The Neighbor's Secret(35)

“Dismemberment.”

“Obviously, with this book,” Janine said. She handed them each a martini glass and waved over Lena, handed her one, too.

Lena accepted it with a grateful thank you, and folded herself into the love seat opposite them. Her skin sparkled in a way that seemed unnatural for November.

“I’m opening it,” Deb said, and she hummed a burlesque accompaniment—ba-dum-dum—that drew the others over to watch her unloop the string and ease open the box top.

“Wow,” Deb said.

“Unbelievable,” Priya said.

“I’ve never seen anything like that,” Harriet Nessel said.

“Isn’t she amazing?” Annie said.

Lena smiled, pink and pleased, and spun around the box so all could admire the two dozen cupcakes inside, frosted the same hunter green as The Girl in the Woods. On the top of each one, with sugar and icing, Lena had perfectly replicated the cover art: the forest, the female silhouette, the ragged red font, the whole shebang.

“Did you make those from scratch?” Janine asked in awe. “How long did it take?”

“It really wasn’t too bad.”

A massive clap of thunder broke in a loud crack. Janine shrieked, loud and piercing, and clasped her hand to her mouth.

Everyone froze.

“Janine,” Deb Gallegos said. “Calm yourself.”

“Sorry.” Janine took a shaky nervous gulp from her martini glass. “I am on edge, ladies, since the vandal’s pyrotechnics.”

Janine had put the entire book club on her vandal text chain and bombarded it with updates about the vandal’s latest—he’d torched the Thankfulness Tree erected near the playground every November. The blaze hadn’t spread, but the tree was charred enough that they’d dismantled it for the season.

“This one seemed more political,” Deb said. “A statement against the tyranny of forced gratitude.” Deb glanced worriedly at Janine. “Not that I didn’t love the tree, because I did.”

“Sure, Deb,” Jen said with a wink.

“Deb,” Annie said with an impish grin. “Are you trying to tell us that you’re the vandal?”

“Trust me,” Deb said. “I could light a better fire than that.”

“Don’t joke. Something is off,” Janine said. “With this neighborhood. I can feel it. It’s building. He’s probably out there right now, watching.”

“It is getting out of control,” Harriet said.

“It’s minor property damage.”

“That’s how it starts, though. Property, then animals, then people. Remember how they cut down on graffiti in New York City and the murder rate decreased? It’s all connected.”

“I’m not happy about it either, but let’s keep things in perspective.”

“My kids are terrified. The whole point of living here is so they have a space to be safely independent. The moment Nick and I decided to move here was when we saw Sierra and Laurel walking down to the playground by themselves—”

“We know,” Deb said.

“They were only nine.”

“They were six, Janine, remember, because Katie was five and you were pregnant with the twins.”

“Oh, lord, I was so nauseous after the drive out here, all the twists and turns, but as soon as we saw Laurel and Sierra carefully crossing the street, I knew it was worth it.”

Janine’s Cottonwood Origin Story usually made Annie feel good about her insistence on moving to the neighborhood. The Perleys were short on space, but look what they had gained for their kids: first-class education, a wonderful community.

But tonight, when Deb chuckled and said, “They’re still sneaking off to the playground together, this time with stolen vodka,” Annie felt a blizzard of loss, even though Deb put a supportive hand on Annie’s arm.

Were they supposed to laugh about it?

When Laurel and Sierra had been six, the worries had been: Was she eating a rainbow plate? Was she saying please and thank you? Was she trying her best in soccer practice?

Before Fall Fest, Annie had been worried, yes, about the moodiness, the lapse in grades, but her concerns had been speculative. The drinking made it real: Laurel was in crisis.

Sierra told Deb that Haley had stolen two bottles from her parents’ liquor cabinet—so the idea hadn’t been Laurel’s alone. But only Laurel had gotten so out of control. Only she had been powerless to stop.

What if a lifetime of nurturing was no match for the steady pulse of nature?

“Let’s talk about the book,” Harriet said.

“No one sane would kill as many people as Fiona did,” Priya said. “Not even for their child.”

“But it’s the height of sanity,” Jen said. “What better reason to kill than for your child?”

“I call BS,” Deb finally said. “To actually kill someone? To take a life? You couldn’t go through with it.”

Jen shrugged. “Probably not.”

“Deb”—Harriet paused her frantic note-taking and looked up briefly—“do you mind repeating for the notes, what did you say after ‘I call BS’?”

“Um, that none of us would be capable of killing somone,” Deb said.