Six days later, I’m no closer to finding a woman to be my fake fiancée.

It’s Thursday evening. The sun is low in the sky when I leave work. I make my way to my car, a cherry-red 1973 Porsche Carrera that I bought at auction last year for an absolutely obscene sum of money. Worth every penny, I think as I turn the key in the ignition and the motor revs to life with a muted roar. I love this car.

Traffic is lighter than usual, people leaving the city ahead of the long weekend, hoping to avoid the traffic on the 400. I drive home, my thoughts all over the place. I shouldn’t have told my grandfather I was bringing someone to the cottage. The news has made its rounds in my family. My father left a message for me over the weekend, demanding to know who the woman is, which is a bit rich of him given that we barely tolerate each other.  

A familiar tune fills the air. Come As You Are, the acoustic version. As Kurt Cobain sings the first note, I’m pulled into the past.

I was crazy about her. I thought I was the luckiest guy in the world. I knew, deep in my heart, that she was the woman I was going to spend the rest of my life with.

I’d been wrong. Four days after that conversation, she’d taken the fifty thousand dollars my dad gave her to leave me alone, and she’d left my life forever.

After dinner, I sit outside in my backyard, reading the local paper. There’s a festival this weekend in my neighborhood, and I want to know what streets will be closed as a result. I’m flipping through the sheets, trying to find the information I want, when a photo catches my eye. It’s Angie Morland, Maddie’s mother.

The article is brief. Angela Morland was found in her apartment, passed out from a heroin overdose. She was given two doses of Narcan at the scene and rushed to St. Michael’s, but didn’t survive.

My hand reaches for my phone before my mind catches up. I dial Roman Barrett, the detective I use when I need information, fast. “I need the funeral details for an Angela Morland,” I tell him when he answers. “She died at St. Michael’s earlier this week.”

“Give me fifteen minutes,” he replies. I hear the sound of music and laughter in the background, signs that Barrett isn’t in his Yorkville office. Still, the man is never without his laptop.

Ten minutes later, he calls me back with an answer. “There was a cremation this afternoon,” he says, “and a memorial tonight.” He gives me an address in the west end of the city. “It started twenty minutes ago. If you want to attend, you better drive quickly.”

There are only a handful of cars in the parking lot. I screech to a halt and rush in. The sign at the front informs me that the Angela Morland memorial is upstairs, in Room 2B.

My heart beats in my chest as I climb the stairs. I can’t deny that I’m hoping to see Maddie.

It’s been nine years, Cameron. She might be married. She might even have children.

I stop cold as that realization sweeps over me, then I force myself to continue to put one foot in front of another.

Room 2B is almost empty. Standing in the small hallway, I look inside. There’s only three people there. Maddie, another woman who looks to be in her early twenties, wearing jeans and a black t-shirt, and a man with a frown on his face.

I barely notice the other people. I’m too busy drinking in the sight of Maddie. Then the conversation continues, and I stop to pay attention, because something is wrong.

“Ms. Morland,” the man is saying to Maddie. “I know how difficult this is, and I apologize for the timing. Unfortunately, your credit card was declined.”

I stand to one side and listen in, my brain struggling to process the scene. The funeral home is shabby. There are no tables of food and drink, just a small plate of cookies. Maddie’s drawn the guy aside, away from the other woman, and is offering him another credit card, her face shrouded with anxiety.

She’s in trouble.

“Cameron?” The woman wearing jeans speaks my name loudly, an expression of surprise on her face. “Is that you?”

“Misti.” Maddie’s baby sister. I can’t believe I didn’t recognize her. I walk into the room and the young woman envelops me in a hug. “You’re all grown up now.”

Maddie looks up sharply. When her eyes meet mine, she turns pale. “Cameron,” she whispers.

“Hello Maddie.” I’m proud of how even my voice is. “Long time no see.”

She sways on her feet and slumps into a chair. I lurch toward her in concern, instinctively, automatically, the nine years melting away in an instant, and then I realize what I’m doing and stop myself.

Her hair’s different, longer. She used to wear it short-- it’s too hard to bundle up under a swim cap, Cam, she would say with a laugh when I suggested she grow it. It tumbles in shiny waves over her shoulders. It suits her. She’s even more beautiful now, if such a thing is possible. Her full lips shimmer with some kind of gloss that makes me want to press my mouth against her and taste… Her curves make me think of sin, even in this place of mourning.

The man edges away. Maddie watches him leave, then gives me an unreadable look. “What are you doing here?” she asks, direct as ever.  

“I came to see an old friend. We were friends once, weren’t we?”

“Were we?” Her voice is cool. “I don’t remember it that way.”

I’m taken aback by her hostility. I can’t understand it. She left me. I’m the one who should be furious.

I’m about to open my mouth to say something cold and cutting before I pivot on my heels and walk away, out of her life, forever. Then I stop myself, because Maddie’s shredding a napkin in her hands, bits of paper falling in tiny pieces on her lap.

A tell I remember from the past.

Maddie isn’t as unaffected by our encounter as she appears to be. She’s trying to push me away. Why?

Misti’s watching the two of us with a fascinated expression on her face. “I should give you guys some space,” she says awkwardly. “I’ll be waiting in the car, Maddie.”

“There’s no need,” Maddie replies, glaring at me. “Thanks Misti,” I say at the same time. I win the battle of wills, because Misti backs away, practically running down the stairs to escape the tension between us.

“What did you do that for?” she asks me crossly, a familiar fire in her eyes. This is the Madison Morland I fell in love with. “We have nothing to talk about.”

Why did you leave me, Maddie? I would have given you everything I owned; you only had to ask.

“What was that guy saying?” I demand. “Your credit card was declined?”

Maddie needs money. I need to convince my family I’m serious about a woman. My subconscious has been working on a solution to my problem and she’s standing in front of me, with an icy look on her face and a shredded napkin mess at her feet.

“You’re stooping to eavesdropping now, Cam? Our conversation is none of your business. I can handle myself.”

I need to get Maddie on board with my idea. “Have a drink with me.” She starts to protest, and I hold up my hand. “One drink, Maddie. For old times’ sake.”

She gives me a long look, then she nods. “We’re staying in a motel on Lakeshore tonight,” she says. “There’s a bar next to it.”

“Okay.”

This is madness, my brain tells me. She broke your heart once. Stay away from her.

I don’t listen to that voice of caution. Instead, I follow Maddie downstairs.