Before Nigel, Winnie had only dated athletes, and a variety of them, too. There had been a rugby player, a tennis player, a quarterback, and a professional fisherman. Winnie had often wondered why she was attracted to Nigel, who wasn’t even remotely her type. She found him sexy because he assumed that he was her type. His confidence was so audacious, so misplaced on the dull features and short stature, that Winnie had been fascinated—and oddly enough, turned on. Their date had led to another the following night, and then another. Within a month Winnie had moved into Nigel’s apartment (it was closer to the city than hers), and in six short months they were engaged. And maybe he had been on a bender after his previous relationship, but here they were fifteen years later, living in Winnie’s dream house.

Even her friends bought into it now. Though they still occasionally made comments about Nigel’s lack of enthusiasm for their nice things. It was, Winnie thought, funny how they’d brag about their boats, and extravagant trips to Europe while Nigel’s face would look...bored. “Can’t you at least pretend to be interested?” she’d chide him after.

“They’re such phonies, Winnie. Isn’t it enough that I accept them as phonies? Can’t we call it a day with that?” She’d laughed, and then they’d made love. Nigel was clever and Winnie was beautiful. She’d cultivated the perfect life, but it couldn’t erase the past.

If it weren’t for the house, Nigel might have been happy. Rephrase that, Winnie thought: if it weren’t for the house, Nigel might be happy with her. He’d made jokes about it being cursed, but she knew he believed it. Her husband was superstitious, a gift from his mother, and he blamed the house for most of their troubles. No matter how much Nigel hated it, Winnie loved their house on Turlin Street. It had chosen them, in a way. It was a little rough around the edges—harder to love in some rooms than others—but it was a very good house. And, most importantly, her friends were jealous. A house on Greenlake! Why, that’s almost as good as a house on Lake Washington! They’d all said so, which had brought a deep flush of pleasure to Winnie. Of course, that was fifteen years ago, and most of them had three kids and houses on actual Lake Washington by now.

She stepped into the tub and closed her eyes as the water climbed over her shoulders. So much for getting Nigel in the mood. At least she could enjoy a hot bath on her anniversary.

Winnie had a tendency to just go for it when she wanted something, and if she were honest with herself, that was probably where the trouble started. She’d wanted the Turlin Street home, and they’d paid a huge amount of money to live in a house he hated. Winnie knew that if it weren’t for her, Nigel would be living in a place downtown, something new in one of those buildings that reflected the sky and had a Starbucks and a gym attached. Nigel hadn’t grown up like Winnie, in a large rambler with her twin brother and three sisters. His mom had been of the single variety, hardworking and bone tired. They’d rented rather than bought, always something small and modern.

The house had almost seemed to fall into their laps—or perhaps Winnie’s lap. After months of bidding wars, failed inspections, and schlepping from one model home to another, Winnie had gone for a run around Greenlake, without Nigel, to clear her head. They’d been fighting about houses nonstop. She’d been parking her car along the curb as the owner drove the spikes of the For Sale sign into the front lawn. She’d hopped out of the still-running car and ninja-sprinted across the lawn in her New Balance sneakers.

“I’ll buy it,” she’d said, barely out of breath. “Your house. It’s sold.”

And as the former owner recounted later, Winnie had pulled the sign out of the ground and put it in the trunk of her BMW. They’d closed three months later.

Winnie’s memories of those twelve weeks were hazy. There had been a lot of back and forth until finally the offer was accepted, and then all of a sudden, they were owners of a very old, very large house. Prime location. “Seriously, Nigel. Who doesn’t want to live on Greenlake.” Winnie had said those words as they walked arm in arm toward their new home, just twenty minutes after the closing. Her eyes were as wide as the day Nigel had proposed.

They’d lived in the house for less than a year when the roof sprung a serious leak. Nigel had to cash out his 401k to replace it. Then, right after they brought Samuel home, they’d discovered the attic had black mold and had to be gutted. They lived in a hotel for a month with their new baby while the repairs were made. Years later, Nigel had wanted to add an apartment that could be locked off from the main house by a door in his den.

“But why does it need its own entrance?” she’d countered. He was growing impatient with her; if she dug her heels in it would cause a fight.

“We can rent it out if we ever run into trouble with money—which, frankly, after all we’ve sunk into this house, might be soon,” Nigel had explained, even as the color drained from his wife’s face. And then he’d added, “It will also increase the value of the property.” Like Winnie cared. Her insides pinched together at the mention of money. Her only relationship with it was to spend it.

“I’ve taken a look at our finances and—”

“Just do it,” Winnie said. “I’m sure you know what you’re doing.” She called Amber right away.

“He’s right.”

Winnie heard a car door slam on Amber’s end. She was a real estate agent now, probably arriving at a house for a showing.

“It will add value to the property, and yeah, you could also put it on Airbnb. Earth to Winnie, it’s a thing now.”

“Not a thing I’m comfortable with,” Winnie snapped.

But she let Nigel win that round. And she supposed it was a good business decision. It’s not like he was aching to let a stranger move in, but there it was—the option.

When Winnie got out of the bath, Nigel was downstairs unpacking groceries from two recyclable bags. She looked through his purchases, hoping to find a card or a box of candy, but there was nothing exciting except for a new can opener. She suddenly felt disappointed in herself. What had she been hoping for? Fireworks and champagne? Nigel was a good man who loved her; she was content with that. She threw a smile his way as she helped him put everything away. Later, when they were in bed and he reached for her, she didn’t stiffen up, even though part of her wanted to—she’d already given up on the evening. She let him, and he innocently fell asleep minutes after, oblivious to the crying Winnie did well into the night.

Because now, all these years later after the horrible thing that had occurred inside this very house on Turlin Street, she didn’t know if anything would ever be enough.

      4

   JUNO

Juno had moved to Seattle from Albuquerque, New Mexico, four years ago. She’d lived one life there and another in Washington, the two starkly different. New Mexico Juno had a career and a family, a husband and two little boys. She was plump and full breasted, and she wore paisley as a fashion statement. Her practice had started in a storefront she shared with two therapist friends. Five years into their little triad of mental health, Juno had enough clients to warrant her own building. She bought an old Burger King on the outskirts of town that had gone belly-up and converted it into Sessions, a family counseling facility. That was before she more or less burned her life down and ended up in Washington.