Locust Lane(16)

Moving here was the easiest decision he’d made since Maryam died. When he’d heard that a main street restaurant space was available, he’d called in every favor he possessed to raise the capital. He’d timed the move so Christopher would start high school from the beginning, as a freshman. And after a few terrified weeks the boy had settled in. True, Michel would have preferred another best friend than Jack Parrish, but Christopher was happy enough. And the restaurant succeeded beyond all expectations. After a year, they were booking weekends a month in advance. He was able to cook what he wanted. His mountain of debt slowly began to shrink. He had started thinking that maybe this place could wind up feeling like home.

It didn’t take him long to get to Smith, the strange and singular street whose small brick houses had been built by the Italian stone masons who’d settled here to build mansions for the natives. Now, they were seen as starters for young families and odd cases like him. Not that they were cheap. His own modest three bedroom had cost almost eight hundred thousand. The house that backed onto his was worth three times that much. But it was quiet and clean and safe. And no one bothered you here.

Except today. As he drew close to his house he saw two people standing on the front porch. A man and a woman. She was Black; he was white and in the act of swinging the brass knocker. Both turned as Michel pulled into his driveway. Their expressions made clear what he already knew. They weren’t selling anything.

He got out of the car and approached them slowly, warily, as if holding out the possibility of retreat.

“Michel Mahoun?” the woman asked when he was in earshot.

“Yes.”

He could see now the gold shields dangling from their necks.

“We’re with the police,” she continued. “We’re going to need to speak to your son.”





Wednesday Afternoon





CELIA


Celia knew better than to panic. Lockdown could mean anything, and usually that thing was nothing. They’d had one last fall after the school received two hang-up calls in the space of an hour. When Scotty was a senior, they’d locked down after a report of a school shooting in Concord, which was a good twenty miles away. And that had turned out to be a false alarm. It was shelterin-place you had to worry about. That meant the wolf was no longer at the door. He was inside the house, doing what wolves did.

She saw the alert as she left the restaurant. It was almost an hour old—she never checked her phone while eating, it was rude. She called Oliver before reaching her car. He’d seen it as well and had put in a call to Bart Zorn, the police chief, and a friend. He was checking out of the hotel in Stamford now. He didn’t sound worried, but then he never did. Oliver was the sort of man whose heartbeat actually lowered in a crisis. She texted Jack next, instructing him to be careful and let her know what was going on.

She drove by the school, even though parents were advised to stay away. What she saw was reassuring—a single police cruiser parked out front, the officer inside casually staring at his phone. At home, she turned on the espresso contraption, feeling a strong need for another coffee. Her phone rang while the machine was still warming up. It was Milly Williams. Although Celia usually let the inveterate gossip’s calls go to voice mail, today she picked up on the first ring.

“There was a murder at the Bondurants’,” Milly said breathlessly.

“Say that again.”

She did. Celia felt a cold wave of shock pass through her.

“My God. Was it Bill or Betsy?”

“Neither. It was a young woman.”

Which meant it couldn’t be one of the Bondurant kids. They had three sons. Well, two now.

“Who was she?”

“Nobody knows yet.”

“Has somebody been arrested?”

“The police aren’t saying anything,” Milly said. “Although I do know Bill and Betsy were out of town. What does Oliver say?”

“He’s away, too. He’ll be home in a bit.”

“Well, let me know what he says. Because we’re all kinda going crazy here.”

“Of course.”

Celia hung up, still trying to take on board what she’d just heard. A murder? At the Bondurants’? She really wished her husband were here. True, there were four burly men currently occupying her backyard, armed with sharp tools. They would deter any spree killer stalking the township. But still. She’d feel better when he got home.

A strangulated noise erupted behind her, causing her to jump. But it was only her coffee. Oliver called back as she took her first wincing sip.

“First of all, Bart says there’s no need to worry,” he said. “The lockdown is just a precaution. Evidently there’s been a murder in town.”

“I heard it was a young woman.”

“That’s what I’m hearing as well.”

“But who was she?”

“Not a local. That’s all he’d say.”

“So we shouldn’t be worried?”

“The nature of the attack suggests it’s an isolated incident.”

She texted Jack again after they finished speaking—he still hadn’t responded to her first message. Although the sense of emergency had receded, she was still having trouble getting her mind around this. A murder. In Emerson. At the Bondurants’. It was a reminder that, despite the alarm systems and threats of armed response and a police force that was better equipped than some Third World armies, they were vulnerable here, too.