Page 100 of The Wrong Monster

“I’m not.”

Vasily makes a quiet sound that might be a laugh. I turn toward him.

“You’re not helping.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

Dropping all pretense, Isla moves further into the apartment and settles at the tiny kitchen island, appraising Vasily’s strong back with a smirk. “Is this the real reason you were up in Lake Placid?” she asks.

I open my mouth, but hesitate because I’m allergic to lying. But she asked so bluntly, I’m afraid of how I’ll answer. So I go with the truth, though it’s pared down: “Yes.”

She shakes her head appreciatively, giving me a look that says both I’m impressed and I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about the hot guy you were hiding in Lake Placid on a fake vacation.

I look back at her, suddenly serious.

“I came to apologize,” I say. “You were worried about me, and I brushed you off. Then I stopped listening when you needed me. I’m sorry.”

Isla looks down at our hands. “I didn’t need you to like Mike.”

“I know. You needed me to be your friend. Will you tell me what happened?”

She does, haltingly at first, then all at once. I listen without explaining which warnings I’d spotted or how long I’d seen this coming. When she stops, I squeeze her hand. “You deserved better. From me too.”

Her shoulder nudges mine. “You’re here now.”

“There is something else.”

She waits, concern knitting her brows.

“The case has...shaken me up a little. And I haven’t been myself.”

“How?”

I glance toward Vasily, closing the distance between Isla and me. I’m hoping he isn’t listening as he thumbs through a coffee-table book on the recent dog-centered artwork displayed at the MoMA.

“I’ve always kept a distance,” I say quietly, leaning my shoulder against hers. “I can defend someone without inviting him home. But I started using the same rule on everyone connected to that world. Including Emma.”

She studies me, and I confess: “But now I’m not so sure.”

Her expression softens. “Good.”

“Good?”

“Matty, I’ve been trying to tell you that for years. Everything isn’t black and white.”

I laugh quietly.

“I know. You always see everything in shades and think the best of people.”

“Yeah, sometimes to my detriment, but still. We never know what people are made up of or how they got where they are.” She shrugs, as if that excuses even men like Vasily, who have killed, buried evidence, and buried worse. If only she knew.

Isla reaches for my hand.

“Maybe you’re finally allowing yourself to see people as people.”

Something in my chest loosens. I bend toward her, all the past weeks’ exhaustion seeping out of me in a hug.

“I’ve missed you.”