The Collective(72)

The checkout line is pretty long, and it isn’t until I get outside and the voicemail tone dings on my cell phone that I remember that our local A&P, for some strange reason, is a dead zone. I check my voicemail—just one call from Luke, telling me that he and Nora can’t wait to come visit me in two days, something I seem to have forgotten about. “We have so many things to tell you,” he says on the message, and I think, That’s interesting, because I have so many things not to tell you. Will my life be back to normal by the time Luke and Nora get here? Or will I still be waiting for Wendy to call? I never activated voicemail on the burner, but I do check the texts—nothing from Wendy since the two ampersands this afternoon. It’s five p.m. and the sky’s a darkening lavender—the last gasp of sunset, twilight starting to bloom.

I wonder if Wendy plans on speaking to her sister-in-law tonight, or if she’s saving it for tomorrow. To tell the truth, I’m kind of hoping for the latter. As selfish as it sounds, I could really use one boring night.


THE SKY DARKENS quickly—a matter of minutes, it seems, and twilight has already slipped into night. I’m nearly done unloading my cart when I hear my name called out, and as soon as I look up, Glynne Barrett is slamming her trunk shut and heading toward me, a colorful scarf tied around her hair, a red wool cape flaring all around her. I can’t think of anything more on-brand for Glynne Barrett than wearing a cape to shop for groceries. “Camille!” She smiles. “I was just talking about you.”

“You were?”

“Yes, with Xenia Hedges,” she says. I suppose it’s also on-brand for her to call her ex-wife by her first and last name. “She’s thrilled with your designs, really.”

I smile back at her. “I’m glad,” I say. “I like Xenia. Thank you for recommending me.” Then I wait.

“I also wanted to tell you, Camille . . .”

Here we go . . .

“I’m sure you’ve heard the news.”

“About Harris Blanchard.”

“Yes.” She puts a purple leather-gloved hand on my shoulder. “You must feel vindicated.”

“I haven’t been paying that much attention to the news, Glynne.” I take a step back. Her hand falls away. “And I’ve never had any need to feel vindicated. I’ve always known what he was and that’s enough.” It’s a lie. But it still feels good to watch her face flush as I say it.

“I’m so sorry about the way I was after the Brayburn Club. It’s obvious you were in great pain, and I was . . . Well, insensitive is probably too kind a word.”

“That’s okay,” I tell her, and it isn’t a lie this time. So much has happened in these past few weeks, what happened at the Brayburn Club feels like decades ago, when I was a different person, when I had never killed anyone intentionally and I truly was in great pain every day of my life. How things have changed since then, and for better or worse, I have the collective to thank. “Really.”

As I load my last bag into my trunk, I spot a car two spaces away, its dome light on, someone behind the wheel. The dome light switches off, then on, then off again, and I hear another car pulling away behind me. I whirl around as a small black car—is it a Prius?—screeches out of the parking lot, and when I turn my attention back to the dome light car, its headlights switch on.

“Are you all right?” Glynne says.

“Yeah . . . I’m . . . just”—surrounded—“a little tired, I guess.” Something vibrates against my side. The burner phone in my purse. A text message from Wendy.

The dome light car is moving now. It’s a Subaru like mine, only silver rather than black and a much newer model. And as it passes us on its way out, I catch a glimpse of shiny hair, a smile, and then a hand waving, a jeweled ring catching the light.

“Bye!” Glynne calls out to the driver, and then the car passes under one of the parking lot lamps and I see her face in full.

“Who is that?” My gaze is glued to the bumper. The license plate. Who are you?

“Old classmate of mine from Brayburn,” Glynne says. “I ran into her on my way in. She hasn’t changed a bit.”

“What’s her name?”

“Do you know her?”

“I might.”

And even though that’s a rather strange response, Glynne answers amiably. “Penelope Chambers,” she says.

I nod. “Sounds familiar.” But really, it’s the face that I know—the silver-haired woman who gave me the Niobe card. I’m this close to saying out loud that I ran into her at Harris’s funeral and she warned me to leave and that now I’m quite certain she’s been part of a coordinated effort to stalk my every move.

But what if Glynne, too, is part of that effort? How big is the collective? How much do they know?

“So strange to see Penelope here of all places,” Glynne says mildly. “She was always such a city girl.”

I wait until Glynne leaves and I’m alone in my car to read my burner phone text from Wendy—three asterisks, meaning call her back as soon as I can. I want to do it right away, but instead I wait until I’m home and in the kitchen, the groceries unloaded.

Wendy says, “What took you so long?”

“I’m being followed.”