Thought I Knew You(93)

I had the sensation of time closing in on me. In a few weeks, Greg would move back to New Jersey, and Toronto would become a distant memory. The pressure was pushing her name up into my throat. Karen Caughee. Who was she? What did she look like? What did she have that I didn’t? Those were the standard questions of a jilted wife, but my other questions were more complicated. Why hadn’t she looked for Greg? Did she know what happened to him? Who was she?



I pulled out my phone and opened the web browser. After a quick search, I found an entry for Caughee, K. with a Toronto phone number, but no address. I had asked Greg a few times since the day I learned her name: Where does she live? What does she do? How did you meet?

I don’t remember. His single, standard, infuriating answer. I assumed that was the truth, and that he hadn’t learned to lie again.

I had become a little obsessed with her, a fact I couldn’t reveal to Drew or anyone else. It made no sense, but the desire to answer every question was all-consuming. I’d spent two years trying to accept a life with loose ends, to move on despite uncertainty, and was almost there. A small part of me wanted to walk away. What does it matter now? Just move on. But the temptation for actual closure was too great.

I found a reverse look-up search engine and typed in the phone number. Bingo. 725 St. Clair Avenue West. St. Clair. I almost laughed. Had Greg noted the irony?

I had a thought and clicked the map application on my phone. I punched in Karen’s address and expanded the screen, searching for something I knew would answer at least one question definitely. The street where Greg had been hit was Arlington Avenue. I didn’t have to look very hard—it was two blocks from Karen’s apartment.

A million scenarios ran through my mind. Had he just gone out for coffee and not come back? Too many questions.



Before I could talk myself out of it, I threw a ten-dollar bill on the table, gathered my cell phone and purse, and hurried out the front door.





Chapter 40



I walked up Arlington Avenue, then crossed over to Karen’s apartment. Twice. I studied the street where Greg must have been hit, and irrationally, I looked for blood on the pavement. My thoughts were so jumbled. I tried to work it out in my head. Was this sane? Would a normal person do this? I stood outside her apartment building with my back to the bustling street, my palms slick with sweat. A young guy in khakis and a yellow polo shirt hurried up with keys at the ready, and I knew it was my shot. I smiled at him, easy and carefree like I would have years ago, and his eyes lit up. He held the door open for me, and I followed him across the lobby. He opened his mouth to say something, but I slipped into the stairwell just as he turned the other direction.

When I heard the thunk of the elevator doors closing, I went back out into the lobby and studied the mailboxes. Caughee, K. 4D. To avoid Polo Shirt, I slipped back into the stairwell and took the steps two at a time. On the fourth floor, 4D was the first door I saw.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I closed my eyes and knocked. Dinnertime on a Saturday night, what were the chances? But the door opened.



“Hi, can I help you?” A woman stood impatiently, with one hand on the door and the other held a cell phone to her shoulder. I was struck by her age, so incredibly young. Twenty-something at the most.

“I… do you have a minute? I’m Claire Barnes… You might not know me. Or maybe you do? I’m Greg’s wife.”



She held my gaze and brought the cell phone to her face. “I’m going to have to call you back.” She clicked the end button, seemingly without waiting for an answer. “Greg’s wife?” Her voice trembled for a second.



“Greg Barnes,” I said. “He’s been in an accident.”



“Um… the only Greg I know is Greg Randolf. Are you sure you have the right place?”

The name knocked the wind out of me. Randolf had been Greg’s mother’s maiden name. How creative. I felt like laughing. “You’re going to want to let me in.”





I sat at her kitchen table and took in the sparse apartment. Newspapers were piled up on the sideboard, but the place was clean and sparingly decorated in modern, angular furniture. I watched Karen as she busied herself with the coffee pot. She had several inches on me and was naturally thin. Lithe, even. Never in my life could I have been called lithe. I couldn’t stop comparing. She had long blond hair and moved with the assurance of a dancer.

“I travel for work, so I’m sorry for the mess.” She placed two steaming mugs of coffee on the table and settled in the chair across from me. She was pretty, but not beautiful, and that made things better somehow. “You said there was an accident?”