Such a Quiet Place: A Novel(21)



I recognized the item right away. It was a small paring knife. A familiar black handle with a sloping shape. Part of the set from my kitchen. Taken by Ruby from downstairs and stored, within reach, under her bed.

Like she was afraid of something.

I stood for a long time in that spot, listening to the sounds of my empty house. Wondering if I needed to be afraid of something, too.





CHAPTER 7


I GREW RESTLESS AND UNSETTLED, pacing the house. Watching the clock. Eating dinner while standing over the kitchen counter, in case I needed to shift tasks at any moment.

My mind kept drifting to that knife. Why she felt the need to take it. What—or who—she was afraid of, when half the neighborhood was making plans to deal with their fear of her.

I’d replaced the knife under her mattress carefully, in the same spot I’d found it, not wanting her to know I’d been through her things. Imagining what she might already be telling her lawyer: Harper got rid of everything I owned, can you believe it?

It was nearly seven p.m. and Ruby wasn’t back.

Had she told me when I could expect her return or where she was going? Some business park, she’d said. She implied it was close, that her lawyer was coming through town. But she’d left no room for follow-up, no chance to shake out the specifics.

The mantel clock over the fireplace ticked loudly in the silence. I could feel my jaw clenching.

I heard people talking out front, and the noise drew me to the dining room window—the irritational hope that I might see Ruby stepping out of my car, chatting with one of the neighbors like nothing was amiss.

But it was Tate on the sidewalk, calling for Javier, “Come on already, we’re going to be late,” as he locked up behind them. Her expression turned light and friendly as Tina Monahan approached from her house next door. Tina strode toward them with her usual air of efficiency, brown hair pulled back in a low ponytail, short bangs she appeared to cut herself, and an assortment of colored scrubs she rotated with regularity.

“Hey, there,” Tate called with a hand on one hip, “can you believe this?”

Tina shook her head once. Though I couldn’t see her expression, I couldn’t imagine Tina saying anything negative. Tina—What would I need a security camera for, Officer?—was a saint, perpetually optimistic. She seemed to be the only person in the neighborhood the Truetts had liked, someone less frivolous than the rest of us.

Tina was a registered nurse and worked at the college. She had brought both of her parents to live with her the year after Aidan and I moved in, was the type who said, It’s a blessing to get to spend this time with them. Her father was in a wheelchair. Her mother wasn’t able to care for him alone. Tina’s model home had a master downstairs, so, she said, Truly, it was an easy decision.

I had never heard her complain, never heard a negative comment. I believed that her demeanor was authentic after the murders. She never had to look at the people who lived with her and wonder what they were capable of. She never had to account for their time line. When the police came to investigate, she said there was no need for surveillance because someone was always home.

I waited until they were out of earshot and then locked up behind me, following the rest of my neighbors to the clubhouse.



* * *



THE MEETING COULDN’T BE held in the clubhouse, which was just a series of three doors set in a low building directly off the pool deck, accessible only from inside the pool gates. It amounted to nothing more than two bathrooms and a meeting room, the last of which doubled as the lost and found. That was where the neighborhood board met, but the space wouldn’t hold more than fifteen people or so. Our neighborhood meetings always spilled outside, onto the pool deck, where we sat on loungers and vinyl-strapped pool chairs, their metal legs scraping against the concrete as we settled in.

But the people in charge always filed out of that meeting room like they had come from some pregame briefing, deciding what to share with the masses. Whenever the door swung open, we could briefly see into the room: the edge of a table and a large gray bin filled with an assortment of floats and goggles, unclaimed items that had accumulated over the years, now available for residents to borrow when needed.

Charlotte Brock was the president, Tina Monahan was the secretary, and Margo Wellman’s husband, Paul, was the treasurer. They’d held their positions for years. No one was interested in the extra work or the grief.

Even though this gathering wasn’t board-sanctioned, Tina was standing beside Charlotte outside the meeting room door when I arrived. I looked around for Paul Wellman—the business-casual attire he always wore, regardless of the fact that we were outside, at a pool, while the rest of us were in cover-ups and athletic apparel; the prematurely salt-and-pepper hair that gave him an air of responsibility—but he was nowhere to be seen. Margo was here, though, sitting at one of the round pool tables, moving the stroller back and forth with her foot as Nicholas fidgeted. I took the chair beside her, though she didn’t seem to notice. “Hey,” I said, scooting the chair a little closer.

Her eyes widened as she looked at me, and she peered over my shoulder like she might see Ruby. Just like Molly had done earlier in the day.

“It’s just me,” I said, and she nodded. Up close, her nose was burned and starting to peel, and her lips were chapped. In her thirties, Margo had a round face with soft features and large blue eyes; between her wide eyes and her hair, which was never fully contained, she always looked caught slightly off guard. She and Paul were a contrast in demeanor, but they seemed to balance each other.

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