I’m still quaking as I pull up in front of Winderlea. That encounter with Ryan really scared me. I’m sweaty and disheveled. My shoes are muddy. I’ll spend weeks picking pine needles out of this sweater.
Ruby’s gone home with a school friend. I’ll collect her at five thirty. I should be using this time to grade papers. Instead, as soon as school was out, I raced over here. I need to tell Dana about Ryan.
Gloria is standing beside her car, helping Zoe unbuckle her seat belt. The twins, whom she also picked up, are hauling their school bags up the broad stone steps.
I park beside Gloria’s Honda and get out of my car.
“Hey, Gloria. How’s it going?”
She must notice I’m a mess because her eyes widen. Still, she smiles politely. “Hello, Jo.”
In her midthirties, Gloria’s a short, attractive woman, curvy but not fat. If I had to guess her origins, I’d wager someplace in Central America. She has a hint of an accent, soft as a lisp. Her eyelashes are so long they could be fake, although I doubt they are, on her wages.
Gloria has freed Zoe, who scrambles out of the car.
“Hi, Jo!” pipes up Zoe.
Like the twins, Zoe’s in her school uniform: a pleated gray skirt and white-collared blouse under a navy sweater. With her fair hair French braided, she looks straight out of an old Enid Blyton novel.
Gloria scans my back seat. “Where’s Ruby?”
“On a playdate with a friend,” I say. “I stopped by quickly to see Dana.”
Gloria nods. She shuts the door behind Zoe and walks to the back of her car. She raises the hatchback and bends to collect some bags.
I join her. “Can I help?”
“Oh, no need,” says Gloria. “I only have these two.” She scoops a bag into each arm. I slam her car’s hatchback.
Zoe has run ahead, up the path. Her spindly braids flap.
Gloria and I walk beside each other. I think of the list Dana and I made, people who could know about Stan. Could Zoe have seen something and told Gloria? That would be a stretch . . . and yet. Zoe spends a lot of time with the housekeeper.
“Is everything okay?” I ask. “With Stan gone?”
Gloria looks reluctant to speak, which I get. She’s an employee, and I’m Dana’s best friend. Anything she says will probably get back to her boss. “It’s a hard time on Dana,” she says. “And the children.”
I nod. “The police—have they talked to you?”
“Certainly,” says Gloria. Her dark, full lips tighten. “I could not help them.”
I sigh. “Me neither.”
She shoots me a glance I don’t like. What does Gloria think I might know?
“They asked if I knew he was hitting her,” I say quietly.
Gloria’s thick eyebrows tilt. “I saw no sign of that.”
Again, I nod. “Same.” I swallow, worried she might take this the wrong way and think I’m doubting Dana. “Not until that night Stan took off,” I add quickly.
Gloria’s eyes veer my way. “You were here?” Her surprise appears genuine, but who knows?
“Dana called me after he left. She was upset. I came over.”
Gloria stares straight ahead, her brow furrowed. I wonder what she knows. Housekeepers must see a lot.
We’ve reached the front stairs.
Before taking the first step, I hesitate. The night of the fight, Gloria likely left work around six, as usual. But she might have stayed later or come back.
“Gloria?” I say. “The day Stan left—or before—did you notice anything strange? Like someone watching the house or something?”
Her frown deepens. “You mean like stalkers? Or kidnappers?” She puts the emphasis on nap, rendering the word oddly comical.
She rearranges her grip on the bags as we climb the steps. “I told the police,” she says sharply, “that someone was watching.”
Surprise makes me stop. “What?”
Gloria keeps climbing. I take two steps to catch up.
“Gordon Cabrallo—he does the garden. He told me,” says Gloria. “Someone was hiding in the cedar bushes. He found a mat in there. And cigarette butts.”
“The cedars?” Immediately I think of the kids: a childhood fort, repurposed into Chad’s make-out spot or Owen’s drug den.
“Over there,” says Gloria. She nods toward a cedar hedge trimmed into a thick, flat-faced green wall. It faces the studio’s service entrance.
“Oh,” I say, my mind aswirl with new images. Was it one of the boys in there smoking? Or something more sinister? “When was that?”
“Some days before Stanley went missing.”
We’re on the porch. Gloria’s gaze is lowered. I know that indoors, back in her place of work, she won’t answer any more questions. “Can you think of any reason for Stan to leave?” I ask quickly. If Dana’s right and he was having an affair, I want to know with whom.
Gloria shakes her head. Normally, she’s smiley, but now she looks sullen. “No. Stanley is a nice man. A family man.”
