Because he’s not just a “Pops,” he’s her “Pops.”
Inside Noreen’s car, a phone begins to ring, playing some Beatles song she’s never heard, which might be because she’s not a big Beatles fan or because they have different songs here. Either way, it’s not her ringtone. It’s Grayson’s.
“Let me,” the man—her father—says.
Before Mallory’s instincts kick in, he’s already hunched himself inside the car.
“It’s okay, I don’t need—”
“Here you go.” He plunks it in her hand, and she sees “Heidi Hoffman” on the screen before she hits the decline button and
feels her chest and hope deflate as she reluctantly shuts off Grayson’s phone.
“Two phones. To think my genes helped create a daughter who’s important enough to have two phones. You definitely got that
from your mom.” He smiles, so wide and genuine and warm, and a thousand thoughts funnel like a tornado in her mind: He’s not
here to arrest her and he doesn’t know about the dead body in the freezer and he seems to love her mom and maybe her. But
one single thought eclipses all the rest: You left me, you left me, you left me, you left—
“And when did you get a car, MallieMoo?” he says.