“I’m going to check on her,” I announce, cutting off whatever Rory was saying about border crossings.
“We need to finalize the plan,” Declan protests.
“So, finalize it,” I say, already standing. “I’ll catch up.”
Outside, the afternoon sun is bright after the dim interior of the pub. I scan the parking lot, finally spotting Kori leaning against the stone wall at the edge of the property, phone still pressed to her ear. Even from this distance, I can see the tension in her posture, the rigid set of her shoulders.
I approach slowly, not wanting to intrude but concerned by how long this call is taking. As I get closer, I can hear her voice, tight with controlled anger.
“It doesn’t matter what you say, Mark. It happened. You slept with my sister.”
I freeze, suddenly feeling like I’m eavesdropping on something private. But before I can back away, she turns and spots me. Her eyes are dry but blazing with a fury that makes my chest tighten.
She holds up one finger in a “wait” gesture, then returns to her call. “I have to go. Please don’t call me again. I’ll contact you when I’m ready to discussdivorce proceedings.”
With that, she ends the call and drops her phone into her pocket, her movements precise and controlled.
“Sorry about that,” she says, her voice eerily calm. “Apparently, my husband has decided he made a terrible mistake and wants me to come home so we can ‘work things out.’”
“And what do you want?” I ask carefully.
A bitter laugh escapes her. “What do I want? I never want to have seen the photos. I want my sister not to be a backstabbing bitch. I want the last five years of my life back.” She takes a shaky breath. “But since none of that is possible, I’ll settle for a clean break and a fresh start.”
I nod, respecting her resolve. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re making the right call.”
“Because you’re such an expert on healthy relationships?” she challenges, but there’s no real heat in her words.
“No,” I admit. “But I know something about living with lies. It eats at you, even when you try to ignore it.”
She studies me for a moment, then her expression softens. “How are you holding up? With all of this?” She gestures vaguely in the direction of the pub, encompassing my family and our strange treasure hunt.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
“Liar,” she counters with a small smile.
“Takes one to know one,” I shoot back. “You weren’t checking junk emails in there.”
She has the grace to look slightly embarrassed. “Jen, my friend, gave him my number after he badgered her for the past three days. Mark’s been texting since last night. I was trying to ignore him.”
“And how’s that working out for you?”
“About as well as your ‘I’m fine’ act is working for you.”
We stand there for a moment, at an impasse of mutual deception. Then, to my surprise, she starts laughing—a genuine laugh that crinkles the corners of her eyes.
“We’re a mess, aren’t we?” she says.
“Speak for yourself,” I reply with mock indignation. “I’m a perfectly functional human being.”
“Says the man I dug out of the sand.”
“That was a therapeutic burial. Very different.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s still smiling. The tension from her phone call seems to have dissipated somewhat.
“We should go back in,” I say, nodding toward the pub. “Declan’s probably having an aneurysm over his meticulously planned schedule.”
“Do you ever stop antagonizing him?” she asks as we start walking.
