‘Of course,’ I said. John pulled into their driveway, and we all got out, still half in shock.

Once inside, Vera went upstairs to change and John headed to the kitchen to make us a much-needed drink.

I sat on the couch, caught the sound of glasses clinking, and leaned back, sinking deeper into the cushions.

They will definitely leave me now, I thought. No question.

I sat up straight, my body rigid, something digging into my back from the bowels of the overstuffed sofa. Turning, I lifted a throw to uncover the brass edges of a picture frame. I flipped it over. Vera grinned back, soft and sultry, like she’d taken some kind of course on maximizing her smile. John squinted, as if the flash had temporarily blinded him. And there she was, sandwiched between them, her auburn hair glossy.

Rachel.

Her smile was open and free, laugh lines etched into relief by the harsh lighting of the flash. She looked happy. They all did. Genuinely. What had changed? Had the rumors been too much for her? Or had something actually gone on between her and John?

‘You can give that to me.’

I jumped. Vera stood over me, hand reaching for the frame. Her voice was unusually cold, her face blank. ‘Stuff is always turning up in there,’ she said, offering a weak smile. ‘The cushions are too deep.’

‘I wasn’t trying to pry.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t care if you did, you know me. I’m just shaken up from tonight.’ She gripped the frame tight in her hands. ‘That’s our old neighbor, Rachel, the one we told you about.’

I know.

‘Oh,’ I said instead, clearing my throat.

Vera blinked rapidly, her hand still on the corner of the frame, and I wondered if I should tell her that Rachel had been to the cottage, that I’d given her her mail, swapped numbers with her.

Only, so much had happened tonight, it didn’t seem like the right time. Or maybe I didn’t want to risk hurting Vera – or, worse, hurting my own standing with her.

John came out then, glasses clinking. ‘Sorry,’ he said, forcing a laugh. ‘Ice tray malfunction.’

Vera turned on her heel, strutting toward a cabinet in the corner of the room. She opened the top drawer, tossed the frame in, and shut it firmly, then opened another drawer and began to rifle through it.

John took a seat and swirled his glass, became suddenly enamored by the ice inside it.

After only a moment, Vera returned, tossing a sheet of paper and a blank, torn-open envelope on the coffee table. I leaned forward. The paper was standard size, with big words printed in the middle, typed in an ugly font, one only nominally better than Comic Sans, one my dad used to use on his letterhead. For a moment, I completely forgot about Rachel.

GO BACK TO BROOKLYN YOU PERVERTS

‘Jesus,’ I said, scooting back.