As Andrew putters around the house after dinner, I step onto the front porch with the disposable phone I keep secretly charged and hidden in a sugar bowl in the china cabinet. All the china was chosen by Andrew’s first wife. Although he encouraged me to choose something else, I loved stepping into this ready-made life.
The air is steamy hot, not cool and crisp like the autumns of my childhood. When the sun goes down in Texas, heat continues pulsing off the pavement, so there’s no reprieve. On the front steps, the street stretches away from me on either side, lined with rows of houses in brick. In this planned community, every home is a variant on a single plan. It would be a perfect setting for one of Ava’s stories, all the houses made of ticky-tacky.
I open the phone and dial the only number I ever call from it, my parents’ landline, but it goes straight to voice mail. I hang up without leaving a message. Bitterly I acknowledge that I could leave them this number, ask them to call me when they know something. But if they wanted to find me, they would have already. The reason I’ve disappeared so successfully isn’t this burner phone, it’s that nobody is looking for me.
I stand on my front step for another moment, trying to squash my rising anxiety. Ava is probably just building publicity for her next book, or holed up with a new guy, or looking for a quiet place to write. She’s never been overly concerned about the feelings of other people. She’ll turn up, and nobody will know who I am.
Ava’s fine. I will be too.
* * *
I believe my own lie enough to fall asleep, but unease runs through every dream. In them I’m chasing Ava through a forest of gnarled, sentient trees. I wake up with my heart pounding and the sheets twisted like a bandage around my ankles. Beside me, Andrew sprawls flat on his back, arms open, palms up, his breathing deep and rhythmic. I wish I felt that free and open, at least in sleep.
Silently I slip my feet out of the coiled bedclothes and pad to the other room, where my laptop is charging on the counter. Andrew gave it to me last Christmas, and I’m still a little suspicious of it. I don’t shop online, and my social-media presence is nonexistent. Our joint family email address is the only one I share with book club and the preschool. Even so, I clear my browser history and power the whole thing off every time I’m done.
Now I think back to the time before, back when my name was still Zoe, before I had a suburban life and disappeared into a cadre of other moms. My hands hover over the keyboard as I remember the crappy student apartment, the babysitting gigs and bookstore job I worked to supplement my graduate student stipend. I type in that old email address—my birth name and the server. To conjure up the password, I close my eyes against the pale glow of the screen and remember the release date of Ava’s previous book.
I was working the evening shift at the bookstore, and a huge flat of Ava’s books was waiting in the receiving area for the next morning’s official release date. Straightening the shelves and pulling special orders, I tried not to think about what Ava might have written. I was tired of being disappointed in my callous parents, tired of being angry, tired of living under a spotlight. Or not a spotlight—more like the focused beam from a giant magnifying glass, and I, the hapless ant, always scurrying away to avoid being burned alive.
The difference with this book was that Ava now had a reason to be angry with me. Before, I hadn’t done anything. I was just trying to live my life. But this time I had broken a taboo. Not only had I coveted my sister’s man, I had taken him.
And when I sliced open the first box of books and lifted one out to put on the display tower, I couldn’t help flipping it open. The story of a husband, seduced by his sister-in-law and then framed for a murder she’d committed. The dedication didn’t mention me. It read: “To Glenn, my own true love. May you reap in the future all the joy you have given me.”
That was the moment I decided to burn my own life to the ground and start all over again as someone else. There was no way to be free of Ava as long as I was Zoe.
Now, looking at the computer screen, I type in my old password, the one I changed right before I left. ZOE IS DEAD.
I’ve always been careful about not signing up to email lists or passing out my information. Now I realize I’ve been so guarded that no friends from my old life emailed me either. My Texas friends contact me about playgroups and book clubs and wine tastings through the joint account Andrew and I share. Once I killed off the Zoe I used to be, that email account died with her. The most recent email is over two years old, and it’s from my parents. That must have been around the time I started calling them from the burner phone, just two or three times a year. I told them I’d be traveling for work but was vague about the nature of the job and where I would be. They aren’t the kind of parents who really care.
I compose an email to them now, keeping it short like a virtual telegram.
Just saw the news. Worried. When can I call you?
Then I stop. Can IP addresses be traced? Will I be giving away everything I’ve worked so hard to create? No, more than that. I might be giving away everything I’m trying to earn. Andrew is a wonderful guy, easygoing and honest, but not even a saint would let a liar stay in the house with his young daughter. An echo of her warmth seems to press against my cheek. I’ve never had someone I wasn’t willing to lose.
I delete the email, and then, paranoid that it might have gone out regardless, click on the Sent Mail folder to double-check. Unlike my inbox, this outgoing mailbox is full. The most recent message dates only a few days ago and was sent to Ava’s private email.
Horrified, I read the subject lines: “You Bitch,” “You Can’t Hide,” and “I See You.” I click on the most recent one and read:
Ava, the time has come for you to pay. You stole my life, my soul, and now I will steal everything from you. Are you ready to star in your own horror thriller? Better start sleeping with one eye open … unless you’re afraid I’ll put it out. Together we’ll see if blood really is thicker than water. Your devoted sister, Zoe.
Frantically, I click on one message and then another, each full of threats. There’s one about her first husband, Beckett—how Ava wasn’t good enough for him, how she destroyed his life and humiliated the most talented writer she’d ever know. Most of the others talk about her current husband, Glenn. Do you know what he does when you’re out? the writer taunts. He has seen the venom in your soul. Do you think he loves you? That he’s forgiven you? He’s playing a long game. I only hope he doesn’t get you before I do. Get in line, Glenn.
My mind is a staticky blank. I slam the laptop shut and put it away. Some of those thoughts are as angry as anything I might have written, but I didn’t. But they sound like me, they sound like someone who hated Ava. Someone who wanted her missing.
The back of my neck prickles, and I can’t help glancing at the kitchen windows, discreetly shaded by lace-trimmed curtains. I stand up, my heart racing. I should check the locks, double-check the security system. Someone is after me too. Someone wants to frame me for Ava’s disappearance.
Who hated Ava as much as I did? Her former agent, her ex-husband, Glenn, anyone who’s ever been in a writing class with her. Anyone could have done it, but I’m the one who will look guilty. Shaking, I open the laptop and it glows back to life. Does the writer of those message know where I am, who I am now?