There were no more requests for interviews. After Chief Rocca’s appearance on Newsnight, the episode of They Walk Among Us featuring Nessa and Jo was pulled from the podcast’s website and replaced with an apology from Josh Gibbon. He refused to explain his actions to Jo over the phone, worried the conversation might be recorded. Later that day, Nessa spotted him pumping gas at a station in town, wearing a ridiculously unkempt beard and dark glasses. When confronted, Josh admitted that while he knew everything she and Jo had said to be true, he couldn’t afford to stand by them. His credibility had taken a serious hit. He’d lost sponsors and received hate mail from thousands of listeners. He pleaded with her to leave him alone.
“Just take my number.” She scribbled it down on a scrap of paper when he showed no sign of pulling out his own phone. “If you hear anything new or receive any tips, please let me know.”
“Why?” he asked. “Spencer Harding is dead. He’s not going to hurt anyone. Didn’t the three of you get what you wanted?”
Not yet, Nessa thought as she watched Josh drive away. Harriett seemed confident that Rocca would be punished, but Nessa couldn’t figure out how. If Harriett had a plan, she hadn’t shared it. I’ll do my job, she’d told Nessa. You focus on yours. Nessa’s job was to identify Spencer Harding’s victims, and two of the three girls still remained nameless.
That truth was tormenting Nessa several days later as she pushed a cart through the Stop & Shop aisles, her arm reaching out to grab the usual items as though it had a mind of its own. She was so lost in her thoughts that she got all the way from produce to canned goods before she finally sensed someone was following her. She spun around, hoping to catch the lurker off guard. Behind her was a woman Nessa recalled seeing in the parking lot who’d done a double take as Nessa passed her.
“You’re Ms. James?” the woman asked shyly.
“I am,” Nessa said, steeling herself for what might come next.
“My name is Mary Collins, and I’ve heard you have the sight,” she half whispered. “My girl disappeared a year ago. We’re from Queens, but she was out on the island visiting a friend when she vanished.”
The woman pulled a photo, creased and dog-eared, from her wallet. When she held it out, Nessa took it, though she could hardly bear to look. Smiling back at her was a teenage girl with braids and braces.
“She’s beautiful.” Nessa stroked the face in the photo with her thumb and ordered herself to stay strong. “What’s her name?”
“Lena. They told me she ran away from home—like that girl Mandy Welsh. I never believed them, but what could I do? Have you seen Lena, Ms. James? Can you tell me what happened to her?”
“I’m so sorry.” It broke Nessa’s heart to say the words. “I haven’t seen your girl. But I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for her. I promise I will.”
The girl’s mother looked so crestfallen as she tucked the photo back into her wallet that Nessa stepped forward and wrapped her arms around the woman.
“I miss her so much,” Mrs. Collins whispered into Nessa’s shoulder. “This whole time I haven’t had any peace.”
They stood there in the canned vegetable aisle, Nessa holding a woman she’d only just met as they both cried.
Later that afternoon, Nessa lay on Harriett’s sofa, her brain thumping. The migraines were becoming a regular occurrence. Harriett made a tonic that helped relieve the pain, but the headaches usually returned by the next day. This one, though—it was worse than the others.
“The pain is telling you something,” Harriett said. “It will go away once you get the message.”
“For God’s sake, what is it?” Nessa croaked. She had a hunch, but she didn’t want to confront it.
“I don’t know,” Harriett responded. “It’s not meant for me.”
That conversation ended with a knock at Harriett’s door.
“Pardon me for a moment,” Harriett said. “That must be my next client.”
