47

Never had a day dragged so long before. HR was pushing back on the incentive program she wanted to run, Judy was more skittish around her than a newborn kitten, and back-end issues with filings kept being escalated to her desk. Little things on their own, but Victoria felt like she was being crushed by an invisible boulder. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think.

Why was this so hard?

When the office cleared and the janitorial night crew arrived, Victoria still hadn’t been able to find her groove. She’d struggled through emails and meetings, short-tempered and distracted. At one point, with Judy crowing about how Warren had done things this way, and Warren would’ve wanted that account, Victoria’s patience had snapped.

“Do me a favor, Judge Judy. Google the nearest psychic and book yourself a séance since you’re so interested in my dead husband’s business practices. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to hear from you.”

Judy hadn’t stuck around long after that, thankfully; with a dirty look and an under-the-breath comment, she was sounding the alarm with erratic click-clack nail taps on her phone before Victoria had logged out of her email. But the empty office offered little reprieve. The silence was thick, the heat dry and itchy. By the third draft of a simple request to the legal team, Victoria gave up. Sloppy wouldn’t save Livingston. She would go home, sleep off her bad mood, and start fresh in the morning.

Tomorrow would be different.

It had to be.

She drove on autopilot, stopping and signaling when prompted but mostly coasting while a murder mystery podcast drowned out her thoughts. Voices clanged around her head like the kid she’d never have bashing pots and pans together on the kitchen floor: Warren telling her she was done at Livingston. Teagan insisting she didn’t know how to be happy. X’s texts. The First Wives Club calling her out at the gym.

Killer.

Victoria wasn’t a killer, though.

She clicked the garage door opener as she approached the house, but nothing happened. Rolling closer she pushed it again, but the door stayed shut. Wonderful, she thought. Did these things even have batteries? She’d never had to replace one before.

In the driveway, Victoria locked the car and dragged herself up the path. The front door was reserved for guests and deliveries, and it felt strange fumbling with her key ring for the one with the little blue house tag.

Footsteps slapped the pavement behind her as Victoria stepped onto the porch. Ears pricking in alert, she turned as a dark-coated figure appeared on the porch. “Detective Meyers,” Victoria said. “Scared me. I didn’t see your car. Everything all right?”

“Sorry, I tried calling out to you but you must not’ve heard me.”

The astringent odor of fresh paint lingered. The workmen had finished covering the graffiti, Victoria was relieved to see, but even if no one else could see it, she knew it was there. Shadows of accusation. Forgetting was easier said than done.

No holiday lights or garland would distract Victoria from the memory. She hadn’t even considered decorating. Juggling false holiday cheer with the chaos of navigating Warren’s death didn’t seem apropos. Mourning was a fine excuse for being the sole dark and dreary house in the Manor. No one had given her grief about her reticence to celebrate.

But someone had attached a sparkly crimson bow to the doorknob.

Sweet, was her first thought. Exactly the kind of feel-good behavior the Manor community was known for. They’d made a balloon arch for the graduating seniors one year. When the little girl across from the Connors had been diagnosed with leukemia, they’d staged a carnival in the common area. Dunking booths and popcorn and a petting zoo.

And Victoria . . . got a ribbon. Huh. On second thought, it was strange that there was only one ribbon. The bare minimum would’ve been an entire box of ornaments and a six-foot tree.

Not sweet. Weird.

Maybe they were trying to be subtle without hurting her feelings. A reminder that she had a responsibility. Okay, it was petty, but Victoria had overseen a claim committee about allowing children to use sidewalk chalk. Congenial and petty often went hand and hand.

Criticizing her lack of holly-jolly spirit was one thing. Spray-painting slander and openly accusing her of murder, however, didn’t sit well. Heat prickled under her skin. She glanced at the bow again, the blood-red velvet and the intricate knot. Had it been there when she left this morning?

“Mrs. Tate, can we talk?” Meyers’s face was serious; the wrinkles around her eyes hardened with concentration.

“About?”

“I just have a few quick questions and then I’ll be on my way.”