The set of her jaw makes me wonder. Gloria’s sexy in a way Dana’s not. Physically, she’s her opposite: dark, short, and buxom to Dana’s fair, tall, and willowy. What if Stan succumbed to the ultimate rich-guy cliché: fucking the nanny? I wonder if Gloria resents Dana. She might have told the cops that Dana was cheating with her fitness-freak neighbor.
Since Gloria’s hands are full, I shove the door open. “After you,” I tell Gloria.
She hesitates, then precedes me indoors. I poke my head in after her. “Dana?” I call. I usually phone or text before coming over.
“Jo?” Her voice floats down the hall. She sounds surprised. “I’m in the studio. Come on in.”
I head toward her. The hallway feels longer than ever. I take a deep, steadying breath before entering the studio. Stepping in, I shut the door firmly, making certain to lock it.
The room’s cool and fragrant, as usual. Classical music plays softly.
Dana’s assistant, Daisy, must be out making deliveries. Dana’s alone, bent over an arrangement the size of a standing fan, fashioned from sunflowers and tropical foliage. In her hands is a knife with a sharp, pointed blade. With one expert movement, she slices the stalk of a huge sunflower.
I think of sunflowers as happy, yet this arrangement is sinister. Dark, spiky leaves overshadow the cheery flowers, like something bad is hanging over them. Small red flowers peek through the dark greenery. They look toxic.
“What’s up?” asks Dana. She slashes through another sunflower.
I find Dana’s arrangements unsettling. She doesn’t just make pretty things. She’s a true artist; flowers are her medium. Even her prettiest displays contain a hint of menace: the bitter fairy in “Sleeping Beauty,” the wolf disguised as a harmless grannie. Her success has surprised me, but people must like that disquieting undercurrent.
I look away from the sunflowers. Trying to avoid bad thoughts is like trying not to sneeze. The more you hold it in, the harder it blasts free. My eyes spasm to the spot where Stan’s head lay, that pool of blood on the white floor. The splatter . . .
“Jo?”
I wrench my gaze from the floor. Dana was talking. I’ve missed it. “Um. Sorry?” I say.
Her oval face swims into focus. The side door lies open. A breeze wafts in, smelling of pine sap and the sea.
“I asked what’s wrong,” says Dana. She bends low to slice through a thistle, yet another malevolent-looking spike.
What’s wrong? I fight back a bitter laugh. What isn’t? We used to visit for fun. Now, we’re like survivors on a sinking ship, every discussion about what to patch up and how to bail faster.
I turn my back on the spot where Stan lay. “At school, I saw Owen sneak out to meet Ryan Reeve in the woods behind the library.”
Knife still in hand, Dana’s chin jerks up. Her eyes go round: “What?”
“Owen and Emmett Isles. Ralph’s son. They both snuck out to meet Ryan. Emmett gave him something. Money, I guess.”
Dana grimaces. “Jesus. You think they were buying more drugs?”
“I guess so.”
I hope so, in fact, since it could be something worse. I rub my pants. Why, if not to sell drugs, would Ryan Reeve meet Owen and Emmett?
Before I can stop her, Dana marches to the door I just came through and yanks it wide. “Owen?” she calls. Her voice isn’t loud but carries. “Owen, I need to speak with you!”
Anyone in earshot now knows Owen’s in trouble.
I wait, half expecting no response. Yet moments later, Owen shuffles into the room, still wearing his school uniform. In one hand is a bowl of cereal. A spoon’s clutched in the other. I’m glad to see him eating.
“Yeah?” he asks his mother.
I wish Dana had waited. We should have discussed this and devised a strategy. Now it’s too late.
Dana’s face is taut. She’s still wielding that knife. I see Owen clock it. He’s not looking at her but at the silver blade.
“Owen, why did you meet Ryan Reeve at school?” asks Dana. Her voice is soft, but her eyes are hard.
Owen blinks. Behind his long bangs, his eyes flick my way and narrow. He knows I saw him and tattled. “We still had to pay him, didn’t we?” He sounds sullen.
“For what?” asks Dana.
“For the stuff that got found in the raid!” He waves his spoon. “I wasn’t buying more, if that’s what you think!” He sounds offended.
Dana’s eyes are narrower than her son’s. “So, the big Black guy at the mall?”
“I made him up. I didn’t want Ryan to get in trouble.”
“Why didn’t you pay him before?” I ask. This doesn’t sit right. Yet I can’t swear that Ryan passed something to the boys. If he did, I didn’t see it.