For the past few weeks, there had always seemed to be someone knocking on Harriett Osborne’s door. Annette Moore kept track of the visitors. She’d lived in one of the houses across the street from 256 Woodland Drive ever since she returned home from her rained-out Hawaiian honeymoon two decades earlier. In all the years that she and Harriett Osborne had been neighbors, the two women had exchanged exactly sixty-two words. But the mental dossier Annette kept on Harriett was nothing short of exhaustive. She liked to think of herself as the eyes and ears of Woodland Drive, and the truth was, Harriett Osborne was the only resident worth watching. Throughout the months of July and August, Annette had noticed a steady stream of visitors to the Osborne house. The women—they were always women—would park their vehicles several blocks down the street and travel the rest of the way on foot. They clearly didn’t want their cars to be spotted outside the witch house, as it had become known throughout Mattauk. They’d stand on the porch, one toe tapping nervously as they checked over their shoulders to make sure no one was watching, and wait for the front door to open. There were always people watching, of course. It wasn’t just Annette. And a few of the visitors would have set tongues wagging. Among them, Annette recognized the mayor’s trashy daughter-in-law and prissy Juliet Rocca, the chief of police’s wife. But after what happened to the head of the homeowners association, Annette kept her mouth shut. Brendon Baker still showed up once a month to weep on the witch’s front steps. Everyone in Mattauk knew all about it—and no one dared mess with Harriett Osborne.
According to Annette’s observations, Harriett’s guests usually stayed for twenty minutes. A few would disappear into her jungle for hours. But when the women emerged, they invariably carried a little brown baggie. As they speed-walked back to their cars, clutching the bag as though it were the most precious object, they all seemed a little more at ease in the world.
“You know, I think Harriett Osborne is selling marijuana out of her house,” Annette said as she peeked between the blinds.
“Naw, Eric sells the pot. Shrooms, too,” her teenage daughter replied absentmindedly as she shot aliens on the TV.
“Who’s Eric?”
“You know, the hottie from the grocery store.” No more explanation was needed. Mother and daughter both managed to be near the front window whenever Eric delivered Harriett’s groceries.
“How do you know he’s the one who sells drugs?” Annette demanded.
Her daughter rolled her bloodshot eyes. “Everyone knows,” she said. “His prices are crazy good.”
“I don’t know who told you that,” Annette snipped, “but you’re not allowed to hang out with them anymore.” She swiveled back toward the window just in time to see another woman rap on Harriett Osborne’s front door. Annette gasped and pressed her forehead to the glass. “Oh my God, I think that woman works for your dad.” She remembered the woman from the Halloween party at her husband’s dental practice. He’d forced his oral hygienists to dress as the backup singers from “Addicted to Love,” a video which none of them were old enough to remember.
“Is it the lady with the great boobs or the one with the sweet ass?” the daughter inquired.
“Excuse me?” Annette glanced over her shoulder and saw an alien’s head explode on the screen. “We don’t talk about other women like that.”
“Really? Then tell your revolting husband. That’s how he refers to his ‘girls’ when his friends are around.”
Annette felt nauseous. Truth was, she’d been nauseous for years. “My revolting husband happens to be your father.”
“Yeah, don’t remind me,” said the girl.
Annette watched Harriett greet the hygienist, whose ass, even in scrubs, did appear to be sweet.
“If Harriett Osborne’s not selling drugs, what are all of these ladies buying?”
Her daughter snickered. “Payback,” she said.
Annette’s daughter had never shown a gift for prophesy—or for anything, other than alien massacres. But in that one word, Annette suddenly saw her whole future. She let the blinds fall back into place and didn’t say anything else.
The next night, Annette was lying in bed when her husband came home late from work. She remained silent and still as he headed straight for the bathroom as he always did. He liked to wash up before coming to bed. These little things she’d always blithely accepted—the late hours, the showers—had taken on new meaning. When he emerged a half hour later, Annette switched on the bedside lamp, ready to confront him. But her eyes were immediately drawn to a flaming red rash peeking out from the waistband of her husband’s tighty-whities and inching its way up his belly.
“What is that?” she gasped in horror.
Her husband snatched a shirt out of a drawer and pulled it on, hiding the rash. “What does it look like?” he snapped. “You bought the wrong soap again.”
He’d always been good at that—convincing her she hadn’t seen what she’d seen. But Annette suspected the rash was Harriett’s handiwork. Perhaps it was the payback the hygienist had been seeking. What could he have done to the woman to deserve such a punishment?
