The shrieking of a siren woke Alex from her deep sleep. She felt as if someone had stuffed cotton balls into her mouth. Her head throbbed with a beat capable of cracking her skull.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Blue and red lights blinked through a break in the living room curtains, attacking her corneas. Another siren blared in the distance.
Alex peeled herself off the couch like a Fruit Roll-Up separating from its cellophane packaging. She felt sticky and gross. The cushions had practically molded into the shape of her body. She had no idea how long she’d been asleep (okay, passed out). It could have been an hour, maybe two. Either way, she could still feel the wine on her tongue, souring her throat, sloshing in her stomach.
Memories came at her in flashes like strobe lights in a nightclub.
The block party had kicked off at the usual hour. She should know, she’d organized it. She shouldn’t have—it wasn’t her turn this year, but the neighborhood was in such disarray. There was so much trouble—between Evan and Willow, Brooke and Evan, Ken and Emily, Mandy and Ken, Samir and Mandy, even Riley and Dylan—that nobody else was up to the task. Brooke had helped out a little, but Alex did most of the work: putting flyers in mailboxes; managing the SignUpGenius page, the music, tables, chairs, drinks, buckets of ice, snacks, all of that, while Brooke took care of the desserts. Nick had bought the meat from a local farmer, earning his daughter’s praise. She wouldn’t eat meat, but she lauded his efforts around sustainability.
Nick.
Their big fight over USC.
His refusing to budge. Alex screaming that he should go back to school to learn how to be a decent human being. The tiki bar he hadn’t stocked out of spite. The booze she snuck after she did the job for him.
Oh, crap.
It all came back to her. The flood of recollections and a torrent of shame. There she had been, staggering around the party, talking loudly, having the best time in ages, all while avoiding her husband. She remembered the little girl who had asked about hot dogs. She’d frightened the child with a caustic remark before escorting her to the grill. A kiddie pool full of pony-sized wine bottles was nearby. She’d grabbed one after she’d had so much to drink already. And she was talking to someone … who was it? Oh yes, the Bug Man! He was there!
That’s when Nick had come to check on her. She had spilled her drink on him and had followed that shining moment with a fall on her ass into the kiddie pool, soaking her clothes and bruising her ego. Her husband’s words—“Don’t come back”—echoed loudly.
Ouch.
And now she heard sirens. Peering out the window, Alex saw not one, but two police cars parked on her street, their lights flashing. The bright light of day made her wince. The room seemed to tilt, just a little, and it wasn’t because she was kneeling on couch cushions.
Alex stood, intending to go outside to have a look. One unsteady step later told her she was in that awkward middle place between drunk and hungover. But she wasn’t in such bad shape; she could go investigate.
Nick had issued his mandate before all this commotion, Alex reasoned. Police on the scene changed everything, right? And who was Nick to tell her what to do anyway? She had every right to know what was going on.
Alex checked her phone. Maybe someone had tried to get in touch with her about the emergency. No calls or texts, but she noted the time. Five-thirty. Soon the party would be switching from afternoon fun to an evening vibe, which was always when things really got going. What the hell had happened while she was sleeping? The cul-de-sac had plenty of combustible relationships, but if she were to guess which one had brought the police, she’d bet on the escalating war between Bug Man and Ken. Had Ken been pushed too far? Had Bug Man retaliated for losing his job?
Alex slipped on new clothes, did a quick check of her hair—not quite a full Medusa, but close—and brushed her teeth before making her way outside. She blinked rapidly to ease the transition from the dark interior. Her legs felt like two rubber bands. She doubted she’d pass a field sobriety test.
Evidently it had taken Alex too long to get herself together. By the time she got outside, the crisis appeared to be over. Kids were gathered around the police cars, peering into windows, putting tiny hands all over the gleaming exterior, leaving greasy prints behind. One of the officers on the scene was actually entertaining the children with an occasional siren blast that made her already throbbing head feel like it was splitting in two.
Ken stood by himself, off to the side. He appeared to be storming mad. Alex approached him cautiously.
“That damn guy,” he groused. Ken pointed to Bug Man, who stood in his green work uniform not too far away, talking to a police officer.
“What’s going on?” asked Alex.
Her stomach lurched. Had she had anything to eat or did she just drink?
“Bug Man came to my house soliciting his crap service again, that’s what,” fumed Ken. “And we got into it. I gave him a little shove, barely anything.” He demonstrated on Alex’s shoulder. It didn’t feel like barely anything to her. “And then he called the damn cops on me.”
Alex had heard enough of his complaining. “Do you ever think that you’re the problem here, Ken?” she shouted. “Has that ever crossed your mind? Maybe once? Ever?”
She returned the shove he gave to her shoulder, only harder.
For a second, Ken looked like the bully being confronted by his victim—slack-jawed, eyes full of surprise. “Hey, whose side are you on here?” he shot back.
“The winning one, of course,” said Alex. “We both like winners, Ken … but sadly, that pretty much excludes every man on Alton Road—including you.”
Before Ken had a chance to respond, Officer Grady O’Brien, who had to be getting tired of the Alton Road dysfunction—approached. His expression was stern, eyes all but saying: Adults should know better.
“You’re in luck,” O’Brien announced, directing his words at Ken. “Bug Man says he’s not going to press charges.”
“You call him Bug Man, too?” Alex mopped her brow. She was sweating out wine.
O’Brien didn’t answer. “Keep the temperature in check, Ken, will ya?” It sounded like an order. “We’ve been coming to Alton Road enough lately.”
