I need to make sure Dana’s sticking to the story. I doubt her phones are tapped yet, but you never know. By now the police must have realized there’s no surveillance footage for the night Stan went missing. That must have stoked their suspicions. It’s safer to talk in person.
I walk fast. School just got out. I’m meeting Dana at the Stanton House football field. Chad’s got a JV game.
I scan the field and pick out Chad. Even in his helmet, pads, and uniform, he stands out. It’s like he’s taller, straighter, and runs more smoothly than the others.
Eyes drift to Chad. He’s inherited his mom’s magic, yet he lacks depth, all surface dazzle. Or was teenage Dana similar, and I was too starstruck to realize?
A gust of wind catches my scarf. It’s a typical autumn day, cool and blustery. The tight-packed pines on the edge of the field jostle and thrash, much like the players. My phone beeps with a text. I check it as I walk. It’s from Dana: I’m here—in the bleachers.
Peering up, I see her in the stands. She’s sitting way off by herself, bent over her phone, dressed in a smart navy trench coat. Big black sunglasses hide most of her face. Even from here she looks thinner than she did two days back.
I reknot my scarf. Has it been only two days? First Stan, then Alma. Shock upon shock. How my classes dragged today! I kept forgetting what I was saying. My students got snarky. Kids are like dogs—they know when you’re off and take the opportunity to harass you.
Something’s happened on the field. The opposing team’s fans are cheering. Dana glances around, looking fearful.
I walk faster, spurred by cold and unease. If I’m feeling the stress, imagine Dana. She’s never had to deal with anything bad, except Owen’s issues.
That was hard, but she had the cash to hire an army of therapists. She quit her job as a lawyer to manage his care.
Maybe Dana’s determination paid off. Or else his problems were minor. Over the years, I’ve seen kids diagnosed with all sorts of crap. Many of them struck me as fine; they were the kids with spark, who couldn’t be shoved in a box. What’s normal anyways? Pick any trait of human behavior. We’re all on some spectrum.
By age six, Owen was deemed well enough to attend a normal school—if you define a ridiculously expensive private school like Stanton House as “normal.”
At fifteen, he’s like many kids I’ve taught: somewhat awkward, which can make him seem shifty. He has a habit of nodding to himself. He’s not fond of eye contact.
Despite his tics, I prefer Owen to Chad. Owen’s creative. He enjoys making hanging mobiles out of wire and stacking things to make them balance. He carves scary wooden masks like relics of a lost civilization. He’s good with computers and lousy at English which is what I teach at Stanton House. Chad wouldn’t know a joke if it poked him in his perfect face. Owen’s slyly funny.
In the bleachers, Dana’s movements are jerky as she rewraps her camel scarf. My unease grows. What if she’s not up to this? I’m fucked if she crumbles.
I start to climb. She’s way up. Soon my thighs are burning. My tote bag’s handles dig into my shoulder.
I’m close when she looks up, startled. Seeing it’s me, her face softens. “Oh, Jo,” she says. I sit beside her. “It’s been . . .” Words fail her.
I set down my bag. “Tell me.” I want every detail. Cheers erupt on our side. I see that Chad’s got the ball.
“They found Stan’s coat this morning,” says Dana. “Near the cliffs.”
I nod grimly. I heard that on the midday news in the staff room.
“That’s ramped things up,” she continues. “Before they seemed to think he’d show up, but now . . . The police came back twice today.”
I sigh. It was my idea to plant his coat by those cliffs, locally known as Jumpers Point. Was that a mistake? It’s hard to know what to do.
“They had searchers out in the park,” adds Dana. She sounds tearful. “And dogs.”
“We should print flyers,” I say. “I’ll help you stick some up tomorrow.” That’s what a distraught wife would do. Plaster the town with her missing husband’s visage, go on TV begging for answers.
Dana nods shakily. “Okay.” She rubs her forehead like it’s throbbing.
“What are the cops like?” I ask. Are they the same two who quizzed me about Alma Reyes?
“There are two detectives,” says Dana. “A man and a woman. The guy’s maybe thirty-five. The woman’s in her fifties.”
I’m surprised. I’d expected it to be my two: freckled Morton and the old guy, Farley. Obviously, that was silly. Glebes Bay would have more than two detectives. And those two must be busy trying to catch Alma’s hit-and-run driver.
Have they put two and two together and realized Stan’s wife is the friend I was helping? I rub my hands together. “What have they asked you?”
“About our fight,” she says. “Why we argued. If he’d hit me before. The same questions, over and over.”