“No.” Annette wasn’t going to let it happen this time. “You didn’t get that from soap. You got it from something else that you shouldn’t have touched.”
She slept in the guest room that night—and all the nights after that.
By the end of the week, the rash had conquered her husband’s chest and scaled his neck past the collar of his shirt. Annette walked in on him in the bathroom as he was about to climb into an oatmeal bath and saw that it had consumed his entire body, all the way down to his ankles. She woke up that night to the sound of her husband tiptoeing past the guest room, down the stairs, and out the front door. Intrigued, she assumed her favorite position at the living room window. She saw him on his knees on Harriett Osborne’s porch, his rash-covered fingers woven together as he begged. Harriett didn’t appear to be listening. Her eyes had found Annette in the window across the street.
The next morning, after her husband went to work, Annette threw his clothes on the lawn and called an attorney. When the doorbell rang that afternoon, Annette opened the door to find Eric standing on her front porch. The sight of him in a tight T-shirt and jeans would have been gift enough. But he flashed his movie-star smile and held out a small brown paper bag.
Annette took it and looked inside. At the bottom were a few shriveled mushrooms.
“Harriett says these will help your depression.”
“How does she know I’m depressed?” Annette wondered.
“If you weren’t, you would have kicked that asshole to the curb a long time ago.” Eric smiled again. “Those are her words, not mine.”
“Let me get my purse,” Annette said.
“No need,” Eric told her. “They’re a gift. And if you want some company, Harriett says feel free to stop by after business hours any time this week.”
After the Newsnight debacle, traffic briefly dipped at Furious Fitness. A handful of women canceled their memberships and a few were noticeably chillier. But most of Jo’s clients came and went as they always had. Some even made a point of stopping to tell her she had their support. The first time it had happened, Jo had sprinted straight to a shower stall and turned the water on cold. Then she stepped under the frigid spray in her workout gear and sneakers. Steam had risen from her skin as she cried.
Lucy had proven remarkably resilient, just as Harriett had predicted. The two of them had begun spending hours together each week. Jo didn’t know what they discussed, and when she asked, Lucy would find a way to dodge the question. But she seemed stronger and more self-assured every time she came home covered in dirt from Harriett’s garden. It was Jo who couldn’t forget what had happened. She ran ten miles every morning and worked out for hours after Lucy went to bed. Nothing she did seemed to help. The man they’d been after had escaped from justice. And most of Mattauk thought she was to blame.
The smug, satisfied face of Chief Rocca haunted her. It was his face she destroyed when she hit the punching bag. It was his face she pummeled with her fists when she ran. Not only was he a lying sack of shit and an accomplice to murder, he’d used the Newsnight interview to brazenly take credit for everything she, Nessa, and Harriett had done. None of them had expected to receive any praise. But to see their work ignored and their names besmirched—it was too much to take. Jo thought she’d left all that behind when she finally escaped the corporate world. But it didn’t seem to matter where a woman was—there was always someone waiting to shove her out of the spotlight and into a steaming pile of shit.
She spent less time at the gym now, and more time with Lucy. After the break-in at their home, Jo hardly let the girl out of her sight. Every morning, Art found them both asleep in Lucy’s twin bed. Jo had installed a security system, and new locks had been put on all the windows and doors. The house was a veritable fortress, but Jo never felt safe. Art understood, but she could see he was worried. At some point, Jo’s need to protect their daughter would do more harm than good. Unable to send Lucy away, she’d already canceled her sleepaway camp.
“It’s okay,” she overheard Lucy telling Art. “Mom needs me to be here right now.”
That night, Jo had spent hours on the Spin bike she’d had installed in the basement. She could have ridden to the moon and back—it wouldn’t have made any difference. There was no way to burn off her rage or the terror that fueled it.
On the last day of August, Jo got Lucy out of bed early. Art was headed to a meeting in Manhattan, so Jo took their daughter with her to open the gym. They were at the front door, with the key in the lock, when Jo spotted the reflection of someone coming up behind them.
