Now I had to stop kidding myself—I hadn’t known Aimee then, and I didn’t know what she might be doing now. She could be slipping out of the museum director’s bed; she might be working late with only the security guard for company; she might be online, hunting for someone else to scam; she might even be scouring the internet for any updates on my inactive social media accounts. I should have deleted them all, but if I had, I wouldn’t be able to see anyone else’s. Correction: I wouldn’t be able to see hers.

After a false start, my hands remembered the motions, slowly smoothing and creasing, as a new picture formed in my mind—Aimee thinking about me in these wee hours, hunting down my new address, writing a postcard. Malicious, yes, and creepy, but it was weirdly satisfying to know I wasn’t alone in post-stalking her, that she hadn’t just chosen me as her scapegoat and then forgotten me. If I’d gotten that taunting note a few days ago, I would have been devastated. I would have been back under the covers, wishing the world away.

I ran my nail over the one sharp angle of the origami, then tugged it until I was holding a perfect paper star.

Maybe I could imagine a tomorrow made sweeter knowing that my happiness might make Aimee crazy. Lena’s voice, rough edged with anger, echoed in my mind. She’s a disgrace to all women, and she needs to pay.

Aimee had sent that postcard to hurt me, but all she’d done was make me angry. Finally, after all this time, the heavy sadness in me was giving way to fire.

There wasn’t anything to stop me from sending a postcard of my own.

The next night we were hanging out in Lena’s backyard and I sat at the edge of her pool, the August air warm and heavy, the water like cool silk on my calves. I swirled my foot, sending eddies across the surface.

Lena was getting another pitcher of margaritas, and the first two I’d had were already softening the edges of my world. Over the top of the high fences, the sky was a deep indigo and the moon was up. A bug lantern on the far corner of the yard crackled, and the scent of citronella overpowered even the lingering aroma of charred beef.

Michael was walking along the fence line with Lena’s husband, Brady. They stopped to investigate the loose slat between our two yards. Michael had a lower tolerance for alcohol than me, and from his expansive gestures, I knew he was buzzed.