Page 77 of You Know Why

“I remember he knocked you up one of those weekends toward the end, and you were barfing your guts out when he graduated.”

I feel a spark of satisfaction. This I do remember. Though my pregnancy with Four was a breeze, I had hyperemesis gravidarum with Neve. It was bad, which is why we haven’t tried again.

An image of our bathroom floats into my mind. Nausea. Gray marble, teak vanity, cleaning wipes . . .

The doctor was right. The more I talk things out, the more I remember. It’s like I’m coming back online after a reboot.

So I think hard about Trey. About what he told me of his life before we met. I don’t think I’m just not remembering a previous marriage. And how in the world would he have hidden a murder from me? That’s . . . inconceivable.

I mean, there was always something he wasn’t telling me, from a long time ago, but murder?

Another click, another memory. Trey was upset by Eden on the plane. Is this why? Because he didn’t want me to know about his previous life?

“Now things are making more sense, Margot. He was freaked out about Eden recognizing him. He didn’t want me to realize he did know her. So is that why he left? Because he’s afraid to tell me the truth? Do you think he did it? Do you think he murdered his first wife?”

She sighs. “I don’t know, honey. He was accused but not convicted. And these are big thoughts. I think you should just focus on the kids, and we can talk about Trey later.”

“There has to be stuff online about it. It was only ten years ago.”

“Let me look again.”

I drift a bit while Margot types and frowns, types and frowns. The memories are so jagged and impossible. Nothing is in sequence, and it’s giving me a headache.

“I didn’t think there was an—” She stops talking, brows drawing together.

“What is it?”

“Hold on. I’m reading.” A moment later: “So there’s an entry that’s popped up from an obituary site that is sending condolences to the Barrow family on the loss of their daughter Chloe.”

“What does it say?”

“Exactly that—‘Sending condolences on the loss of your daughter, Chloe.’ Let me see if I can find the obituary . . . yeah. Here it is. Sort of short. ‘Chloe Elizabeth Barrow Locke, 24, of Malogen, Georgia, beloved daughter, sister, and wife, will be laid to rest today at the Olivet Cemetery. The family requests that, in lieu of flowers, donations be made to the Malogen Animal Friends League.’ That’s it. Kind of weird.”

“I remember reading that. I must have looked it up at some point. What else can you find?”

“Trey didn’t tell you he was from Georgia, right?”

“No. Connecticut. Hartford.”

“Well, we know that’s not true. You said he and his dad had a falling-out, and he ran away to Mexico, and that’s where you two met. True or false?”

Mexico. This tracks. Carefree. Irresponsible. Hot. Haunted. San Miguel de Allende comes to me in bits and pieces, the scents of jacaranda and cumin, gasoline and asphalt, too much tequila, the bleach from the sheets and towels that gave me a rash. We pretty much spent the first three weeks of our acquaintance in bed, so it wasn’t exactly a surprise that I’d gotten pregnant. I’d been sloppy. So had he. Out of character for both of us, really, but there was something about his amber eyes that melted my insides. I was lost—and found—the moment I met him.

“Remember what I said in Argentina, honey. Please remember.”

That voice . . . it belongs to my husband. Relief floods me again. If I can recall these details, I will be able to reconstruct my life. But what did he tell me? How did we even get from Mexico to Argentina? The first night we met is foggy. It was over a decade ago. We got sloshed. We danced under the moonlight and crawled into bed together, and he kissed me as if there was no tomorrow. We woke up and drank coffee on the balcony. I was wearing white. Virginal. Bride-like.

We said many things that night, and all of the nights that followed. It’s going to take me a while to sort through everything.

“Brooklyn? Mexico? True or false?”

“True. I’m trying to access the details. When we met, he was looking for a fresh start. He wasn’t looking for a wife, that’s for sure. Then, of course, Four . . .”

Margot smiles. “He would have married you regardless. If there’s anything we can be sure of, it’s that Trey loves you deeply. Which makes all of this so weird.”

“I’d like to think so. What else are you seeing there?”

“That’s really it.”