Before Jo could react, Lucy wheeled around like a miniature ninja, her fists clenched and her arms poised to punch.
“Hey there,” said a woman in black leggings and a windbreaker. She held out a hand to Lucy. “I’m Claude.” There was nothing patronizing about the gesture.
“Lucy,” the girl replied, unclenching a fist to shake the woman’s hand.
“You’ve got quite a bodyguard,” Claude told Jo. “I wouldn’t want to mess with her.”
“She’s pretty tough.” Jo hugged her daughter proudly, then gave Claude a once-over. “You look like you’re raring to go this morning. We don’t usually open for another hour or so. The bees still bothering you out on the Pointe?”
“They haven’t been quite as bad since Jackson’s been in the hospital,” Claude said.
Jo grimaced. “Oh God. He’s still in there?”
“Leonard told me he’s being released soon. I know this will sound horrible, but it’s been much more pleasant on the Pointe without him. This has been my first harassment-free summer in ages.”
“Morning!” Heather, Jo’s assistant manager, joined them, and Jo stepped aside so she could open the doors. “Well, hello there, Miss Lucy. I could use some help getting things ready. If we get our work done fast enough, I can buy you a smoothie before we open.”
“Yes!” Lucy raced inside to get started.
“You are a saint for offering, but you do not have to babysit,” Jo told Heather.
“Babysit?” Heather scoffed. “Lucy’s one of the best workers around—and she’s definitely the cheapest.”
“Okay then,” Jo said. “But the second you need some kid-free time, you just let me know.” She held the door as Heather passed through and waited for Claude to come inside as well.
“Actually, I’m not here to work out,” Claude admitted. Her tone had changed, and some of her confidence seemed to have slipped away. “I was wondering if you might have a few minutes. I have a question I’d like to ask you.”
“Okay,” Jo said. “What is it?”
“Come across the street for a quick cup of coffee?” Claude asked.
“Sure,” Jo said. “I can spare a few minutes.” She opened the gym door and peeked her head inside. Heather and Lucy were unwrapping the previous day’s laundry. “I’ll be back in a sec.”
“No worries,” Heather said. “Lucy and I got this. Take your time.”
The café had only opened a few minutes earlier, and they were the first and only customers. Claude bought a coffee while Jo grabbed a juice. Then they chose a table near the front window.
The morning light was unforgiving. Claude appeared pale and on the verge of tears. “First of all, I just want to tell you how sorry I am.”
“For what?” Jo asked.
“For what happened to your beautiful daughter—” Claude paused to wipe her eyes and gain control of herself. “And to all those other girls. I knew Spencer was rotten. I knew he had something to do with Rosamund’s death. But I had no idea he was capable of such atrocities. And to think it was happening right under my nose! I haven’t been able to sleep in weeks.”
“I think there have been a lot of people going without sleep lately,” Jo told her, hoping they could move on to a different subject.
“Well, I want to do something,” Claude said. “I want to make sure nothing like this ever happens again.”
The words struck a familiar chord. Jo had told Lucy the very same thing. “Do you have something in mind?”
“No, but I bet we could come up with something together. Something big.”
“Something big?” Jo smiled, wondering where this was all going. “Okay.”
“Leonard says he’ll fund it. He feels terrible, too.”
Jo’s smile faded. Claude was serious.
“Between you and me, I’ve never touched a dime of his cash,” Claude said. “But this is important to me. No one teaches girls how to take care of themselves. We train them to be pretty and kind and polite right before we set them loose in a world filled with wolves. Then we act surprised and horrified when some of them get eaten. After my father died, I came very close to being one of those girls. The only thing that saved me back then was luck.”
Jo thought of her own upbringing. Her good, solid, middle-class mother had tried so hard to iron out her rough edges—and blamed herself when she realized she hadn’t succeeded. Those rough edges had rubbed quite a few people the wrong way. Somehow Jo had always sensed those weren’t the kind of people she wanted around her. And as she grew older, she saw that those who wanted girls to be docile and disciplined were often the same people who took advantage of them.
