I stretch out my toes, painted black cherry red. I’m lying on the bed in a white robe. My hair’s damp from the shower. Now that I’m alone, the cottage feels dreamy. The sun’s come out. Dust motes hang in the sunbeams.
I scan the white walls, the white quilt, the gauzy drapes. It’s like being on vacation in a secluded resort, someplace romantic. I imagine a tropical beach just outside the front door, with aqua water and coral reefs. I can hear the waves lapping.
Sometimes I come here to think. I’d love this cottage for my studio. I asked Stan, but he said no, we needed a guesthouse. We don’t. It’s rarely used.
I tip my toes back and forth, loosening my ankles. I feel good, less tense than I’ve felt since that night. After everything I’ve been through, I deserved this. It was worth it, though risky. I mustn’t do it again—at least not in the near future.
Turning, I see my phone on the bedside table. I reach for it idly and tap in the code. I have twelve missed calls, all from Jo, and a slew of texts. Shit. I prop myself on my elbow. So much for feeling relaxed.
I think of the cops. What if they’ve shown Jo some proof she can’t lie away? What if she’s cracked under pressure? My throat’s dry. What if they’ve offered her a plea deal?
I dismiss this idea. Jo’s tough as nails and equally sharp. That’s why I asked her. And she’s loyal.
Still, my left eye, newly healed, starts to throb. I touch it, feeling the last hint of swelling. There’s always a breaking point. If Jo were threatened with life in jail, life away from Ruby— Adrenaline whips through me. If she had to choose, she’d pick her daughter. What mother wouldn’t?
I hit call. “Jo?”
She spits out her response: “Jesus! Are you done yet?”
“What?” I say, surprised. Have I caught her midconversation, talking to someone else? Whoever they are, they’re in trouble.
“We need to talk,” she says. “Now.” This last word sounds vicious. “I’m on your doorstep.”
I twist and sit up. “What?”
“I’m out front.” She sounds livid.
“Um, okay.” I smooth my hair. “Give me two minutes.”
As I pull on my clothes—black pants, black silk top, and a long, loose charcoal cardigan—it’s hard not to picture each item being torn off me. God, Ryan’s hot. And he can’t get enough of me. I smile. If I knew how, I’d whistle some jaunty show tune.
I slip into my shoes and go outside.
I walk quickly. The holly has a wealth of red berries. According to Jo, that means we’re in for a harsh winter. The lights are off in my studio. Daisy must have left early for lunch.
Sure enough, Jo’s car sits alone in the guest slots. Isn’t she supposed to be at school? I hope she hasn’t messed up at work again. I don’t know the full story of what happened to her in Chicago—and don’t want to—but getting Jo hired at Stanton House wasn’t easy.
Rounding the house, I see her on a bench near the front steps. Nearby stands the wheelbarrow, heaped with bags of leaves. The gardener must also be on his lunch break.
The sight of Jo and the wheelbarrow stirs a shudder. I can’t help but think of that night, how hard it was to move Stan. I pull my hands up into my soft sleeves.
Arms crossed, Jo watches my approach. The vertical streak between her brows looks deeper than ever. Without knowing why, I feel guilty.
I stop a few feet away. “Hi,” I venture.
She doesn’t answer. When Jo’s angry, she grinds her teeth. She’s doing it now.
I try again. “Jo?” What have I done? Or is she mad at someone else? No, this feels pointed my way. “What’s going on?”
Again, no answer. She’s scaring me. Have the police told her something?
She stands. “Let’s go inside.” She sounds grim.
I follow her up the stairs and open the door. Stepping inside, I gaze around like I don’t live here. Floor so glossy it looks lacquered. Octagonal glass table. Blue and white Delftware vases. And that frozen waterfall of a chandelier.
Daisy’s done the hall flowers: a solemn blue and white arrangement. Not quite funerary but appropriate for our situation. I turn away. The jasmine’s scent is cloying.
Jo pushes past me and heads for the kitchen. I follow meekly.
I fetch two San Pellegrinos from the fridge—mandarin for me, bitter orange for Jo—and perch on a stool. Jo stands. The counters gleam, thanks to Gloria. Where is Gloria? Jo ignores the offered soda.
“What’s happened?” I ask. Her silence is punishing. I’m scared and annoyed.
“That man,” she says. “The one you were fucking. Was that your young neighbor?”
Shock pops my mouth open. Jesus. Jo was spying on me. I take a slow sip of soda. It’s so cold it hurts.
“Was it?” Her voice rises.
I feel my cheeks color.
Jo throws up her hands. “What the fuck, Dana?”
She’s right. It was stupid. I’m under police scrutiny. “It just . . . happened. I had to talk to him, to see if he knew anything about that night. If he could’ve been the one leaving the notes.” That Night. The Notes. They’ve taken on capital letters, like horror movie titles.
Jo cuts me off with a snarl: “You weren’t talking!”
I take a deep breath. Her anger is justified. If I fuck up, she’s going down too. I clutch my cold can, feeling sick and ashamed—not for sleeping with Ryan, but for doing it now, with the cops hovering. What if they’d seen me? I’m meant to be the shattered wife praying for Stan’s safe return, not some horny old housewife getting it on with my deadbeat neighbor. It looks bad. I can’t meet her eyes. “It won’t happen again. I just—”
“It was him! Ryan Reeve killed Alma Reyes!”
