Page 98 of The Exit Strategy

She quickly smooths over her complicated expression, and I find I respect her more for it. At least she’s being honest.

“Cole’s a lucky guy,” she says. Simply. With only the slightest hint of snark.

It instantly puts me on edge.

“He’s working on it,” I say because I don’t believe she really knows Cole at all.

She laughs, then Paula materializes at her side, hissing about the rosemary selection, and they’re gone, drifting toward the next stall with the unhurried pace of women who always manage to get everything they want.

I glance down at my hand with a frown. The diamondsparkles up at me as though it’s laughing at all my strategies and safety measures.

Nana Mae holds out a bundle of sweet peas and once again remains quiet, which I’m finding is her most devastating move. She forces me to sit in the silence of unasked questions, too afraid of the answers to ever ask for the truth.

“I’ll meet you up ahead,” Katie says, jarring me out of my strange thoughts. “I have to go see about a…guy.” She waggles her brows at me, and against my better judgment, I laugh and allow Nana Mae to drag me further into the pits of small-town attention.

The bookstall at the far end of the market is by far my favorite, and it has nothing to do with the fact that it doesn’t have a crowd of people swarming it.

That is, until I run into Bea.

She’s arguing with the book vendor. “This is not upmarket fiction,” she states. “It’s literary fiction, and you know it.”

The vendor appears to have had this same conversation multiple times because he doesn’t address her, he simply looks at me as I step in next to her to see what book she’s talking about.

“Mis-categorizing a book doesn’t make it sell any better,” she says to the vendor, and then to me, without transition, “How are you sleeping?”

I blink. “Better?”

“Mm.” She picks up a paperback, examines the blurb, then sets it back down. “You know what I’ve noticed about people who sleep well for the first time in a while?”

“I’m sure you’ll tell me.” I almost smile. I bet she was such a good therapist because she never let her patients get away with any bullshit.

She nods and lifts another book. “They’ve usually putsomething down.” She holds the new book out to the vendor and pays for it with exact change, already counted. “Doesn’t mean it’s gone. It just means they’re not carrying it while they sleep. That’s a big step.”

She tucks the book under her arm and stares at me with calm, assessing eyes.

“I didn’t say anything,” I point out.

“No,” she agrees. “But you stopped walking when you saw me, which is its own kind of statement.”

I hate that she’s right.

“The thing about putting down something heavy…” She’s done this long enough that she knows exactly when and how hard to push. “Is that eventually, you’ll have to examine it. In daylight. With all the original context intact. Not the story you told yourself about it—the actual thing that’s been weighing you down.”

A woman passes with a double stroller, and we both step aside. When the gap closes, Bea is already scanning the next stall.

Then she looks down at the tote I’m still carrying. “A love knot. That’s an interesting choice.”

“This?” I ask, lifting the bag to inspect the rope heart more closely.

“It signifies unity and enduring commitment. It represents friendship, everlasting love, loyalty, and the intertwining of lives. Perhaps you’ll want to investigate why those attributes are easier to accept now that you’ve set down some of your pain.”

I scoff. I haven’t set down my pain. I don’t even know exactly what my pain is. “Sorry, Bea. It’s just a bag.”

Her smile says she’s heard a hundred lies to detect the truth. “It’s never just a bag, dear. Sometimes we just need the canvas to hold the lies we’re not ready to examine yet.”

I frown so hard, a headache blooms.

“Good market today,” she says, then walks away.