The Guilty One by Sophie Littlefield Page A

searched “auto glass.” There were dozens of options, one of them promising on-site service within three hours. Three and a half stars, that would do. She dug her phone from her purse, ignoring a text from Alana (“On your way? ETA?”). It took a call to her insurance company, but in moments she had an appointment an hour from now.
    The phone buzzed a new text. She glanced down, impatient with her sister, wishing she hadn’t promised Alana she’d be there for dinner. Alana would make a thing of it, takeout from that Italian grocery she liked, a bottle of wine that would be expensive enough to make the occasion seem celebratory. Alana meant well, but today was not a celebration. How could it be?
    But the text was not from Alana.
    At Alana’s yet? You still haven’t given me an answer about the 10th.
    The tenth . . . that was less than two weeks away. Christ. Maris stabbed the phone savagely and dropped it into her purse. How Jeff could ask that of her . . . how he could ask anything of her . . . how could people actually look at that man and call him strong, right in front of her face?
    Her thighs were sweaty under the thin cotton, heated by the laptop. She closed it and put it back into her purse. Her hands were trembling. She couldn’t call Jeff, couldn’t stand to hear his voice, not now. She couldn’t see Alana, couldn’t abide her orchids and slivered almonds and Eileen Fisher linen shifts, her curtain of smooth silvery hair. Her eternal kindness. Maris couldn’t deal with one more second of stillness, of forced rest, of the calm and numbness that seemed to be the atmosphere of this strange world that she now lived in.
    â€œPet,” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper. She cleared her throat and tried again, louder. “Pet.”
    The girl set down her crayon—the drawing taking shape featured a lot of red and orange, with accents of lime and cornflower blue—and smiled at Maris, tugging her earbuds out. “You get ahold of who you needed to?”
    â€œOh—yes. I found someone to fix the car this afternoon, in an hour. That was lucky.”
    â€œThat’s awesome. You can totally hang out here while they’re working on it.”
    Maris waited for the convulsive shrinking away that was her reaction to kindness these days, an almost instinctive reaction to the pain, but it didn’t happen. Her breath eased in and out, her pulse stayed even. She could stay here, for a while. Here felt strangely safe. Anonymous. “Thank you. Listen. I was wondering. I might . . . need to find a hotel, for a few days. Near here. Do you know of somewhere? Not fancy, just clean and, you know, safe.”
    Pet blinked, frowning. “You mean, while they work on your car? For just a window?”
    â€œOh no, the car will be done today. It’s just that . . . well, I need a few days to, um . . .” Collect myself. Think. Tie up loose ends. Nothing that came to mind sounded right.
    To not lose my shit . It popped into her head unexpectedly, the voice of Calla’s friends. Not Calla—who was proper in a way that chagrined Maris, who wondered if she had inadvertently passed down her own vein of prissiness—but her girlfriends, who were unfettered and ebullient and crude. And this girl, this odd half-Czech girl who could be beautiful but clearly didn’t want to—it seemed like something she might say.
    â€œIt’s just,” she tried again, wiping her sweat-dampened hands on her pants. “I’m kind of moving from one life to another. Oh, that sounds so new agey, I’m sorry. I’m getting divorced, and I don’t want to live in the town I used to live in anymore, and I’m not exactly sure where I want to go next.”
    â€œWow,” Pet said. “That’s a lot to handle. Where were you living?”
    â€œLinden Creek. For almost twenty