“What if we created a program for girls that combines assertiveness training, self-defense, and martial arts?” Jo suggested. It was something she’d daydreamed about countless times in the past. “So the next time some asshole snatches someone’s kid off the street, he gets a lot more than he bargained for.”
“Yes! I love it!” Claude exclaimed. “We can do a pilot here in Mattauk. And then we’ll use Leonard’s money to take it national. Maybe even global.”
It was moving too fast and sounding too good to be true. “That’s pretty ambitious,” Jo said. “And expensive.”
“Leonard said he’ll give us twenty million if we come up with something good.”
That couldn’t be right. “Twenty million dollars?”
“He gives hundreds of millions to charity every year. Twenty million is just a drop in the bucket. Plus, he has an ulterior motive. He needs to wash some of the taint off Culling Pointe.”
“Oh my God, Claude.”
“We can get more if we show we’re successful. We could start an organization devoted to preparing girls for the world. You could be the CEO.”
“Me?” Jo repeated. Her head was spinning.
“Why not? You’re a successful businessperson. You know the world of fitness, and you kick serious butt. Plus, you have a girl of your own. I know this all sounds crazy, but if Leonard says yes, would you be interested?”
Jo figured it wouldn’t look terribly professional if she leaped from the table and jumped up and down. “I’ll need to discuss it with my husband.”
“Of course!” Claude agreed. “Maybe we could do a little market research just to prove to ourselves and our gentlemen friends that the idea could work. Do you think we could use your social media accounts to send out an invite for a free self-defense class for girls? We could see how many young people come—and how many of their moms sign up for Furious Fitness memberships before they leave.”
“Sure. I’ll get on it right away,” Jo told her.
It wasn’t the CEO title that appealed to her most—or the millions they’d be able to spend. The program itself could be just what she needed—a way to teach Lucy how to fight for herself. The solution seemed so simple now. The relief it brought Jo was intoxicating, and the gratitude she felt was beyond expression.
“Wonderful! I suppose I should let you get back to work now,” Claude said as she gathered her things. “By the way, would you mind asking your friend Harriett to reach out to me? We’re still having a terrible time with those flowering bushes that have taken over the Pointe. I’m hoping she’ll know how to help.”
Jo felt her brow furrow. “I’d be happy to.”
Art arrived home with his own good news. His latest play had found a backer. Casting would begin at the end of the month. The money was surprisingly good, but Jo’s delight had nothing to do with the family finances. Art finally felt like her partner again. That evening, Jo cooked everyone’s favorite lasagna, Art made strawberry shortcake, and the Levisons enjoyed their best family dinner in years.
After the dishes were washed, Jo picked up Nessa and the two of them drove to Harriett’s. They found her on her hands and knees in the garden, harvesting seeds from the spiky pods of a large, tropical-looking plant. When she saw them, she sat back on her haunches.
“You have news.” Harriett stood up and eyed Jo closely. “Does it call for champagne? Chase left a stash in the cellar.”
“Wouldn’t hurt.” Jo hadn’t been able to stop smiling all day.
“I’ll grab a bottle.” Harriett passed her basket to Nessa.
“What are these?” Nessa ran her fingers through the reddish-brown seeds. “They’re pretty.”
“Castor beans,” Harriett told her.
“For castor oil?” Nessa asked. Her grandmother had rubbed a little on her skin every night before bed and taken a tablespoon every morning by mouth to help keep her regular.
“Mmmhmm.” Harriett hurried toward the house. “Wait here.”
Nessa watched until she was sure Harriett was out of earshot. “She seem a bit off to you?” she asked Jo.
Jo laughed. “Are you kidding? Harriett’s never been on.”
“You ever wonder what she knows that we don’t?” Nessa asked.
“Every day,” Jo said. “I almost want to give her a call when I wake up in the morning and ask her if I should bother getting out of bed.”
Harriett soon reappeared in the garden with a bottle of champagne in one hand, three flutes in the other, and two more bottles tucked under her arms. Nessa rushed over to help her.