A few quick questions. Code for doubts about Victoria. “Okay. I haven’t had a chance to shop, but I could probably rustle up some tea or decaf?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Meyers declined.

Even better, Victoria thought. “What’s going on? Any leads?”

Meyers nodded. “Possibly.”

“That’s good. Possibly’s good, right?”

“Depends on who you ask.”

Way to be vague. “What did you need to ask me?”

The detective shifted her weight and leaned closer, puffing stale coffee breath in Victoria’s face. “I’m sure you’ve heard by now about Betty Knottier.”

“I did. News spreads fast.”

“I used to think that was a symptom of small towns,” Meyers said. “Country gossip. People knowing everything about each other’s business. Turns out it’s not a geographical thing. It’s a human thing. We’re programmed to be curious. We need to know what’s going on, but more than that, we’ve developed this sense of entitlement. Like we need to know, but we also deserve to know. Secrets are a privilege.”

This was the shittiest time for an after-school special tangent, but Meyers was on a roll so Victoria let her go on. If she wanted to wax poetic about the dark side of human nature, and it maintained her amicable ties, then so be it.

“I like to think it comes from an altruistic place, but if I’ve learned anything since Warren’s death it’s that people are self-motivated pricks. Kindness has become a commodity.”

“Mm,” Meyers said absently. Her favorite noise, Victoria theorized. Why else would she constantly sound like she was playing a kazoo? A placemark for agreement, dissent, and consideration. “I’m glad you mentioned kindness. Rumors have a way of getting twisted, like a macabre game of telephone. For the record, we are pursuing Betty Knottier’s death as a homicide.”

“Oh,” Victoria breathed, fighting the onslaught of questions rising in her mind. Were they killed the same way? Had Dave been arrested? Was there evidence? “Oh. That’s—I’m sorry to hear that. Do you think it’s connected to Warren?”

“Now why would you ask that?”

“Because we’re neighbors?” she suggested with a hint of irritation. “Maybe someone targeted them based on location or—”

“Where were you yesterday evening?”

Victoria spoke slowly and chose her words carefully. “The office. Always at the office. I have a company to run.”

“Sure.” Detective Meyers nodded, looking off into the distance. “And how’s that going?”

“As well as can be expected.”

“Any more contact with the anonymous texter?”

“No,” Victoria said automatically. “I would’ve called you.”

“Glad to hear it.” She shifted her weight and stuffed her hands deeper into her coat pockets. “Mrs. Tate, I’ve received several reports about an altercation between you and Mrs. Knottier.”

Victoria’s stomach lurched. “There was no altercation.”

Meyers winced at the cold but flipped open her notepad, her knuckles pink but her fingertips white. “Witnesses claim Betty visited you to pay her respects but you, quote, chased her from the porch, threatening to hurt her if she ever came back.”

Maybe it was time to move, Victoria thought. “I never threatened Betty.”

“We were provided with Ring footage from a neighbor who happened to catch the incident. The angle isn’t perfect, so I’m eager to hear your side of things, but you were seen following her out of your house. Words were exchanged. Mrs. Knottier left in a hurry, and I have to tell you: I watched it myself several times. She looked scared. Seems like maybe this is becoming a pattern with you.”

“This is ridiculous,” Victoria said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Standing up for myself doesn’t make me a violent person. Hell, being aggressive doesn’t make me the bad guy. If I had a dick, then would it be okay for me to run her off my property?” She threw up air quotes and put a little more space between them. “Would you even be here? I highly doubt it. Betty lied her way into my home so she could sneak around, and now I’m being accused of—what exactly are you accusing me of, Detective?”

Meyers shook her head innocently. “Nothing.” Yet, the implication remained. “But I am curious about what happened when Mrs. Knottier visited you.”

As if on cue, Victoria’s phone vibrated. She glanced at the screen and bit the corner of her lip.

Get rid of her.

Victoria glanced down the street in both directions but saw no movement. Her skin itched, a tingly hot-cold sensation that left her feeling raw and exposed.

X was here, and he was watching.