“I didn’t have enough money on me,” says Owen.
“And Emmett?” I ask.
He scowls; now he’s sure I saw Emmett too. “What about him?”
“Why was he there today?” I ask. “Meeting Ryan?”
“He wanted to try it too,” scoffs Owen, like it’s obvious. Perhaps it is. “Even though the stuff was confiscated, we still had to pay Ryan!”
“Why meet him at school?” I say. “That was risky. He lives right next door.” I flick my chin in the direction of the Reeves’ mansion.
Owen’s lower lip twitches, like he’s worried I’ll report him and he’ll get in real trouble. If he’s caught again, he could be expelled. His parents’ generosity notwithstanding, even Stanton House must have limits.
He studies his bowl. “Ryan was worried about the cops,” he says slowly. “Worried they’re watching this place because of Dad.” All of a sudden, he’s tearful. Is that real?
“Owen,” I say quickly, before Dana can interrupt. “The night your dad left—did Ryan come by here?”
“What?” His bottom lip wobbles. He bites it flat, injects some false bravado into his voice. “Why would he? I wasn’t buying drugs that night, if that’s what you’re asking!”
I wait.
“You’re sure, right?” says Dana.
He glares at her. “What? You don’t think I’d remember?” His frown deepens. “He didn’t meet me.” He sounds bitter.
I freeze, as does Dana. He didn’t meet me! The normal answer would be, I didn’t see him. What was Owen suggesting? Was Ryan here meeting Dana?
I feel hot, then cold. Maybe Dana is lying about everything that happened.
My eyes seek hers. She looks too rattled to respond. I take a quick breath. I’ll ask her straight out when we’re alone.
I focus on Owen. “Are you friends with Emmett?” I ask.
Some strong emotion warps his mouth. Love? Longing? Hatred? “I . . . No. We just know each other from school.”
I don’t know why, but I’m sure Owen’s lying. Emmett’s sixteen and has his learner’s permit. Maybe he came over that night in his dad’s fancy car and left it on the road. Learners aren’t allowed to drive without an adult in the car. Maybe Ralph was lying the next morning to protect him.
“If I find out you’ve bought more drugs, you’ll be grounded,” Dana says shrilly. “And you need to stay away from Ryan!”
Owen’s answering smile is so contemptuous I expect him to say the same thing back. I hold my breath.
“Yeah, whatever.” He spins and sidesteps out the door.
When it’s clicked shut behind him, Dana’s face crumples. Her eyes meet mine, stricken. “Do you think he’s on drugs?” Her voice shallows. “I mean, is he smoking that stuff regularly? Is he”—her hands shake—“addicted?”
I shrug. In Dana’s mind, addiction happens to street people and sex workers. Maybe kids living in trailers.
She sets her knife on the counter and rubs her palm. “What would you do if it were Ruby?”
Pre-Ruby, I was sure I’d be the perfect parent. My imaginary kids would love vegetables. They’d have limited screen time. We’d reason things out. They’d never talk back or throw tantrums.
Reality hit hard. For a year, Ruby ate nothing but goldfish crackers and chicken fingers. These days, she’s rarely detached from my old iPad.
As for Owen, I’m guessing he’s been smoking pot for a while. But this spice stuff is more worrying. “Is he on any prescription meds?” I ask Dana.
“Just low-dose Adderall for his ADHD.”
Jesus. Just? Adderall is a stimulant. I can’t imagine it mixes well with synthetic cannabinoids. “Is he seeing his therapist?”
“Not lately. He stopped last year. He didn’t want to go. And he seemed”—she stares at that ominous thistle—“a lot better.”
My throat’s dry. Normally, I’d advise her to get him straight to a professional, especially with the stress he’s under. Yet it’s obvious Owen knows something he shouldn’t: maybe about his mom’s affair, maybe about his dad. We don’t need him opening up, even to a therapist.
I choose my words carefully. “Owen will be okay, Dana. He’s a smart boy. Just try to keep a closer eye on him. I’ll do the same at school.”
Dana’s still rubbing her scratched palm. Tears well in her lovely eyes. More watching and waiting. I know this is not what she wants to hear.
“This is so hard. I feel helpless.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. I don’t want to spell it out and say her son’s a threat, but he is. He might blab if he knows something, or try to use that knowledge. The boy’s smart, possibly scheming. If Dana adds to his anger, she could face retaliation.
“It will be fine,” I say. “Just don’t push too hard.”