The Neighbor's Secret(54)

“Come on, Abe,” Colin said. “A change of scene.”

“I really don’t want to,” Abe said, more firmly.

“For points,” Jen said. She felt a little guilty backing the idea when Abe was against it, but Colin was probably right. Doing something was better than wallowing.

“I have to go if it’s for points,” he said bitterly. As they left the room, he shot an exaggerated angry look in Jen’s direction.

She started to shovel the tiny white balls into a pile, an impossible task, given how they clung to her clothes. Abe’s look had unsettled her, and Jen wondered if it had been wrong to force him outside. But it was only basketball, she reasoned, and he was with Colin.

She peeked out the window, caught the two of them as they rounded the corner.

Abe followed after Colin in quick steps, like he was trying to keep up, but if Jen didn’t know, if she were one of her neighbors glancing out the kitchen window, she’d assume they were two friends around the same age, meeting up for a casual night game.

Jen did not like the way her heart lifted. Ordinariness should not be aspirational, and she did not want to care what her neighbors thought.

Her eyes caught on a flash of light farther up the road. A runner’s reflective vest. The figure was slight, their pace even.

A child, Jen guessed, all alone, late at night. That familiar rising tide of disapproval: What parent would allow this?

Jen was aware of the irony. She should be more compassionate toward other parents and their choices, but could judgment ever truly be suppressed? It was always there in the wings, certain and outraged.

And it felt so much better than doubt.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN



It was a chilly dark morning. As Annie waited on Lena’s doorstep, she balled her fingers inside the sleeves of her thin sweatshirt.

Maybe Lena hadn’t heard the knock? Annie shook out her hands and pressed the doorbell. Its ring echoed through the house.

She peeked into the dark front window. Lena was probably sleeping in. Or out running an errand.

There was probably an excellent reason why she hadn’t returned any of Annie’s texts from earlier this morning, but Annie sensed it was a reaction to seeing those photos of Bryce Neary last night. When she’d turned around, Lena’s eyes had been cold and hard, her mouth had been a straight line.

Annie had never seen Lena look so—

Mean. Lena had looked mean.

After the kids and Mike had gone to sleep, Annie had tiptoed to the den and lifted the photo from the wall. She’d sat with it on the couch, remembered the last time she’d seen Bryce alive, on the night of the Meekers’ last party.

She’d been a few feet away from where she was now, on the other side of Lena’s house, when she’d felt a hand on her shoulder, and then a rise of hope.

Please be happy, she thought. Please, please, please.

When Annie turned around, she looked straight into Bryce’s green eyes. His summer cut made him look a bit like a shorn lamb, innocent and exposed.

Years before, Mike had tried to persuade Annie to position the photo less prominently, but she refused. It was the only way she could think to express how much Bryce Neary mattered. And how sorry she was.

On Lena’s steps, Annie was subsumed by a wave of despondency so strong that she could hardly breathe for the thick of it, washed up her nose and down her throat.

It would pass.

And then—who knew when—it would return. No matter how hard you fought for one, there was no such thing as a completely fresh start. Even without the photo of them together, Annie would carry Bryce with her forever.

With trembling hands, Annie grasped in her bag for a pen, scribbled a note on the outside of the envelope, tucked it under the cake carrier’s handle, and hurried back to her car.





CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT



Lena woke up sweaty, to the sound of her doorbell’s chimes.

She had dreamed she was at Bryce Neary’s funeral, standing next to Rachel in the back of the hot room with cramping calves, listening to the organ drone. Her eyelids had been so heavy, but whenever she shut them, she could only see one thing: blood seeping onto pale skin.

Lena sat up in her bed, reached for the insulated cup by her bedside, took an icy gulp.

The dream had felt too realistic. The air in the nave had been so thick with overapplied perfume and now, almost fifteen years later, Lena could taste it, heavy and floral, in the back of her throat.

Do not stand at my grave and weep.

It happened when Bryce’s college friend stood to recite that beautiful sad poem.

I am in the birds that sing—

Rachel’s wails drowned out his young voice. This is wrong, she cried. It’s wrong, what you did is so wrong.

The speaker stopped, uncertain.

Lena caught, a few rows ahead, strangers exchange a pointed look. That’s the daughter of the man who— A ripple of miscomprehension waved through the crowd.

They assumed Rachel was talking to Tim, but Lena had known that Rachel’s judgment was meant for her.

Lena leaned back against her pillow and took another sip of water. She closed her eyes and slowed down her breaths. Simple as they were, deep breaths helped.

You’ve gotten away with it, she reminded herself. You’re safe now.

Lena thought she functioned well, given the weight on her conscience. She did not abuse substances. She paid her bills on time. She was capable of making small talk, discerning the ghosts from reality. When life required it, she could drag herself onto a plane.