Her busted lip has scabbed over. There’s a spill of purple beneath her giant glasses. I wonder if she bought them specially, to cover her swollen eye. Or were they laying around, left over from some tropical vacation?
I grip my knees. “Is it time to stop talking and call in your lawyer?”
After law school, Dana practiced corporate law for three years. She quit when Owen began having problems. He got thrown out of preschool. By then, Stan had gone from rich to super rich. Dana didn’t have to work ever again. Nor did Stanley, for that matter.
Dana started Fairytale Flowers when the twins were eight or nine. I dismissed it as a rich lady’s hobby. A misjudgment on my part. Dana’s that rare combination: an artist and businesswoman.
“You’re a former lawyer,” I say. “It wouldn’t be unusual for you to stop talking. Especially if the cops keep rehashing the same shit and you’re starting to feel like a suspect.”
Dana sounds frustrated. “I am a suspect. The spouse is always a suspect! And we fought.” She gazes out at the field. “But if Stan really was missing, I’d do everything to help find him. I wouldn’t clam up and call my lawyer.”
I nod. That makes sense. Except if she’s too overwrought, she’ll mess up. The police will be looking for contradictions.
“They want to question the kids,” she says quietly. I look at the field and spy Chad—number 12—in the midst of a huddle.
“The twins?” It comes out sharper than intended.
Dana tilts back. She looks even more stricken. “Should I refuse?”
I hunch forward, elbows on knees, thinking. My hands start to go for my hair. I force them down, into a steeple.
I’ve been worrying that her kids saw or heard something. “Have you asked them?”
Despite the dark lenses, I see her eyes widen. “What?”
“Your face. The bruises. What did you tell them?”
She twists her ring, the one she wanted to toss, the one that would pay off my debts—and then some. Her head dips. “I . . . I lied, said I tripped.”
“You should ask if they heard anything that night. If you didn’t know where Stan was, you’d ask them.”
She takes this in, nods. “Yeah. Oh, Jesus.” She bites her lip, then winces. “I’m doing this all wrong.”
“You’re doing fine.” I reach for her hand and squeeze it.
I watched the twins in class today, looking for signs. They seemed normal. Chad was his glib, chatty self. Owen only spoke when he had to.
“Dana,” I say, “talk to the kids first. Then decide if they should speak to the cops. And if they do, they definitely need a lawyer present.”
If the police did decide Stan’s been murdered, Dana might not be the only person of interest. Antisocial Owen would be a dream suspect for a policeman lacking imagination. I don’t say this. Dana’s already stressed enough.
She nods and opens her purse, extracts a tissue. “I . . . Just. Okay.” This last word’s extra quiet.
“You’re doing great,” I say. “It’s normal for you to be losing it. Your husband’s missing. Being distraught is a good thing. It’s the ice queens who get persecuted, the women who don’t cry and don’t look broken enough. Remember Lindy Chamberlain?” Dana looks blank. “That Australian lady whose baby got stolen by a dingo? It got made into a movie?” She shudders. “Anyway, it’ll be okay. Just stick to the story.”
“Hello, ladies!”
I turn, aghast. We were so intent on each other we didn’t notice her approach. Angie Costin shimmies toward us, all big hair and lip gloss. Did she overhear anything?
The bracelets on her waving wrist jangle. Her hair, distressed by too much bleach, flaps like it’s trying to surrender.
Angie grins. “Mind if I join you?”
Dana grits her teeth into a smile. I don’t bother.
We went to school with Angie, née Zukovitch, back when she was a chubby brunette with crooked teeth and a talent for digging up gossip. Only one of these qualities remains, which explains her presence here, hoping to mine shiny nuggets. Oh, poor, poor Dana. I didn’t dare ask about her face . . . Can you imagine? I can hear her put-on pity in my head.
Angie slides onto the bleacher beside me but is careful to leave a good distance.
“How are you?” she says. The question is directed at Dana. I’m persona non grata.
“Um, okay,” says Dana.
“Oh, you poor thing,” trills Angie, her muddy green eyes fixed on Dana’s. “Has there been any news?”
“They found his jacket in Norman Gaynor Park.”
From Angie’s lack of excitement, it’s clear she already knew. She pouts, an affectation that probably looked cute when she first met Walt, her car-dealer husband, but these days it only emphasizes the grooves around her mouth, brought on by decades of menthol cigarettes and fake tanning. “Why would he go there?” she asks.
Dana shrugs.
“Is Gemma cheering today?” I ask, to change the subject. It’s either that or tell Angie to fuck off, which I can’t afford to do. Thanks to Walt’s business acumen, she’s a Stanton House parent. I’m a lowly teacher, the hired help. One step up from the janitor, Mr. Gomez.
