Chapter 7: The Headline

The next morning Bea took me to the diner on Main Street for eggs.

There were four strangers at the counter.

Three of them had cameras on the stools beside them.

"Bea," I said quietly.

"I see them."

"Where did they come from?"

"Where do you think?"

A heavy man in a puffer jacket turned on his stool and held up a newspaper.

It was a tabloid with a color photo of me on the front.

I knew the picture.

It was from our wedding, cropped so I looked small and grabbing.

The headline ran across the top in red.

GOLD-DIGGER WIFE TAKES $5 MILLION AND RUNS HOME.

"Mrs. Russo!" he called. "Is it true you demanded five million dollars and then fled to your grandmother's?"

The whole diner went quiet.

A woman by the window pulled her toddler closer.

An old man at the counter put down his fork.

"Is it true you left on your anniversary," the man went on, "while your husband was hosting three hundred guests?"

He smiled the whole time.

I knew that smile.

Marco had taught it to him.

"I didn't take anything," I said.

"You were seen leaving the party."

"Yes."

"With a check."

"No."

"Why would a quiet little wife run home to Maine unless she'd been paid to?"

My face went hot.

I could feel every eye in the room.

For three years in that ballroom nobody had looked at me at all.

Now everybody did, and it was worse.

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