*
I hardly sleep at all, and when I do, shadowy nightmares plague me. I wake with an acute uneasiness, but no specific images in my mind. In the morning, I make a pot of coffee and peanut butter toast for breakfast before Jacob is even up. As I wash my face in the master bathroom, the scar on my thumb seems to pulse. I see it now, in a flash, Jacob throwing the soap, then hurling the soap dish, making a dent in the door. What do you mean, you’re not sure? he shouts at me. I was picking up a shard of glass. The sharp edge cut my thumb. The blood seeped out of the wound and dripped on the floor. Why did Jacob tell me I cut my thumb on a dive? Did he want to pretend we never fought, that he never got angry?
After a quiet breakfast of coffee and cereal, he drives into town. The house, which once felt so airy and spacious, closes in on me, every shadow full of secrets. I flip through the photo albums. I’m in a kayak, on the beach, sipping morning coffee, eating a hard-boiled egg. Digging in the garden. In every picture, we seemed so happy together. Did Jacob carve out all evidence of problems between us? Hide it away?
I slip into his bedroom. The fragrance of laundry detergent and his familiar, spicy scent waft into my nose. He made his full-sized bed without a lump or a crease. In his closet, he folded pants and jeans over wooden hangers, arranged by color and style. Same goes for the shirts, sweaters, shoes. His dresser drawers offer up the same methodical arrangement of clothing. White undershirts folded just so. He even folds his briefs, trifolds his socks.
There are no photographs on the walls, no coins scattered on the dresser. His books on the nightstand are arranged from large to small, bottom to top, like an Egyptian pyramid of books. The top three paperbacks are thrillers. The hardcover on the bottom is Atlas of Remote Islands. I open the atlas, page through drawings of islands off the grid. Tromelin, in the Scattered Islands of France, is barely a strip of sand with a couple of palm trees. Ascension Island in the Atlantic Ocean, boasting 1,100 residents, is a wasteland of cooled lava. In the Arctic Ocean, only nine residents populate Norway’s Bear Island.
Mystic Island is not in the book. Perhaps we’re so remote we don’t even make it into any books. A note slips out from between the pages, one of his lists. But this one strikes me as more cryptic than the others:
PHOTOSHOP
UPDATE KEYWORDS: KYRA, AIDEN, ME
LINNY EMAIL
Update keywords? What on earth does that mean? Linny email.
Why did Jacob write the note? Why did he include Aiden’s name? I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the list, trying to make sense of the words. My heart is racing. Is he trading emails with Linny? Or is he somehow reading my messages?
I can feel panic exploding to the edges of my body and I wrap my arms around myself, breathing deeply and rocking back and forth. After five minutes, maybe ten, I get up, fold the note into my pocket and put the book back in its place. The wind is rising outside. All I can think is, I need to know the truth.
I go to my office, sign into my email, and change my password. I start typing a message to Linny. Are you talking to Jacob? Has anyone hacked into your account? Is anything strange going on? No, I have to start again. If he’s seeing the messages first, he could possibly alter the text. He would know I’m suspicious.
What am I doing? I start again.
Dear Linny,
Jacob might be reading these messages. If he is
If he is . . . I start again.
Dear Linny,
Thank you for always being such a dear friend. I don’t know what I would do without you. Memories have been coming back to me in pieces. I’m hopeful, now, that I might recapture the lost years of our friendship. If not everything, then at least the key moments. The carved giraffe you gave me, the one your mom brought back from Kenya, I can’t find it. I’ve looked everywhere. That giraffe was one of my favorite, most cherished gifts from you. Do you think your mom would consider bringing back another one on her next trip? Xo, Kyra
I turn off the computer, bundle up, and ride my bicycle into town through the cold wind. Nothing on the route suggests I ever came to the island with Aiden, but I slept with him many times. I feel him in my bones—his scent etched into my skin. Our affair was not a one-night stand. My relationship with him meant something to me. Where is he now? What is he doing?
In the protected bay, Van’s boat is gone. He’s on his way to Colombia. I ride back along the harbor, past the fishing vessels gently bobbing on the water. I don’t see Jacob’s truck anywhere. The mercantile is closed. The modest strip of downtown shops is all dark and silent, with an air of abandonment. The island feels desolate, uninhabited.