“No. Wrist strain.” Her words are spoken tightly to signal her displeasure that I exist and are directed at Dana to show I’m unworthy of an answer.
Angie’s daughter, Gemma, is a cheerleader and the kid I like least in the whole damn school. She’s a smarter, meaner, prettier version of Angie, all of which makes her more dangerous. She’s also dating Dana’s golden boy, Chad.
Gemma’s obviously a rotten influence, talking Chad into slipping her answers. I turned them both in for cheating, more reason for Angie to hate me. Welcome to Glebes Bay, where six degrees of separation is shrunk to a big fat zero. We’ve all known each other since middle school, back when Angie was convinced she was Dana’s bestie.
Angie leans in, her news trumping her dislike of me. She’s so close I can smell her breath: fake mint over a sour base of coffee, guilty cigarettes, and venom. “The police interviewed Ryan Reeve,” she says. “Down at the station.”
Dana blanches beneath her film-star shades. There’s excitement on the field, but we all ignore it.
“Who’s Ryan Reeve?” I ask quickly, both to find out and to pull Angie’s attention away from Dana.
Dana swallows hard. “He lives next door. On the left.”
I picture the house—or rather its impressive fence. The house is set way back from the street, near the water. Did this Ryan see or hear something? I feel cold all over.
“I . . . I . . .” Dana sounds like she’s choking. I want to pat her on the back but stay frozen. “I guess that’s good,” she says, finally. “Maybe Ryan saw which way Stanley went.” She’s hiding her shock well, maybe better than I am. “Do you know Ryan well?” she asks Angie.
“Nah,” says Angie. “Not really. I know his parents, Mindy and Greg, through Walt. They buy their cars from us.” Maybe it’s the thought of Walt that makes her lips tighten. Or maybe she’s annoyed to be giving out info while getting so little back. Fair trades aren’t in the Costins’ natures.
Angie sniffs. “For a while, Ryan was coaching Jordan in tennis.”
Jordan is Angie’s son, now in ninth grade. I dislike him marginally less than his sister. He’s just as mean but less bright. I figure he’ll do less damage.
“Ryan’s fit, isn’t he?” continues Angie. “Very sporty.” This last part comes with a knowing smile.
While I miss the implication, it’s obvious Dana doesn’t. She looks frozen solid, her cheeks pale as ice. I make a mental note: Ryan Reeve, son of Mindy and Greg, Dana’s rich neighbors.
I nudge Dana with my knee. Her head twitches, like she just woke up. Her mouth closes.
Turning, I see Angie watching her. The intensity of her gaze scares me. Angie Costin was never that smart, but she’s got a nose for trouble. Shit. She’s caught the scent of something.
Dana licks her lips. “I . . . Sorry,” she says. “I have a bad headache. I didn’t sleep. What were you saying?”
“The Reeves,” says Angie smoothly. “Your neighbors. Ryan?” Her voice is a soft purr. “How well do you know them?”
“Ah, not well,” says Dana. “We’ve met, of course. And I see them sometimes, pulling out of their driveway and stuff. But you know how it is these days. Neighbors don’t connect like they used to. And the lots are so big.”
Angie nods. “We had to fire Ryan.”
Again, Dana misses a beat. I jump in. “Why?”
Angie looks hesitant, like she’d rather not say. This is a well-practiced mannerism, one I remember from way back when. She blinks and straightens. Her voice is prim. “There was some trouble with Jordan.”
“Trouble?” says Dana.
I’m trying to imagine Angie’s idea of trouble. Maybe this Ryan guy just told Angie’s brat to behave. Maybe he told him to stop being lazy.
“Drugs,” mouths Angie. Her eyes jerk my way when she says this, as if because of my connection to the school I might somehow use this knowledge against her precious baby. Her nostrils flare with outrage. “He sold Jordie marijuana!”
A roar erupts. The announcer’s voice whoops through the speakers. Our side scored a touchdown.
Dana leans back so abruptly it startles me and Angie. We all shift, like three birds on a wire, ready to flap but resettling. “That’s awful!” says Dana. She looks ill. “Jordan’s what, fourteen?”
“Fifteen in April.”
I look at Dana. “We smoked pot at that age.”
“It’s just different when you’re a mother,” says Dana.
Despite myself, I laugh. “No shit,” I say. “But we have to be realistic. Our kids are going to try drugs and get drunk. Not Ruby, obviously, at her age. But as teens? It’s just . . . normal.”
