I am Brigid. I know Russ is married and still I am involved with him. Deeply involved.

Russ showed up a few days ago—hurricane season is now officially over and the island is gearing up for the holidays—and I told him about Ayers breaking up with Mick because she had caught him cheating. Russ nodded distractedly.

I said, “These aren’t fictional characters from a book I’m reading or a show I’m watching, Russ. These are my friends. You don’t know them because you can’t meet anyone in my life, but they’re real to me, they’re important to me.”

“I know, Rosie,” he said. “I’ve been hearing about them for years. They’re real to me too.”

“I want an engagement ring,” I blurted out. “By the new year. Otherwise I’m done for good. Maia just turned twelve. She’s a young woman, Russ. She’s been very accepting of our arrangement, but someday soon she’s going to start asking the hard questions.”

“I know,” he said. “And believe me, I want to give you an engagement ring. Things are tough at work right now…”

Tough at work. That old chestnut.

“I’m thinking about quitting,” he said. “I love my income, but if I left, I’d have a shot at getting my integrity back. The things we’re doing…they aren’t right, Rosie.”

“Don’t tell me!” I said. I have this notion that if I don’t know any particulars, I’ll be safe. I have almost a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars in my bottom drawer. It’s a lot, but is it enough to live on for the rest of my life? I thought about Maia going to high school—I want to be able to send her to Antilles on St. Thomas—and then to college in the States. Russ must have savings, right? If not, we could sell the villa and move someplace smaller. We don’t need nine bedrooms; we never have guests. Seven of the bedrooms have never even been slept in.

Russ said, “If I quit, things will change. For the worse, initially, and then for the better.”

“Quit,” I said.

November 19, 2018

My hand is shaking as I write this. I’m thinking about calling the police, but the police here on St. John won’t be able to do anything. I need to call the FBI. But if I do that, I might get Russ in trouble.

I was waiting tables at La Tapa tonight when Tilda told me there was a one-top, a man, who had asked for me specifically. This was the downside of being mentioned by name so frequently on TripAdvisor. Complete strangers pretended they knew me.

“He’s ridiculously hot,” Tilda said. “In a Clooney-meets-Satan kind of way.”

That description should have tipped me off but it was a busy night and I didn’t have time to think. I approached the table and noted only that Tilda’s description was accurate; the guy was attractive but scary-looking. Sharply dressed, too sharp for the Virgin Islands.