“Geez, Harriett. Do you figure we have enough champagne?” Jo asked.
“We’ll see,” Harriett said. “There’s more where that came from. Have a seat. I’ll start a fire.”
Jo and Nessa sat side by side on a wooden bench that faced a fire pit Harriett had built in her garden. The late-August day had been blistering hot, but the evening breeze that came in off the ocean was cool and sweet. Soon a fire was dancing inside the circle of rocks, which resembled a miniature pagan henge.
“Now,” Harriett said once they all had full glasses in their hands. “Tell me.”
“You sure you’re ready?” Jo joked. “You don’t want to make some pigs in a blanket or knit us all flute cozies?”
“I’m ready.” Harriett seemed to have lost her sense of humor.
“Okay then.” Jo shot a quick glance at Nessa, who was gazing at her champagne with thirsty eyes.
As Jo recounted the events of the morning, Harriett listened closely. She didn’t ask any questions. She drank in the information like soil absorbing the rain.
“I know what this means after what happened to Lucy,” Harriett said when Jo had finished. For a moment she seemed more human than usual—like the woman Jo had met in a parking lot years before. “Here’s to both of you.” She lifted her glass and drained its contents in a single gulp.
It was an oddly somber toast.
“Wow,” Jo said.
“Yes, here’s to Jo.” Nessa lifted her champagne glass and put on a cheerful smile.
“Skål.” Harriett guzzled her second glass of champagne, then humorlessly poured herself a third and downed that one, too.
“Thanks, guys.” Jo wondered if her announcement had conjured bad memories for Harriett. Perhaps she should have been more sensitive. She knew Harriett’s advertising career had ended abruptly. But it was hard to believe that anything as mundane as a job could remain a sore spot for the woman Harriett had become.
While Jo and Nessa chatted, Harriett couldn’t seem to sit still. She had quickly drained most of the first bottle of champagne by herself, but she didn’t appear to be drunk. She walked among the plants in her garden like a general inspecting her troops, stopping to sniff at a leaf here, judge the plumpness of a berry there. The silver in her hair had overtaken the blond, and it reflected the moon’s shimmering light.
“So what does Art think?” Nessa asked Jo. “He must be proud.”
“Oh, definitely.” Jo beamed. “Doesn’t hurt that he got some good news of his own today. His latest play is being produced! He met with the investors this morning.”
“That’s wonderful! I’m so glad things are turning around for you. I was starting to wonder if we’d all been cursed.” Nessa’s good cheer faded as she reached up to massage her temples. She was sure her brain was about to burst out of her skull.
“How are the migraines?” Jo asked quietly.
Nessa wished she could report that they were improving. But the truth was, she’d spent most of the day in her darkened bedroom. She’d been leaving Harriett’s potions unconsumed, hoping she’d finally understand the message that the headaches were trying to send her. The pain felt like a writhing ball of chaos, static composed of unintelligible voices. Sometimes, when she listened closely, it would seem as if a single word or thought might break through. But then, just as quickly, it would sink back under and be lost in the din.
Nessa looked up to see Harriett looming over her. She handed Nessa a tiny bottle of green gunk. “Drink it,” she ordered, and watched as her command was obeyed. Then she took a seat at the fire and turned her attention to Jo. The unearthly golden glow had returned to Harriett’s eyes.
“Did she mention the weeds?” Harriett directed the question at Jo.
“Sorry?” Jo responded.
“Claude,” Harriett said. “Did she mention the Scotch broom?”
“As a matter of fact, she did,” Jo told her. “Apparently, the plants have taken over the Pointe. Claude asked if you might be willing to help with the problem. I’d be really grateful if you did, Harriett. I know you hate the people out there, but I’d consider it a personal favor.”
“Are you able to contact her?” Harriett asked.
“Sure,” Jo said. She’d copied the phone number from Claude’s membership file into her contacts.
“Tell her to have someone meet me on Jackson Dunn’s dock at eight tomorrow morning.”