Honestly, I didn’t expect to learn a lot from the Senior Friends program I orchestrated, where I paired up students and cool senior citizens, but I have to say, Ms. Glenda did pass on the perfect brownie recipe. I happen to know her goddaughter, Dana, really had her heart set on the secret family recipe, but Glenda said that Dana had a real mean streak and she’d rather give it to someone who would appreciate it, and who am I to ignore the wishes of a dying old woman? Plus, Glenda said one day I’d need to make a decent pan of brownies, and I suppose she was right. I also suppose I didn’t expect to make them for my ex-boyfriend’s potential widow.
Baking is, after all, what you do when someone is grieving. Last time I went to my neighbor’s house after her husband had died, everyone showed up with more pies and casseroles than she could have ever eaten. My parents showed up with a Jell-O salad with whipped cream and crushed pretzels on top.
I stir the batter, wash and put away the dishes, and have the brownies out of the oven before my parents can get home to ask what I’m up to. And then I head to the unhappiest house I can possibly think of.
A very familiar house.
The Belrose house.
I go with my brownies and my most perfect A-plus-student smile and a plan.
And I go because I can’t stand it anymore even though there are a thousand reasons why I shouldn’t.
I wear a perfect green sweater with a pocket on the right side of my chest, an A-line skirt that falls at just below my knees, and my National Honor Society pin. My hair is smoothed back into a careful ponytail, around which I have tied a dark pink ribbon that I’ve fastened into a neat bow so that two ends hang perfectly down on either side of my head. I in no way look like a harlot when I ring the doorbell with my plate of brownies. I know Jacqueline is home, because her obnoxiously bright car is parked at the end of the sidewalk.
For a moment, I don’t hear anything, and then there are quiet little footsteps. The front door swings open, and then there’s Jacqueline, adorned in a thin black dress, her makeup done with absolute perfection. A black fedora is perched on the top of her head and she has donned tiny little fingerless gloves. It’s as if she’s waiting to be photographed as the sad, sexy widow.
Like this has all been planned.
“I don’t want Girl Scout cookies.” Her voice is clipped, and she begins to close the door.
“I’m actually here on behalf of Mr. Belrose’s French honors students,” I say, my voice high and chirpy. “We just wanted to drop in on you to see how you were doing and give you these.” I hold out the foil-covered pan.
“What are they?” she asks, turning her nose up a bit like maybe I’m trying to poison her.
Which wouldn’t be a bad idea.
“Homemade brownies. From scratch. We’re just so worried about you, Mrs. Belrose. We can’t imagine what you’re going through right now.”
She gives me a long look, then cracks open her door, just a bit wider. “Well, okay then. Come on in.”
I bite back a smile.
Excellent.
If the cops find my DNA in the Belrose house and someone traces it back to me, I want to say I’ve been in the house for a reason, even if it’s giving brownies to a falsely grieving widow who doesn’t look like she’s been crying at all.
And if I happen to do a little detective work in the meantime . . . well. That’s fine.
I sit down on the couch first, balancing my tray in my lap. “Maybe I should put these in the kitchen. They’re still warm. Um, where is it?”
Because of course I haven’t been here before.
“Just through there,” she says, pointing to the doorway toward the cheery little kitchen. “Leave them on the table.”
I do as I’m told.
“Those don’t have any peanuts or anything in them, do they? I’m just terribly allergic. I mean, I would totally die if you gave me peanuts,” Jacqueline says. Her hand raises her to throat. She speaks with an odd accent—maybe with the slightest French lilt, which is obnoxious, since I’m pretty sure she’s originally from a small town in Texas.
“No,” I say. Regrettably. I file away the knowledge. So Jacqueline has a severe food allergy. I could use that.
I sit back on the couch and cross my legs.
“How are you, Mrs. Belrose?” I furrow my brow, showing concern. I am a puppet.
So is she.
She wipes away a tear that isn’t there.
“It’s been so hard—uh—what did your say your name was?”
“Riley Stone.”
I study her face. There is no flicker of recognition. Her eyebrows don’t raise.
So he didn’t tell her anything. If he said he was going to leave her, I wasn’t a reason why.
“I’m going to be the valedictorian,” I explain. “I am very good at French.”
