The Neighbor's Secret(79)

“I have gossip,” Deb sang. She rubbed her hands together with devilish glee. “Apparently, someone and the hot untouchable have been making out up here all spring.”

“Up here?” Annie said.

“They have a key to the gate somehow,” Deb said, “and they pass it around, because there’s apparently a clearing back there that’s very romantic. Annie, don’t look so uptight. They’re fourteen. They make out. That’s what they do.”

“Lena gave Laurel a key,” Annie said wryly. “So that’s the how.”

“Really?” Deb sounded almost impressed. “Laurel’s had quite a year of oat-sowing, hasn’t she? The question is—where is the hot untouchable? Is he here? Or—” Deb gripped Annie’s arm. “You don’t think it’s a she?”

Priya frowned. “I doubt they’d be so dramatic about a same-sex relationship. This generation is so much less homophobic than we were.”

“You never know, though. Annie, could you imagine: We could be in-laws! Think of the Thanksgiving dinners!”

If Annie told Deb and Priya the truth right now, their heads would explode. They’d find out at some point and, after their shocked gossip, they’d be there for her. But she couldn’t handle that tonight.

“Oooh,” Priya said. “Glow sticks.”

It was getting dark and the DJ had thrown a box of them onto the dance floor. The kids scrambled to loop the flashes of neon around their necks and heads and wrists.

“Mrs. Perley?”

Annie turned her head toward the polite young voice. Colin hulked behind her sofa.

She should be welcoming, but she only felt annoyed seeing him standing there in his ill-fitting seersucker suit with a stain on the lapel, pants tucked in those silly cowboy boots.

“Did you just arrive, Colin?” Annie said. “There’s lots of great food under the tent—”

“Do you mind if I sit down?” Colin said. “There’s something I need to show you.”

“Me?” Annie said. How could there be more anything tonight?

“I went back and forth about whether to say something,” Colin said, “but really you need to know.”

As the dread pooled in Annie’s stomach, he crouched down between all three of them.

“Here,” he said. “It’s on my phone.”



* * *



Lena pressed her back against the side of the house. There were so many damn people at this party.

All of these years of shouldering a burden for which someone else—Annie—had been partially to blame.

She wanted to call Rachel, or was the news too bittersweet to share?

A man in a Hawaiian print shirt approached, shouted something at her. Lena put on her hostess smile.

“What’s that?” she said.

“Can you believe these people?” he shouted. His breath smelled of garlic.

“Which people?”

“These people.” He hiked his IPA bottle over his head, used it to draw a sloshy circle. “They have a five-car garage that’s almost empty. Five cars!”

“For you.” Harriet Nessel appeared next to the man. She pushed a small white box at Lena. “My daughter-in-law gave them to me for Mother’s Day.”

Lena peeled open the top. Tiny little soaps in the shape of birds in cardboard nests. Only one was empty. The moment was hazy with déjà vu—they’d had this exact exchange before, Lena and Harriet.

But then the man pushed between them.

“Their garage,” he said, “is basically an airplane hangar!”

“Find some coffee,” Harriet suggested in a curt tone, and with a surprisingly strong arm, propelled Lena out of the tent.

“It’s a wonderful party, dear,” Harriet said conspiratorially, “but next time maybe don’t invite so many strangers.” She pointed a finger toward the Moroccan Fantasy area. “I wonder what they’re talking about?”

A handful of women from book club stood in a tight cluster. Deb Gallegos clutched her heavy silver choker. Priya had her arms around Annie’s shoulders.

“Something juicy,” Harriet said. “Should we go see?”

When Lena and Harriet came closer, Annie pushed a phone into Lena’s palm.

“I’m going to kill Abe Pagano,” she said.



Miss Marple would report it without hesitation. Same with Inspector Gamache, but justice looks a little different off the page.

I’ve gotten as far as tracing the numbers on my phone. 9–1–1.

Hello? I’d like to report a murder.

When I imagine the flash of police lights reflecting against darkened houses, my stomach twists in objection.

But when I think about letting the foothills absorb the secret, that doesn’t sit right either.

I don’t know what to do.





CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO



“Why aren’t you dressed for the party yet?”

Abe stood in the doorway to Jen’s bedroom. He’d changed into khaki pants and a polo shirt and had slicked back his hair, pulled it into a tiny ponytail. His unworn loafers, bought early last year in anticipation of bar mitzvah invitations that had never materialized, reflected the overhead light. They were at least a size too small.