She Was Me While I Was Gone

I told my husband Elliot Nash I had a work trip this weekend. He said okay without looking up from his phone.

My best friend Simone called two hours into the drive. Her family manages properties along this coast—three generations of it.

"Hey." Her voice had that careful edge. "Someone checked into the cottage today. Under your account. But I ran the plates—the car in the driveway is registered to Nash Architecture."

The cottage has been mine since my grandmother died. Her name is still on the sign by the door. Check-ins go through my account, and Elliot had the login because two years ago he'd helped me confirm an appointment with a heating contractor while I was in a meeting.

I never changed the password after that. It hadn't occurred to me.

"There were two deliveries today," Simone said. "Both under your account. A romantic package this morning—champagne, flowers, candles. And this afternoon, a pharmacy order." A pause. "A morning-after pill. The pharmacy needed us to confirm the address before they'd leave it."

I called Elliot.

He picked up on the second ring. "Hey, what's up?"

"Simone says someone's at the cottage using my account."

"Hm. That sounds like a system error—her app has been glitching for months. I'll call her and sort it out."

He had an answer ready. No hesitation, no what?—just a smooth explanation already assembled.

"The car in the driveway," I said. "It's registered to your firm."

Silence.

"I'll explain when you get home," he said.

I hung up and called Simone back.

"I'm coming down," I said. "Don't say anything to anyone. Just let me know if the car moves."

"Maren—"

"Three hours," I said. "I'll be there."

The key was in my bag.

The neighbor from the blue house was watering her garden when I pulled up. She smiled. "Oh good—your friend was asking about the footpath to the cove earlier. Lovely girl."

I smiled back. "Great."

I let myself in. Someone's jacket was over the arm of the couch. Champagne on the kitchen counter, half-empty. And a smell—something heavy and expensive that I placed before I consciously recognized it. Elliot's firm Christmas party, six months ago. Celia Vance standing next to him, laughing at something he said.

I turned back toward the door.

My grandmother's cardigan hung on the hook where it always had. Faded cream, one button gone, worn soft from thirty years of summers. After she died, none of us moved it.

It was on someone else.

A woman came out of the hallway. Young, put-together, the kind of person who made everything look effortless. She took in the situation and reset quickly.

"Can I help you?" Like she had every right to ask.

"I have a key," I said.

"This cottage is privately occupied this weekend." Firm, reasonable, politely immovable. "If you need a rental in the area, there are a few good options nearby—I can give you some numbers."

She was wearing my grandmother's cardigan and suggesting I look somewhere else.

"This is my house," I said. "My name is on the deed. That sweater belonged to my grandmother." I glanced toward the window, toward the driveway. "And that's my husband's car outside." I looked back at her. "So you're going to tell me who you are, what you're doing here, and how long this has been going on."