I look up and frown, lost by this change of topic. Jo’s face has reddened. “What? Who?” I say.
“The hit-and-run!” Her voice shakes. “He drove over that poor woman, then took off!”
I recall straddling him, how good he felt. “That’s impossible.” My voice quivers.
Jo’s eyes narrow into hazel shards. Her voice is shrill. “I have to tell the police! He did it!” She looks close to tears.
I look out the window. A strip of ocean sparkles navy. Could Ryan really have done what Jo said?
“Jesus,” cries Jo. She starts pacing. “That poor woman! She’s dead, Dana!”
Her hysteria surprises me. Finding that lady must have been more traumatic than I thought. I set down my can, clear my throat. “I guess if you’re sure, you should report him.”
She spins and screams: “I can’t! That’s the problem!”
When I don’t respond, she spells it out.
“If he saw us schlepping Stan in a wheelbarrow that night, he’d get a plea deal. Alma’s death was manslaughter. The police would claim Stan’s was murder.”
I feel ill. They’d do anything to get me. Could Ryan actually be my blackmailer?
Jo’s face twists. She starts crying.
“You’ll turn him in,” I say. “Just not yet. Not until we’re sure who’s behind the notes.” I grab a box of tissues off the counter and walk toward her. “I don’t think it’s him,” I add, passing her the tissues.
Jo swipes at her tears. “He killed someone, Dana! You don’t think he’d be up for blackmail?” She balls up the paper towel. “Christ. Of all the people you could choose!” She snorts. “I mean, look at you! You could have anyone! Some loser dealing dope to Jordan Costin and . . .” She stops, like she’s remembered something. Her voice sharpens. “And Owen.”
How does this involve Owen?
“That’s why I came over,” said Jo. “The school found drugs in Owen’s locker. Spice. It’s basically some plant laced with chemical shit. Kids smoke it. The stuff’s bad news, Dana.”
“I . . .” There’s a surge of pain behind my left eye, so sharp and sudden I feel like puking. “Oh my God,” I whisper. “Ryan sold it to Owen?”
Jo nods. “Yes. Owen’s in the principal’s office.”
“Jesus!” I grab the chrome countertop to steady myself. I bend forward, dizzy.
Faced with my distress, Jo looks mollified. I’ve been punished enough. “You’d better get over there.”
I can’t even talk. Drugs. Owen. I look around for my car keys. Except I shouldn’t. I had that wine earlier. I feel queasy.
Jo must know what I’m thinking because she grabs her massive tote bag. “I’ll drive,” she says flatly. “Come on.”
I follow her shakily into the hall. The smell of jasmine’s overwhelming. It’s a relief to get outside. Jo grips my elbow as we descend the stairs. I gulp down cold autumn air.
“This supports the notes being from Ryan,” says Jo as we walk to her car.
“Why?” I say. My brain’s an overloaded washing machine, unbalanced but churning. My lover sold hallucinogenic drugs to my child.
“Ryan could have been here that night, selling shit to Owen,” says Jo. She unlocks her car’s door.
I pry open the passenger door. It’s a relief to sink into the seat.
Jo’s right, as usual: if Chad managed to whisk his girlfriend upstairs, Owen could easily have snuck out for a dope deal. For all I know, Owen and Ryan have been doing drugs together. I’ve been that oblivious. A terrible mother.
Jo jams the car into reverse, then pulls out and heads down the drive. Her car rattles. It’s a wonder the thing’s still running.
I consider buying her a new car. I’ve thought of it before, and of paying her rent for a better apartment. I never broached the subject because of Stanley. He wouldn’t have liked me giving Jo money.
A few years back, Stan’s younger brother went bankrupt. Stan didn’t bail him out, said he’d gambled and lost, luck of the draw. Stan could be a real asshole.
I stare up at the trees. They look sad without leaves. Stan’s gone. There’s nothing to stop me from helping Jo out. Except no, that’s unwise. A sudden change in her finances might interest the police. And she might think I don’t trust her and am buying her silence.
The car jolts. I trust her, don’t I?
Jo types in the gates’ passcode. I hold my breath as they open.
As we turn onto Beach, I see a gray sedan parked across the road. Two men sit up front, heads bent, books in hand. Books? That’s suspicious! Are they my blackmailers, waiting to see me collect another note? Are they plainclothes detectives?
I rub my forehead. My sore eye pulses. Fear’s exhausting.
Looking up, I catch sight of Ryan on the sidewalk, jogging. His perfect ass is wrapped in tight red running shorts, like the tempting biblical apple in Eden. Hot damn.
Anger drowns my desire. He sold dangerous drugs to my son! I clench my fists, feeling sick. I read an article about spice. It can be laced with everything from fentanyl to embalming fluid.
Jo asks, “You okay?”
I study her. Peering straight ahead at the road, she looks tired and anxious. Deep grooves bracket her mouth.
I nod and twist my stupid ring. “Yes. Thanks for coming to find me.”
“It’s okay.” Anger spent, she sounds done in.
Still ahead, Ryan bounds along the sidewalk. I try not to look his way as we pass. I dig my nails into my palms. This is typical. I’m seeing danger in all the wrong places. What kind of person has sex with a drug-dealing creep yet doubts her best childhood friend?