Page 61 of Wrong Mail

"I promise."

I say it standing at her gate in the morning sun, and I mean it.

That's the thing about a promise made to the person who sees you most clearly. For one warm, dishonest second, saying it feels close enough to being saved.

Chapter Twenty

I'm at the edge of the pool again, not getting in. The heat presses down, and I stare at the water until the blue begins to darken at the edges.

And then I'm not here anymore.

I'm back in the car two years ago, the river coming up over the glass, the world going green underneath, the seat belt tight across my chest.

"Mallory?"

The voice is right behind me. I come back into my body with a lurch.

Henry is on my terrace, ten feet away, a folder under his arm.

"Sorry." He thumbs over his shoulder. "I did knock. You looked a long way off."

I wonder how long he’d been there. I wonder what he saw, whether he noticed the way I don't look at the pool or the way I never go past the first step. If he did, he doesn't say. He just waits while I put myself back together.

"How did you get⁠—"

"Side gate was open." He cuts me off and looks down at his folder.

I nod.

I locked that gate. I always lock that gate.

There's a camera there now, one of the two Henry installed along the sides of the house. It should have sent an alert the second he came through.

Did it?

I don't remember hearing one.

"I can go around the front and start again with the doorbell, if you'd rather," he says. "I brought the maps."

He lifts the folder between us.

I should send him away. I should say David's at the hospital. Julia made me promise. You have to leave. Instead, what I say is, "Show me the maps.”

We go in through the terrace doors, out of the glare. He slides the maps out of the folder and sets them on the kitchen island. It’s Oregon by county, pins marking the home invasions and attacks across the years.

"I want to ask you something," I say, before the careful part of me can stop it. “It's my birthday tomorrow. David arranged a party at the Overlake Golf and Country Club. He booked the place before all this, and now it's a train I can't get off.”

I turn a pin on the map so I don't have to watch his face.

“Would you come? I’d love to have you there.”

He doesn't answer at first. When I look up, he nods.

"Of course," he says. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

And that is that.

I feel lighter for it.