Friday, 6:46 p.m.
On the patio behind her house, Meredith tried to pay attention to what Serena Silvestri was saying, but the screaming made it difficult to concentrate.
Damn the Durans. Their house was at least three thousand square feet. With all that space, Meredith would’ve thought their daughter and her friends could spend at least a few summer evenings inside. It almost made her long for an early winter.
The neighborhood would’ve been quiet enough to hear the wind if not for the pack of wildlings in the street. Ridgepoint Ranch had been built around a golf course that had eventually failed, and the nature preserve planned on the abandoned greens had been stuck in legal limbo for as long as Meredith had lived there. Phase two of home construction had stalled too when the developer, Rocky Hamlin, went bankrupt—the double hit of a recession and an inability to stay faithful to his attorney wife. Meredith understood the cheating—Rocky’s now ex-wife was one of those city types drawn to the area for its nature who then complained that the shopping sucked—but he should’ve been smarter about his investments.
The subdivision had once been envisioned as a self-sustaining golf community with a market, clubhouse, community pool, and rows of glass-and-stone homes with backyards that butted up against forestland. But Rocky had caught the tail end of the golfing boom, and only five homes had been built. Four were occupied year-round.
Unfortunately, one of those homes was occupied by the Durans—
Rocky’s cousin Richard, Richard’s wife, Olivia, and one of the wildlings currently threatening to make Meredith’s eardrums bleed.
Serena motioned to the bottle of cabernet next to Meredith and held out her glass.
So she plans on staying longer.
Meredith gave her half a pour.
Serena smoothed the front of her tank top, a buttery yellow like the wide-legged lounge pants she also wore. She might’ve given the impression of having just been roused from a nap if not for the large gold hoops and chunky bracelet she wore. That, and the full face of makeup. Serena didn’t step outside without, at a minimum, bronzer, mascara, and Chanel lipstick. Illusion was her preferred shade, though she cycled through half a dozen others. She’d given Meredith a tube for her last birthday, claiming it might do something for her pallor. Meredith had considered tossing it but instead stuck it in a drawer. It would save her shopping for Serena’s next birthday.
The opportunities to socialize were limited on the street, which was part of why Meredith had moved there.
Serena took a sip of her wine. “You really aren’t worried about the forecast?”
Her neighbor had come to Plumas County less than a year before the Dixie Fire. She tracked the weather the way women trying to conceive tracked their menstrual cycles. The potential for dry thunderstorms had Serena nervous.
“Not really,” Meredith said. She preferred vigilance to worry. Far more productive.
She’d already pointed out that while about three-quarters of Plumas County had burned at one time or another, Ridgepoint Ranch had always been spared, even by Dixie. But everyone needed a hobby, and Serena’s was drama.
“You’ve at least got a bag packed?”
Meredith nodded. She always had a bag packed. Part of being vigilant. “I even packed my Taser.” That, a change of clothes, her best bottles of wine, and her paintings were all she planned on taking.
Her paintings. Meredith had been introduced to her broker, Brian, through the man she’d made the mistake of marrying, John Clarke, whose confidence as an artist was eclipsed only by his mediocrity. After failing to sell his own paintings—Genius is often misunderstood, he was fond of saying—John decided to try his hand at forging the Impressionists. How hard could it be? he’d reasoned. He’d brought Meredith along to a cocktail meeting with Brian, where John showed him photos of some fourth-rate fake Monets.
“I’ve heard a good forgery can fetch thousands,” John had said.
To which Brian had responded: “A good forgery can fetch many times that.”
The three bourbons had dulled John more than usual, so he’d misinterpreted Brian’s meaning. When, flush with hope, John excused himself to use the restroom, Brian leaned in and whispered to Meredith, “I only took this meeting to talk with you. John’s paintings are crap.”
She’d left with Brian’s card secreted away in her pocket, and John had left with another name on his list of people who didn’t yet recognize his talent.
Meredith and John had divorced soon after, and he’d never known of her partnership with Brian. He likely thought she still worked in insurance. It wouldn’t have occurred to him that she might succeed where he had failed.
Serena’s eyes widened. “You have a Taser?”
“I’m a woman living alone in the middle of nowhere. Of course I have a Taser.” She sipped her wine, hoping it would dull her anxiety and the squeals of the children. The pack should’ve been two houses down, but they’d migrated closer to her home. “It’s currently in a locked box in my overnight bag. It fires barbed probes up to fifteen feet and can twist a man’s testicles.”
Serena grimaced. “Sounds unpleasant.”
“Why do you think I keep it locked up?” While testicular trauma wasn’t common, she certainly wasn’t about to leave herself vulnerable to a lawsuit.
Serena finished her wine and held out her glass.
Meredith’s gaze dipped to her neighbor’s outstretched arm. “Won’t Frank be home soon?”
“He won’t be back for a couple of hours.” She smirked. “You’ve got me a while longer.”
Meredith poured Serena a few more sips of cabernet. The rest went into her own glass. Headache blooming, she didn’t plan on finishing it, but if it got Serena to leave soon, the wine wouldn’t be wasted.
The screaming of the children stopped abruptly as Olivia Duran called them inside, and Meredith exhaled in relief.
Finally.
“It’s got to remind you of Grace.”
Meredith’s hand jerked and cabernet sloshed on the flagstone.
“What are you talking about?”
“The girl.”
Thoughts still on the pack of girls now silenced, Meredith said, “Thea Duran?”
Serena weaponized a sigh. “Really, do you listen to anything I say?”
Some of it. “Of course I do.”
Serena bit the inside of her lip, which Meredith knew signaled irritation.
Meredith set her wine on the flagstone and shook a couple of stray droplets from her hand. “You were saying?”
“The missing girl from Sacramento. Ellie Byrd,” Serena said. “Sixteen, and her car was found in Sierraville. You really haven’t heard about her?”
At Meredith’s quick shake of the head, Serena said, “Probably another runaway. Like your daughter.”
A chill burrowed into Meredith’s breastbone, and she channeled it into the look she gave Serena. If the other woman noticed, she gave no indication.
“I know Grace left earlier than you would’ve liked, but can you really say she would have been happy if she’d stayed?” Serena asked. “There’s not much here for girls that age.”
Meredith appreciated that her neighbor talked about Grace as if she were still alive. Everyone else in the neighborhood had given up that pretense long ago.