30

Victoria was practicing her eulogy when her phone vibrated. She assumed it was Teagan. Since Warren’s death, her sister seemed to have made it her personal business to smother Victoria as much as possible.

Teagan had been attentive. Overprotective. Victoria would’ve gone so far as to describe her behavior as clingy, which might have made sense for some siblings but was an alien concept for her. She was showing up with coffee before work. Texting throughout the day—just to chat, just to say hello, just to drive Victoria nuts with the use of just. A word of submission, of diminishing power, people justed when they were insecure. There was only so much of Teagan’s out-of-character mother hen-ing that she could take.

Ignoring the messages only made it worse. Preemptively irritated, Victoria checked her phone and frowned. The text was from her own number. She’d almost forgotten about the anonymous text she’d received the night Warren died, but the memory came rushing back as she opened the thread.

I cut out his eyes. What makes you think I won’t cut yours out too?

Victoria read it until the letters swam together, dread flooding her gut and rising to her chest. This wasn’t a sick prank, as much as she wanted to believe it was. Enemy was a strong word, and while Livingston had engaged in some heated competition over the years, she had always remained professional and courteous. If someone was holding a grudge strong enough to lead from the boardroom to a violent stabbing, it wasn’t because of Victoria’s business dealings.

Outside the office? Friendships centered mostly around group chats. Petty lines were inevitably crossed, but it was a stretch to think breaking an HOA rule would lead to homicide—and whatever this was. Her neighbors loved the Joe Goldbergs of the world and salacious gossip, but they weren’t really the bloody-your-hands type.

More importantly, nobody was supposed to know about Warren’s eyes. According to Detective Meyers, that detail was purposely left out of the news. Someone could have leaked the information, but this text wasn’t an intrusive reporter looking for an edge on their next story.

The simplest explanation stood: This was Warren’s killer.

Who is this?she wrote.

Dancing dots appeared, and then they were gone. Victoria waited, refreshing the feed. Nothing.

“Tor?” The front door creaked shut and Teagan’s footsteps sounded on the stairs. She blew into the bedroom, makeup pristine and hair set in gentle old Hollywood waves.

A streak of jealousy ripped through Victoria. She missed her long hair. “You’re early,” she said.

“Have you looked outside?” Teagan asked, breathy and flushed. “There must be a dozen news crews.”

Hands trembling, Victoria unzipped her makeup bag and rooted for the Dior tube, carefully applying a single coat of mascara to distract herself from the cocktail of emotions threatening to unleash. “I hadn’t looked, but I’m not surprised.” Two coats. If she couldn’t have the hair, she thought, she could at least have the lashes. Not the spider legs Teagan glued to her face.

“It’s going viral.” A note of excitement slipped into Teagan’s otherwise somber delivery. Funeral or not, the spotlight never lost its appeal. She was like a horny moth rubbing up against a light until its body melted.

And now Victoria was thinking about melted wings and horny things, and that was definitely not the direction she wanted to explore. “Lucky me.”

“I’m sorry, I know you don’t want to hear about this.”

“You’re right. I don’t.”

“It’s just”—There’s that word again, Victoria thought—“people are blowing up my comments sections, tagging me in Reddit forums. It’s really something, how fast Warren’s murder is spreading. Could you imagine if they did a Netflix doc?”

Zero chill. “Glad your head’s in the right place,” Victoria said, fussing with her makeup organizer.

She parted the curtains and peered down at the mass of people. Most of the snow had melted, but the temperature had dropped again. The crowd was bundled and ready for the long haul. Her neighbors might’ve been afraid, but no one in Kent Wood Manor could stay away from the excitement, however somber it may be.

Case in point: Betty Knottier.

She donned a simple black sheath dress with Chanel earrings the size of golf balls. They shook wildly back and forth as she talked to one of the reporters, one of the more popular anchors from a national tabloid. Betty was the picture of grief; she hadn’t forgotten to bring her pouty lips and model poses to cry pretty for the cameras. Performative outrage 101.

“Ugh, she’s such a douche,” Teagan exclaimed, leaning over Victoria’s shoulder to take in the view. “You get one C-list sponsor and suddenly you’re a freaking Kardashian. It’s like, calm your tits, Rebecca—because you know Betty is probably just a stage name that tested better with the cool kids at the country club. And speaking of tit-calming, my god, those implants. She paid someone money, actual American dollars, for that watermelon uniboob travesty.”