“Sure thing,” Ken grumbled. He was still red-faced and angry, probably more at Alex than at Bug Man. “I’ll be cool,” he said. “But that guy needs to stay off my property.”
O’Brien crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Remember, you can tell him to leave, but keep your hands to yourself. I mean it.”
Bug Man, lurking close by, might have picked up a snippet of the conversation. He smirked in Ken’s direction.
Ken stared back. “If anybody needs me,” he told Alex, “I’ll be in my office with Johnnie, cooling off.”
Alex understood the reference to his prized bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label whisky, which he drank from only this day each year. To her knowledge—and true to his character—Ken never shared the ridiculously priced spirit at the block party, except for that one time he’d offered some to Mandy and Samir. Hard to believe that had been only a year ago.
Alex watched Ken storm away. “I’m sorry about my brother-in-law, he can be a little quick-tempered,” she said to O’Brien, who seemed more congenial now that Ken was gone.
“Happens. Nobody got hurt. Not to worry,” he said.
A blast of music exploded from the PA system and drew O’Brien’s attention, and Alex’s, to Lettie, who was working the controls. The song, instantly recognizable to O’Brien, brightened his expression. “Pearl Jam,” he said with a slip of a smile. “Now that’s what I’m talking about!”
“Lettie, maybe wait until the police are gone before putting the music back on?” Alex called.
O’Brien shook his head. “It’s still a block party,” he said. “There’s no law against having fun.”
Alex watched O’Brien get into his cruiser and drive away, the other cop car following close behind. Everything returned to normal almost immediately, but Alex still felt raring to go. Confronting Ken had delivered a rush of adrenaline blended with the alcohol still in her system, adding fuel to her anger.
God help Nick if he came at her now with some quip about being out of exile—or Samir, if he tried to grab Mandy again—or Evan, if he did who knows what to Brooke or to Willow.
All seemed fine, but Alex was not. She was drunk and pissed and spoiling for a fight. The police were gone, but Bug Man remained. Maybe he’d come over and start in on her.
If so, good luck to him.
Her neighbors had resumed talking, eating, drinking, and playing games as if no disturbance had occurred. But she saw no sign of Brooke, and the dessert table looked a little sparse. Even in her heightened state of agitation, Alex couldn’t let go of all the party details. Perhaps Brooke was grabbing more desserts from the fridge. Alex headed toward her friend’s home, on the pretense of offering a helping hand, while really needing someone to vent to.
As she was walking up Brooke’s driveway, her friend was heading out the door. Instead of a dessert tray, Brooke was holding what appeared to be a large hardcover book. She quickened her pace to reach Alex. “I was just coming to find you,” Brooke said.
“I’m glad you did,” Alex said. “I need someone to keep me from committing a homicide. Between Nick and Ken, I’m not sure who I want to punch harder. Oh, and the dessert table is running low.”
“I’d say the punches should be directed at Ken,” Brooke said, holding up the book in her hand. “And forget the damn desserts.”
“What’s the book all about?” Alex asked.
“You know how I’ve been obsessed about the connection between the Kumars and Ken for ages now, right? Remember when I said that Ken seems to know Mandy a lot better than we do?”
“Yeah…” said Alex, wondering where this was headed. She wished her thoughts weren’t so muddy. The wine was starting to wear off, her half hangover, too, but neither was ending fast enough.
“So I used Mandy’s maiden name, Amanda Gibson, and did multiple Google searches, trying to find a past connection between her and Ken. I thought I was crazy, but I just needed to follow the thread.”
“And?” Alex was intrigued but apprehensive.
“And nothing at first,” said Brooke. “I couldn’t find any obvious reason for their paths to have crossed.”
Alex’s eyes went to the book in Brooke’s hand.
“Then I put Amanda Gibson’s name into the search field and appended that with the name of every job Ken has listed on his LinkedIn profile and every school he’s ever attended.”
Brooke paused, leaving Alex tense with anticipation.
“You got a hit?” she asked, knowing the answer simply through Brooke’s body language.
“I did,” said Brooke. “But before I could believe it, I had to see it for myself. So I went up to the attic and got this.”
Brooke held out the book so Alex could take a closer look. The cover was brushed with the yellow tint of time, the letters slightly faded, but she could still make out the words: Westfield High School.
“Is that your yearbook?” Alex asked.
“No,” said Brooke. “It’s Jerry’s.”
Brooke flipped the yearbook open to a marked page, holding it up so Alex could see the array of black-and-white photos featuring awkward teens, girls with uncertain expressions and goofy-looking guys, many in baggy, unbuttoned plaid shirts, sporting the grunge look from the nineties.
Brooke placed her finger on one image in particular, that of a fresh-faced teen with blond hair.
It took only a moment of close inspection before Alex saw it. She had no doubt. The girl looking out from the yearbook photo was unquestionably a young Mandy Kumar—or Amanda Gibson, as she had been.
“Exactly,” said Brooke, reading Alex’s reaction. “Mandy went to high school with Jerry.”
“Which means…” Alex’s voice trailed off.
“She also went to high school with Ken,” said Brooke.
Alex and Brooke exchanged blank looks.
It was Alex who eventually broke the silence. “I don’t get it,” she said. “Clearly they recognized each other right away. That explains the look that passed between them at last year’s block party. But what’s the big deal? Why not tell us? Why keep it secret?”
Brooke’s baffled expression said she agreed that those questions deserved answers.