We both trailed after her.

“We’ll go back to LA,” she said, flicking on the coffee machine. “You know I’ve been thinking about it for months. This thing with CPS was the last fucking straw.”

“It’s not that simple,” he said, as she rummaged in the fridge. “We’d have to sell the house. In this market, that could take months. Even years. And we won’t get much bang for our buck in LA.”

Freya emerged with a carton of oat milk. “I don’t care if we live in a dumpster in LA. I’m not raising my daughter in this hillbilly backwater.”

I had stood by, listening in mute horror, but I stepped forward then. “You can’t leave.”

It was clear from the look on Freya’s face that she had forgotten I was there. “This doesn’t concern you, Low. Go home.”

“I live here.”

“Not anymore.” She poured the nondairy beverage into a mug and slammed it into the microwave. “We won’t be needing your services.”

“You can’t just . . . let me go.”

“We’ll pay you two weeks’ severance,” Max mumbled.

But this wasn’t about money. “I’ll go with you,” I suggested. “I hate it here, too. I can look after Maggie in LA.”

“You wouldn’t fit in there. You’re too . . .” Freya’s eyes roved over me and I steeled myself for an unkind assessment. But she said, “You’re an island girl. This is where you belong.”

The microwave dinged, and she turned away from me. If she had thrown scalding oat milk in my face it would have hurt less.

“Maggie needs me,” I countered. “We’ve bonded.” I swallowed my fear and added, “She barely knows you.”

Freya set down her coffee mug and turned to face me. “You called CPS.”

“What?” My face blanched, which I feared would read as guilt. “No.”

An incredulous laugh erupted from her. “Are you jealous of my baby daughter, Low? Are you trying to get rid of her so you can have me all to yourself?”

Now my face was burning, and I knew my cheeks were fuchsia. Freya was onto me. She had read my thoughts and emotions. But I had not made that call.

Max addressed his wife. “Stop.”

But she didn’t stop. She kept coming at me. “You’re obsessed with me, aren’t you, Low? And Max, too. You’ve got some deluded fantasy that we’re soul mates. That we’re in love.”

“I don’t.”

“Do you watch us fucking? Do you take pictures of us and then masturbate to them?”

“Jesus Christ, Freya,” Max said.

But she knew. She knew about the photographs hidden in my bedroom. Had she seen them? Or could she simply sense my lust, my fascination?