But it’s not the end of the world.
I click on “Forgot My Password,” and in under thirty seconds, Brienne’s in-box dings. Just like that, I’ve got a link to click on to reset her log-in credentials.
It’s so easy it’s almost taking all the fun out of this.
I type in a nonsense password, though one I’ll be able to remember, and a second later, I’m greeted with a welcome page and a myriad of buttons prompting me to check the latest account activity, download recent statements, or request transfers.
My fingertips are hot to the touch, electric adrenaline making its way through every part of me.
It’s a rush like nothing else.
Grabbing a notebook and pen from the corner of her desk, I record every last account number along with their corresponding balances, and I rip the page out and tuck it in my pocket—an added precaution in case I get caught up in all this excitement and forget something.
Next, I click on “Request Transfer.”
A pop-up warns me all about the tax repercussions of cashing out certain accounts early, and then it asks if I want to proceed.
I check the box next to “Yes,” and on the following page, I request a paper check be sent to Brienne’s home address.
Please allow 7–10 business days for your request to be processed. If you have not received your check after 10 business days, please call our customer-support line.
That’s going to be cutting it close, but it’s nothing to break a sweat over. Quick on my feet, I can pivot with the best of them. I can turn on a dime. Been doing it my entire life.
Leaning back in the chair, I hook my hands behind my neck and stretch until my shoulders pop and the hint of tension in my upper back releases, and then I head to the kitchen to grab another beer.
By the time I’ve taken a couple of king-sized swigs, my phone rings. A South Dakota area code fills the screen, and I realize I forgot to call them back yesterday.
Summoning my inner Dr. Lucas, I clear my throat, put the beer aside, and take the call.
“Dr. Emberlin speaking,” I answer, my tone neutral and professional.
“Hi, Dr. Emberlin, this is Nancy with Crestview,” a woman says. “I left you a message yesterday about—”
“Yes, I’m so sorry about that. I actually worked a double, covered for a colleague. Gosh, I’ve been sleeping all day.” I add an apologetic chuckle to my gentle tone. “I did check my schedule, and unfortunately, I won’t be able to move things around for the rest of the week, but I could get up there first thing Saturday if that works?”
She’s quiet for a second and then asks me to hold. When she returns, she informs me that Dr. Schneider is off this Saturday, but he’s agreed to come in from eight to nine for this appointment.
I don’t like the patronizing undercurrent of her words or the fact that she’s insinuating he’s doing me a favor when I’m shelling out the big bucks that pad his paycheck, but I swallow my pride and let it go.
“I’ll be there. You have my word,” I say. “By the way, how’s she doing?”
“You’ll need to speak with one of our nurses,” Nancy says. “Let me give you Diane’s voice mail. She’s with a patient right now.”
Before I can thank her, she’s transferred me. I leave a message after the tone, identifying myself and asking for an update on the status of my wife. I also ask that she have “Kate” call me when she gets a chance. I’m honestly surprised she hasn’t yet—though maybe it isn’t allowed. If that’s the case, I’ll have to step up my game, show more effort in the concerned-husband department.
I grab my beer from the counter as the back door swings open and Sam enters. Her heels click against the hardwood floor, and she’s dressed like she just left the office.
Really? She couldn’t have changed before coming here?
“You didn’t have to stay all dressed up for me, babe,” I say, taking her in my arms.
“You’re cute.” Sam chuckles under her breath and drops her fake designer bag on the kitchen table before sliding off her heels. Until meeting Brienne, I’d never heard of Goyard, and some quick research proved they don’t sell their products online. If I wanted the real deal, I was going to have to call Barneys in New York City or the like. Thank God for knockoffs and resale websites. “I’m pretty sure you’ll take me any way you can have me.”
“You put in your notice yet?” I change the subject.
She frowns. I know how much she liked her job and how much it meant to her to finally feel like she was someone in the world. If a person starts at the bottom, they tend to stay at the bottom. People like Sam and me don’t tend to have the brightest of futures given our initial circumstances and less than privileged upbringings, and it’s a crying shame because Sam was born with a heart of gold. It’s her best quality—especially when it’s directed at me—but it’s also her biggest flaw. In fact, it’s one of the reasons I couldn’t quite tell her every detail about what it is we’re doing here in Quinnesec Bluff.
“Yesterday,” she says, collapsing in one of the nearby chairs. “I gave them my notice yesterday.”
“Come on, Sam. Cheer up. Don’t be sad. You had a good run there, but it’s time to move on.”
“I liked my job.” She chews on her thumbnail, a dirty habit that makes her look nothing like Brienne in this moment.
“For the first time in your life, you don’t need to work anymore. And for the first time in my life, I can finally take care of you. Let’s enjoy this.”
Initially I told her I had family here that I was looking to reconnect with, that my mom was from here and I wanted to get in touch with her relatives, feel closer to her in that way. Sam thought it was sweet of me and jumped on board with the plan to move here. No questions asked.
I had no problem landing a job at the hospital, making fifteen bucks an hour transporting sick people from room to room, but Sam struggled to land even an interview at the local Burger King.
It wasn’t her fault, though.
I got into some trouble back home years ago, took a couple of jobs as a middleman in some stolen car operation this guy I knew was running out of the back of his mechanic shop. Long story short, Sam took the fall for me (all of her own accord, the angel) and did some prison time at the Nebraska Correctional Center for Women. As a result, she’s a bit less hirable than she once was. Everybody loves Sam the first time they meet her. With her sugary voice and bright-green eyes and infectious smile, she can ace an interview like no one’s business. But people don’t look at her the same once they get her background check. They tell her they’ll call her back, and then they ghost her.
It took some convincing, but I talked her into applying for jobs under an alias. Once she finally agreed, I whipped up a carefully tailored résumé, applied for a handful of jobs on her behalf, and maxed out a couple of stolen credit cards, surprising her with a new wardrobe and look to go with her career-woman persona.
The apartment at the Harcourt was as much a treat for her as it was a necessity for me.
I told Sam I was working on the side as a live-in caretaker for an elderly woman named Eleanor, which was why I couldn’t live with her. And I needed Brienne to think someone else was living as her so she would start doubting her sanity and ultimately believe me when I told her she was Kate Emberlin.