“Not everyone can afford your expert skills, Dr. Livingston.”

“I might have to interrupt her audition for The Real Housewives of Kent Wood Manor to offer my services.”

“Teagan, I’m burying my husband today,” she snapped, because this was a little too much all at once. The eulogy and the text and now making fun of Betty’s poor delivery of a Sad Neighbor.

“You’re not—”

“His headstone—you know what I mean; don’t play dumb. For once in your life, could you just be quiet?” Teagan turned, argument already spilling from her tongue. Victoria forced her tone to be softer. “Please.”

The fight left Teagan’s body. She crossed her arms over her chest and nodded once. Silence followed, but it wasn’t awkward. They were back on opposite sides of the fence, not pretending to be loving sisters. Victoria felt at ease in her presence for the first time since Warren’s demise. It was grounding. Exactly what she needed to get through the next few hours.

Teagan heaved a sigh. “I’m going to wait downstairs. I’ll let you know when the town car gets here.” She didn’t wait for Victoria to respond, and that, too, was a small miracle.

Victoria took a minute to inspect her reflection before gathering the things she’d need for the service. If she focused on tasks, tangibles to check off her to-do list, then she wouldn’t think about Warren. Or the texts.

The problems faded into fuzzy particles as she lost herself to the rote words of her eulogy. Her phone buzzed as she stuck lipstick and a travel pack of tissues into her clutch.

“Tori, town car!” Teagan shouted from downstairs.

“Be right there,” she said mindlessly, swiping to see the message. The screen illuminated with a grainy photo of a bedroom, almost like someone had screenshotted a video, but the subject was unmistakable.

In the shot, Victoria’s face was in clear view, fresh haircut and robe unmistakable. She was on her hands and knees laying out the drop cloths.

Another message popped up. I know your secret.

Her body flushed with heat. The longer she stared at the photo, the clearer it became that Victoria was in trouble. The time and date were clearly marked in the bottom corner. And although Warren’s body had been found at the Mansion, Meyers had implied that it was possible that he might have been murdered somewhere else and then moved.

The time stamp was in the window of the suspected time of death. Alibi or not—body or not—this photo created doubt.

Someone had been watching. Victoria slowly let her gaze creep around the room. Could still be watching.

“Tori, let’s go!” Teagan called impatiently.

“I’m coming!” Her hands shook as she tapped out the same message as before.

Who is this?

The dancing dots appeared immediately. Names are irrelevant. But if it makes you feel better, you can call me X.

“Tori, come on, what’s taking so long?” Teagan’s voice tunneled into focus as she appeared in the doorway.

Victoria stuffed her phone into her clutch with an emphatic snap. “Sorry. Nerves,” she said, beelining for the exit. “I’m ready.”

“Hey.” Teagan touched her elbow and held her gaze with an intensity that rivaled Victoria’s own.

Victoria was tempted to recoil from the gentleness, primed to explode. It reminded her of the night of the Gala. How close they’d been to truth. Or ruin. “We’re going to be late.”

“Just . . . wait, all right? Don’t run away. Not this time.”

“I’ve never run,” Victoria said.

“Then stand still for long enough to trust me. I know we’ve had our differences, but you can talk to me about anything. I really am here for you.”

Ha. This experience had shown Victoria that trust was a liar’s most useful tool, a convenient screw. Not to mention she had to assume that the texter was still watching. X. Choosing her words carefully, Victoria said, “Thank you, Teagan. I appreciate that.”

Ending the moment as quickly as possible, Victoria offered her a watery smile and linked their elbows. Satisfied, Teagan returned the affection, and together they met Detective Meyers on the porch. She gave a curt hello and reiterated condolences. Victoria would’ve handled herself much the same in the detective’s shoes. She found the efficiency comforting.

Escorting them to the town car, Meyers shielded them from camera flashes. They clambered inside while she addressed the nearby officers, giving the signal to fall in line behind the procession.

The drive was quiet, and the service began without a hitch. Officers kept out of the way of the mourners, observing from a marked distance, searching for anyone suspicious.

Victoria knew from her true crime podcasts that it wasn’t uncommon for killers to attend their victim’s funerals. The thrill of getting caught was part of the experience. It was the same reason people who blew up buildings sent notes taunting the police. Scrapbooked their own sordid headlines.

They wanted everyone to know what they’d done.

X didn’t seem to want notoriety, though. There’d been no grand gestures, no riddles or hotline calls to the police.

He’d only contacted Victoria.