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Oriana laughed. “There was that Thai restaurant in Greenwich Village, remember? We used to go there sometimes for lunch.”
“I remember. We thought it was killer.”
“But it wasn’t as good as this,” Oriana affirmed. “Even though the chef was from Chiang Mai.”
Brea leaned back in her chair. “I can’t believe you remember that.”
“I remember so much from our years in New York,” Oriana offered quietly.
“You crammed a lot of living into those years,” Brea said. “You had two small children, a huge career, and so many clients to look after. Plus, you and Reese were still one of the happiest couples I knew in the city.”
Oriana slid her tongue over her teeth, unsure how to respond. Brea, too, had crammed a lot of life into those years— but the life hadn’t been happy. Oriana knew that now.
Suddenly, Oriana couldn’t take it anymore. Despite eating half her meal, she set down her fork, tapped her napkin over her mouth, and whispered, “I have a problem, Brea.”
Brea furrowed her brow and set down her fork, as well. Off to the side, the chef looked at them, his face marred with worry, thinking they didn’t like the food. Oriana couldn’t care about him right now.
“I have been receiving very strange messages,” Oriana whispered under her breath, despite them being the only people at the restaurant right now besides the chef. “The first one just said, ‘I know what you did in 1998.’”
Brea’s jaw dropped. Leaning forward, she whispered, “And you have no idea who sent it to you?”
“No. And that wasn’t the only one,” Oriana went on. “I’ve been living in a state of perpetual panic for weeks. And I can’t take it anymore.”
Brea nodded and crossed her arms over her chest. She looked at a loss. Strangely, Oriana felt herself breathing easier, if only because it was nice not to carry this on her own.
“So, I guess I just want to ask, who else knows about this?” Oriana asked. “Who could possibly be blackmailing me?”
Brea blinked several times. “Neal is dead.”
“But Neal must have worked with someone,” Oriana pushed it.
“He painted it himself,” Brea said quietly. “He didn’t want it to be messy.”
“But he must have sold it to someone.”
“I don’t know who he sold it to,” Brea said. “But whoever it was, they have so much money that they don’t need to blackmail you. Besides. I doubt they know your involvement in the situation at all.”
Oriana’s stomach stirred with panic. None of it was adding up.
“And Walter never figured it out?” Brea asked.
Oriana shook her head, dreading the idea that someday, perhaps soon, Walter would learn of how Oriana had wronged him all those years ago. They’d been friends for twenty-five years at this point. Twenty-five years, built on her lie.
“And you can’t think of anyone else who could be blackmailing me?” Oriana asked.
“I wish I could,” Brea offered sadly. “I’ve had no contact with anyone since I left. And I’ve wanted it that way.” Brea lifted her fork again, glancing at the chef, who breathed a sigh of relief. In Thai, Brea said something to him, and then he turned back around, leaving them alone.
“What did you say?” Oriana asked, impressed with Brea’s language skills.
“I told him we love the food,” Brea said. “He felt insulted because we weren’t eating quickly enough.”
Oriana laughed gently, although, on the inside, she felt busted up, broken. She wasn’t sure she would be able to eat the rest of her meal.
Slowly, Brea wrapped her fork with noodles and ate, chewing thoughtfully. Oriana forced herself to do the same.
“Brea?” Oriana whispered, hardly daring to ask what she wanted to ask.
Brea looked at her.
