They were like family to me. They were supposed to be, at least. My dream, finally realized, after so much pain and heartache.

They exchanged another glance, trading invisible secrets. They were married, a team; I, an extra cog. I shouldn’t have been so naive. ‘Should I?’ she asked.

‘Go ahead,’ he said, but his shoulders slumped.

‘John and I are not splitting up,’ Vera said, taking his hand again, giving it a reassuring squeeze. ‘But he is going to be heading up north.’

North? I figured we were far enough north already. ‘What for? To paint?’ The words sounded stupid as soon as they were out of my mouth. I scratched at my forehead, at baby hairs matted down, droplets of sweat.

‘No, no,’ Vera said. A smile stretched across her face, but it was too thin. Forced. I knew her well enough to tell the difference. ‘He needs to get out of Woodstock for a while. Things’ – she eyed him briefly – ‘are escalating.’

‘Escalating?’

‘There are … well, I know this sounds dramatic, but there are people here who want to hurt me,’ John added.

I stared at him. It did sound dramatic – of course it did – but at the same time, I’d been waiting for this, for some sort of explanation that tied it all together – the graffiti, Maggie’s obvious dislike of them, their hesitancy to go into town, the slashed tires. Was it more than an affair? Something somehow worse? John was so good – so steady and strong – it was hard to imagine someone wanting to do him actual harm.

Vera took a deep breath. ‘The details aren’t important. The point is, John’s going to disappear for a bit. It’s for the best.’

My eyes ping-ponged back and forth, as the word disappear stuck to the sides of my brain. I was the disappearer, not John. Not her, too.

‘Not really disappear,’ she added, with a laugh. ‘And I’m going to join him, once I settle up the gallery business and get the farmhouse set up as a rental. We were trying to think of the best way to tell you, but now that you mentioned money, it seems almost perfect, you know. We could actually help you. You could manage things for us, while we’re gone. The gallery, the farmhouse. The money could help get you back on your feet, and you’d still have plenty of time to write.’

I stared at her – at my friend, my protector, my Vera. ‘Just like that?’ I asked, my voice already hitting an embarrassingly high pitch. ‘You’re leaving? And you want me to work for you? Christ. Way to let me know.’

‘Not work for us,’ Vera said. ‘You just said money was tight. We’ve been meaning to tell you anyway, and we thought …’