“Good for you, honey,” she says. She reaches forward and pats me very lightly on the wrist, her palm flat and stiff. Is she always this weird?
For a moment, we’re just silent, and I look out the picture window, trying not to think about all the other times I’ve looked out that very same picture window, and who was sitting next to me, and how much better I felt before.
“Is there anything—have you heard or found anything?” I ask. “We’re just all so worried—I had to ask.”
She smiles at me, but her teeth are hidden behind her lips. “There is a reason why I wear black, my darling.”
“What?”
Her eyes flutter, like she’s holding back tears that aren’t really there. “A wife knows in her heart when she is widowed. And make no mistake. My husband is dead. I don’t know how and I don’t know why, but the other half of my heart has stopped beating. I feel it here.” She presses her thin hand to her chest. “He is gone.”
“How can you be sure?”
She looks at me sharply. “You would know if you ever really loved someone, Rayna,” she says, forgetting my name already. “He is dead and has left me and all I can do is get used to it, and it’s time for everyone else to do the same, and stop calling this a rescue mission. My love is dead. He’s dead.”
I stare at her. She’s nuts. She’s as much as confessing here. Why say someone is dead with so much certainty if you didn’t kill him?
Why aren’t the cops holding her?
“But how do you know?”
“I have premonitions about these things, my dear. It does no good to ask questions.” She leans toward me. “Thank you for the snacks, sweet girl, but I think it’s time for you to leave.”
Right. Premonitions. How very intuitive of her. And that’s a reason to give up on your husband if you didn’t absolutely murder him in cold blood.
I stand. “Um, well let me know if you need anything else, okay?”
She takes my hand, and her skin is papery and cold and reminds me of an old woman. “Thank you for caring,” she says. “No one else cares.”
I try to smile at her. “I hope you’re wrong.”
“I’m not.”
I leave as quickly as I can.
She’s right, of course. She would know that Belrose is dead. Especially because I am willing to bet that she did it.
I blink away tears. Why can’t they figure out what she did to him? Why can’t the police understand that she murdered him? Why is it just me who can see it?
When I pull into my driveway, I realize that my parents are home . . . and so is Rob.
Rob Samuels.
Who is waiting in the kitchen with my parents, talking to them about God knows what, and my parents are just standing there, smiling, like I should be happy that he just showed up and is smothering me and won’t leave me alone for a goddamn second.
“Look who’s here!” my mom says, looking over the brim of her wineglass as she leans against the kitchen counter. My dad waves.
“Hi,” I say.
Rob stands immediately. “Hey, Ri! Surprise!” He loops an arm around my shoulders right there in front of my parents, claiming me.
We’re an item.
We’re serious enough to show affection in front of my parents.
I feel sick.
He leans in and kisses me on the top of my head. “You okay?” he whispers in my ear, because he always notices things like that.
Why does he have to notice everything?
I shake my head.
No.
I’m not okay.
“Mm-hmm.”
We leave my parents in the kitchen and go to my room, and Rob puts his hands on my hips and draws me into a hug. “What’s wrong?”
I stare out the open window. The sun is setting on the street, and everything is falling into shadow.
“Just stressed,” I whisper.
“I can make it okay,” he says. “If you’d let me.”
I want to tell him that stopping by unannounced is not okay. I want to tell him that being buddy-buddy with my mom and dad without my permission isn’t all right, and moving in on Neta to get closer to me is really not going to work for me.
But I need him. And so I will make this work. So I let him hug me, and all I can think is that I don’t fit right under his chin. Not like with Alex.
I feel strange and cold and for some reason, I feel like there’s someone else out there. Someone else in the room. Someone watching.
I tilt my chin up to let him, and then as he moves his face toward mine, I duck away.
“Do you want our first kiss to be when I’m this upset?” I say, burying my face against the blue cable-knit of his sweater.
“You’re right, baby. We should wait.”
He holds me tighter, and I feel like I’m dying in his arms. I didn’t ever tell him he could call me that. I didn’t tell him he could touch me. I shouldn’t be in his arms. This isn’t right.
My eyes flick back to the window.
“You’re a good person, Rob,” I whisper.
Maybe it’s even true, but I don’t mean it at all.