“Well,” says Angie, still prim. She’s got her hands clasped like a choir girl. Like I don’t remember her plastered on Malibu with a glob of cum on her plaid top after giving Brent Dunkirk a blow job.
“I wasn’t going to pay a dealer to meet with my son twice a week for tennis.”
“Fair enough,” I say.
Dana still looks oddly stricken. “Are you sure?” she asks Angie.
“Sure he was selling pot? Yes. I found it zipped into Jordan’s racket bag. When I confronted him, he said he’d bought it off Ryan.” Angie scrunches her tired hair. “You know he’s almost thirty and still living with his folks, right?” She snorts. “What do they call them? The boomerang generation?”
“No, those are the kids who move out and then move back,” I say. I’m pedantic by nature. It goes with being a teacher.
“He did move out for a while, to Japan,” says Dana.
Angie spins her way. I start to turn too but stop myself. Dana said she barely knew him.
She must realize her mistake because her jaw clenches.
“So you do know him,” says Angie. Her voice is saccharine—no, aspartame. Dripping with fake sweetness.
“We’ve met a few times,” Dana says tightly. “You know, going in and out. I remember he mentioned Japan. I thought that was interesting.” Her voice falters.
I catch a pleading look from Dana, like she’s begging Angie to drop it. I tense. I thought we were hiding shit from Angie. It feels like I’m the one on the outside.
“Mom?” We all turn to see Gemma slouching our way, neon backpack slung over one shoulder. One wrist is wrapped in a compression bandage. Despite the weather, she’s in tiny shorts and flip-flops. She looks petulant. “Can we go now?” Her eyes leapfrog me and land on Dana.
Angie smiles at her offspring. “You don’t want to see the end of the game?”
None of us has paid the slightest attention to the game. I turn to squint at the scoreboard. Stanton House is killing the local public school. Our team’s in the opposition’s end zone. I’d give the game another five minutes, tops.
“I want to go,” says Gemma. Speaking to her mom with that whine in her voice, she sounds like she’s four years old. The rest of the time, she sounds forty.
“Um, okay,” says Angie. She reaches for her purse.
Pussy, I think, then regret it. It’s an unfeminist thought. But if Angie had stood up to her kid, Gemma wouldn’t be such a monster. A scarily pretty monster, with legs so skinny, smooth, and long it’s hard not to stare at them and a face like a Madonna’s: big eyes, pert nose, chubby cheeks. She’s got her arms crossed, pouting.
Noticing my gaze, she turns her back. Gemma Costin hates me.
Physically, she’s a perfect match for Chad, the pair of them destined to be prom queen and king, to be just like their rich parents. They’ll lead high-gloss lives, cushioned by cash and good looks.
Then I remember: Chad’s perfect life has derailed. His dad’s gone. Dead, although the poor boy doesn’t know it.
Stan’s disappearance is the talk of the town. Chad must be struggling to hold it together, and now his bitch girlfriend is mad at him. Otherwise she’d stick around to kiss the star player and pose for cute couples’ photos. I wonder what happened. Typical Gemma to kick a guy when he’s down.
“I want to stop at the mall,” Gemma tells her mother. “I need a new backpack.”
I glance at the one on her shoulder. It looks fine. New, in fact.
“Okay,” says Angie. With a fresh pout, she stands up. Her coat—identical to Dana’s except black—flaps open. They’re both wearing slim dark jeans and ankle boots, like it’s some rich-lady uniform. Who wore it better? Poor Angie. Dana will be eighty and still wearing it better.
“Bye, Dana,” says Angie, with a sad smile. “Just hang in there.”
“See you, Angie,” I say loudly and sweetly. I do this for Gemma, who will be pissed at her mom for sitting with me. The thought of sowing discord between those two lifts my spirits, at least for a second.
Dana’s goodbye to Angie is more subdued. She still looks pale, like she hasn’t recovered from whatever Angie was doing here, asking about her pot-dealing neighbor.
I watch mother and daughter sidestep to the end of our row. They descend together, Gemma’s pale, skinny legs in perfect sync with her mom’s, marching to the same beat in their bitch army. Gemma tosses her hair and looks back at me, glaring. Her long hair is almost white, even paler than Dana’s.
Still watching them, I speak out the side of my mouth. “Okay, what just happened?”
Dana’s voice is high: “What do you—?”
I turn. “Don’t bullshit me, Dana.”
All around, people are on their feet, cheering. Stanton House won. Dana and I don’t look.
Her head dips. A tear escapes from beneath her black Chanel glasses. She starts to quake. “Fuck. I’ve been stupid,” my best friend whispers. “Utterly stupid.”