“It wasn’t Nico,” I insist. “Besides, he’s still asleep.”

Enzo looks down at his watch. “Well, is time to wake up, I think.”

Before I can stop him, he goes to the foot of the stairwell and starts shouting Nico’s name. It takes a good minute of him shouting for Nico to get his butt down here until my son descends the stairwell with sleepy eyes and tousled hair.

“What is it?” Nico mumbles, still rubbing his eyes. “Why are you bothering me?”

“Nico,” Enzo says sternly. “Did you break the vase in the living room?”

There’s a long pause while all three of us stare at Nico.

“Oh,” he says. “Yeah.”

I stare at him, astonished. “Seriously? Why didn’t you say anything? I could’ve cut my foot open on the glass.”

He shrugs. “You were asleep. In the middle of the night, I got hungry so I went downstairs to get some food, and that’s when I bumped into the table and it fell.”

Great. I knew he was going to be hungry after not finishing his dinner. Also, it disturbs me that the sound of shattering glass didn’t rouse me from sleep. What else am I sleeping through?

“You could have tried to clean it up,” I point out.

“You told me not to touch broken glass.”

That is true. But still. I would have hoped Nico had more of a sense of responsibility, especially now that he’s doing chores for the Lowells.

“Martha,” Enzo says. “We are so sorry we thought you broke the vase. Clearly, we were mistaken.”

He’s being generous. I was the one who accused her of breaking the vase. In my defense, it really seemed like she had broken it. But I know the feeling of being wrongly accused, and I feel terrible that I did it to Martha. Moreover, I have been accused without any sort of apology plenty of times. A woman I was cleaning for once accused me of taking a ring she left in the bathroom, and when she found it behind the toilet later that day, she didn’t even tell me she was sorry. I do not want to be that woman.

“I’m so, so sorry,” I say to her. “I just… I jumped to conclusions, and I was completely wrong. I hope you can accept my apology.”

Martha doesn’t say anything.

“And we will clean up the broken vase,” Enzo adds. “Of course.”

She rests her gaze squarely on my face. “I did not appreciate being made to feel like a criminal.”

I suck in a breath. Why did she look at me like that when she said the word “criminal”? That was not just my imagination.

Is it possible Martha knows about my past? Does she know that I’ve been to prison? Oh God, has she told Suzette? The idea is unthinkable. Suzette would have a field day with that information.

But she couldn’t possibly know. My last name is different now, and it’s not like she has my Social Security number to do a background check. I’m just being paranoid.

“I am sorry we made you feel like a criminal,” Enzo says, oblivious to the edge in her voice. “Will you please accept our apology?”

Finally, she nods. And without another word, she does an about-face, marches back to the kitchen, and starts cleaning again.

“Come on,” Enzo says to me. “We need to get this cleaned up before the kids get downstairs. There is glass everywhere.”

I can’t help but feel irritated that even though I now have a cleaning woman, I will be spending the beginning of my morning cleaning broken glass. Not that I haven’t cleaned my fair share of it over the years. The irony is that if I hadn’t accused her, Martha would have probably cleaned it for me.

So fine, she didn’t break the vase. But I didn’t imagine the look on her face when she said the word “criminal.” She was definitely snooping in the drawer of that desk—I saw that with my very own eyes. And I’m not sure I believe her excuse.

Why was Martha going through my drawers? What was she looking for? Has the woman been digging into my past?

I can’t shake the feeling that I don’t trust this woman who Suzette sent to work for us.

NINETEEN

It’s not as easy as it seems to make an appointment with a new primary care doctor.

I called half a dozen practices in the area, and none of them said they were taking new patients. Honestly, I would have given up except Enzo kept asking me every night before we went to bed if I made that appointment yet. Finally, on my seventh try, I booked an appointment with Dr. Sudermann, but I had to wait three weeks to get in.

But here I am, wearing one of those gowns that opens in the back as I sit on the examining table, waiting for Dr. Sudermann to enter the room. I have already had my blood pressure taken, and the nurse made a surprised sound when she saw the number, which didn’t make me feel great about the whole thing. So now I’m sitting here nervously waiting, and there’s this breeze from the vent that is hitting me exactly where my gown opens up in the back.

After what feels like an hour of waiting, Dr. Sudermann knocks once, then enters the room. I saw a picture of Amanda Sudermann online when I booked the appointment, but I was not fully prepared for how young she would look. If someone told me she was still in college, I would believe it. Thankfully, she at least looks older than Ada does. But not by much.

Still, she has a confident air about her. And presumably, she finished medical school and residency, so she’s got to be at least… thirty? Unless she’s one of those child prodigies you hear about. But she has a sweet face, and that in itself is comforting. I can’t imagine this woman giving me really bad news.

“Mrs. Accardi?” she says.

I nod.

“I’m Dr. Sudermann,” she says. “It’s nice to meet you.”

I nod again. Maybe I can get through this appointment without saying a single word.

“I hear you have some concerns about your blood pressure,” she continues.

“I had it checked at the hospital where I work,” I say. “They told me it was a little high.”

“It’s very high.” She sits down on the stool next to the computer in the room, logging in to access my file. “I’d like to do an exam and some tests to see if there’s an underlying cause, but either way, I’d like to start you on a blood pressure medication today.”

“I’ve been under a lot of stress,” I say, hoping that could change her mind. “I recently moved, I have two young kids, and my job can be really stressful. If I weren’t under so much stress, my blood pressure would be fine.”

“Stress definitely contributes to high blood pressure,” she concedes. “Working on stress management is a great idea. A lot of my patients say that meditation has helped them.”

I tried meditation once and found it impossible. How are you supposed to just sit there without thinking for five entire minutes? That’s like not breathing for five minutes. But I don’t say that.

“But either way,” she says, “you need to start medication for your blood pressure. It’s way too high.”

Great.

Dr. Sudermann goes ahead with her exam, and the whole time, I’m seething with resentment. I’m not that old. I shouldn’t be taking medication for my blood pressure. That’s something my father did when I was a teenager, and he was old then. I am… well, at least five years younger than he was. I think.

I leave the office, promising to pick up the prescription at the pharmacy on my way home, and she also puts in orders for blood tests, a mammogram, and something called a renal ultrasound. All this because my blood pressure is a little high. Okay, very high. But Enzo will be upset if I don’t do everything she tells me to do. (He, incidentally, got in to see a doctor a few days ago, and he has absolutely no medical problems whatsoever. He is a perfect specimen of good health.)

When I get back to the house, I notice Jonathan Lowell sitting out on the front porch of 12 Locust. They have a swing mounted there, and he is rocking slowly on it, looking down at his phone. When he sees me get out of my car, he raises a hand in greeting.