Page 65 of All We Could Still Have

Of course I wanted to ask her about her experience, but then she’d expect me to confide in her. I didn’t want to do that. I looked away from her toward the whiteboard. Someone had used it to brainstorm advertorial ideas. I read through the list of ideas:New zipline park, downtown painting place (Sip and Strokes?), bed and breakfast (leaf peeping season).

“My husband.” She stopped and cleared her throat. “My ex-husband. Still not used to saying that. He was the mastermind of a Ponzi scheme. Stole from all our friends. They all thought I was involved.”

My gaze shot back to her. Even after confessing this, she looked as confident as ever, with her shoulders back and chin high.

“It’s how I ended up here.”

“I’m sorry.” My words seemed inadequate.

“I tell you this only because I know what it’s like to be the talk of the town, fodder for gossip.”

“You moved to get away from it.” I tried to think where I could go. I’d lived here my entire life.

She nodded. “Can’t outrun it, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“Social media follows you everywhere.”

I rarely used Facebook and didn’t have a Twitter or Instagram account.

“You can’t control what people say, Nikki, only the way you react to it.”

“Are people talking? Outside of Casey, have you heard things, seen things on Facebook?”

“I haven’t heard anything yet, but it’s only a matter of time.”

Back in my office, my desk phone blinked, indicating I had a voice mail. The first message was a hang-up from a restricted number. In the second, the owner of the bike shop asked when the photographer would stop by. In the third message, also from a restricted number, I heard wind noise in the background, but again no one spoke. I set down the phone and started to work on my article. Not five minutes later the phone rang withRestrictedflashing across the caller ID screen.

There was a long silence after my first hello, but I heard the same wind sound in the background, like someone was outside walking or driving with the window down. “Hello.” My voice conveyed my annoyance with all the hang-ups in my messages.

“Nikki?” The female caller’s voice shook.

“Yes?”

“It’s ...” She spoke softly and her voice trailed off. I heard a loud breath, and she started again, louder. “It’s Casey Flanagan.”

My hand tightened on the receiver.

“I know I’m probably the last person you want to talk to.” I thought about hanging up, but I couldn’t make myself move. “I have so much I want to say to you, starting with I’m so—”

I cut her off. “This is a really bad time.”

“No, I understand. Sun—Sunday, will you meet me at Cast—Castleton Lake?” she stammered. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but it’s ... it’s important.”

“I don’t have anything to say to you.”

“You don’t have to say anything. Just hear me out. Please.”

I wanted to say no, but something about that quake in her voice got to me. I imagined her summoning all her courage to make the call. The groveling way she’d saidplease, as if she were down on her knees.

“What time?”

“One o’clock? Will that work? I’ll meet you on the benches by the walking path.”

“I’ll think about it.”

She sniffed, and I wondered if she was crying. “Well, I’ll be there,” she said. “If you decide to come.”

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