The Neighbor's Secret

by L. Alison Heller

  We all misjudged the deceased.

  I think back to the November book club. I saw someone vulnerable and gentle.

  A wolf in sheep’s clothing.

  Criminals are masters of deception, but to have been so easily manipulated?

  Everyone feels duped. Everyone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “Your car mirror’s gone,” Abe said.

  It was a brisk morning, and Jen had forgotten her jacket in their rush out the door. They had both slept too late and had fumbled through the before-school routine, but as the leatherback-turtle study had cleansed Jen’s system, the basketball game had appeared to cleanse Abe’s. He seemed much calmer.

  “What?” Jen said.

  “Your car mirror is gone.”

  She looked up from searching for keys in her bag. He was right. The driver’s side-view mirror was completely gone—two wires reached futilely into the air.

  Jen was momentarily breathless. “Who would do this?” she said.

  “The vandal.” Abe’s tone was matter-of-fact.

  “But the vandal’s never done anything this severe,” Jen objected.

  All of these months, Jen had been the one talking down the women of the book club. It’s not personal. It’s property damage.

  (Because you thought it might be your son.)

  It felt very personal now, though, like she was being punished for something specific.

  “Maybe the vandal was mad at you,” Abe said. He took a casual bite of peanut butter toast.

  Jen peeled her gaze from her poor car, naked and violated, and fixed it on Abe.

  “You think the vandal targeted me?”

  “How would I know?” Abe shrugged and took another bite.

  “Abe, did you do it?” She’d breathed out the question. “It’s okay if you did. Just tell me.”

  “You think I’d smash your car?” His eyes had widened, betrayed.

  “No,” Jen said quickly. “But I’m sorry for making you go last night. I shouldn’t have pushed.”

  “That’s true,” Abe agreed. “But it was actually okay. We talked to a girl who was out running.”

  “Who was that?”

  “The one who puked all over Colin at Fall Fest.”

  “Laurel Perley?”

  “We all played this game, horse. Is your car okay to drive?” He looked at Jen’s car. “You really should have parked in the garage.”

  There was a tiny white ball in the part of Abe’s hair. Jen plucked it out. They would be finding them forever.

  “It’s not okay to ruin things,” she said. “We have to tell Dr. Shapiro about last night.”

  Abe shrugged, checked his watch. “Did Dad leave his car here or at the airport?”

  “Here. Does Laurel Perley run alone at night a lot?”

  “I don’t know. Can we take Dad’s car? I don’t want to be late.”

  “Sure,” Jen said.

  She thought of Laurel’s messy performance at Fall Fest. She had a rebellious streak. How late was she out running every night?

  Not too much of a stretch, Jen speculated, from that to vandalism.

  Hey, wake up, Scofield, she thought, it looks like we have another suspect.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “The police don’t care at all,” Janine said. “They really don’t.”

  “It’s all been pretty minor.” Deb cast a regretful look at Jen. “With the exception of what happened to your car.”

  “I just read an article about how hate crimes are on the rise,” Janine said worriedly. “Is anyone else connecting the dots between this month’s book and what’s happening here?”

  “Janine, you can’t compare a popped snowman to genocide.”

  “Violence is violence. It starts with broken store windows and curfews and escalates rapidly to something much worse. We need to do something.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’m aware, ladies, that book club has been a strictly politics-free zone since 2016—”

  “For good reason. Anissa Dunne was traumatized. She’s never come back.”

  “I think it’s time to reassess.”

  “Are you kidding me? Now? Not for the school shootings or border crisis, or the Black Lives Matter movement—”

  “Those aren’t political issues, those are human-rights issues.”

  “And we just stay in our safe little Karen bubble.”

  “Can we please not debate that nickname again?”

  “If you have a problem with the term ‘Karen’ you need to ask yourself why. Why are you getting so defensive, are you trying to uphold a system—”

  “The system created the nickname because where is the male equivalent! God forbid women express anger or entitlement, without the world needing to slap them back down—”

  “Ladies, this is happening here. Here.” Janine’s shout broke through the discussion. “The vandal is hurting us in our homes.”

  Around the circle was a cluster of small, worried nods.

  “We need to make a unified statement,” Janine said. “A celebration of diversity.”

  Jen, who’d been lazily sipping her drink, choked on it. She felt the sting of alcohol up her noise and struck her chest twice with her fist.

  “You alright there?” said Priya, with a small smile.

  “Let’s turn the last book club into a multi-culti party,” Janine was saying, “and instead of food related to the book, we’ll bring food reflecting our different heritages.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense.”

  “Unless you think the vandal is railing against our diversity, which—um.” Deb looked around the room with skepticism.

  “This isn’t about what the vandal thinks, it’s about a statement we make to ourselves. We are a melting pot, ladies.”

  “It’s salad bowl.”

  A furrow appeared on the narrow bridge of Janine’s nose.

  “Salad bowl, not melting pot, because ‘melting pot’ implies a disintegration of individual culture.”

  “Well, whatever, then.” Janine threw her hands up. “Salad bowl. I’ll bring my mother’s cassoulet, and Priya, you can bring those amazing samosas you brought to my Christmas crafting party. Athena, I’m sure there’s some wonderful Kenyan dish you can bring, maybe a nice peanut stew, unless that’s from some other part of Africa? And Deb can bring a special beverage, and Jen will obviously bring something Chinese, so that’s at least five nationalities represented.”

  “I’m not Chinese.”

  “Are you sure?” Janine squinted at Jen. “I thought you were part Chinese.”

  After a moment of openmouthed disbelief, Jen swallowed. “Unless you know something I don’t, Janine, my dad is Filipino.”

  “What a shame.” Janine frowned. “I was going to ask you for help with Katie’s project on the Han dynasty. Oh well. Why are you all looking at me like that? You’ll bring something Filipino then—”

  “But growing up we didn’t really—”

  “Filipino food,” Janine said firmly, “will be a real treat for the rest of us!”

  Jen caught Priya’s eye roll, her angry frown.

  “Janine,” Priya said.

  “What? I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Anyway, Lena I’m assuming your mother was Mexican? Because of the salsa—anyway, is that a bad thing for me to say? Seriously. Why is everyone still looking at me like that?”

  “My mom was born in Mexico City,” Lena said.

  “Perfect. Six different nationalities! Seven, if Carol can bring something Jamaican, yum, yum! We’ll need a sign-up sheet.”

  “My grandma made this amazing dolma.”

  “Where’s dolma from?”

  “Turkey.”

  “Well how about that, we’ve got Turkey represented too! See? Salad bowl! What else do we have in our glorious family trees, ladies?”

  The room erupted with talk of childhood meals and whether it was okay to bring something outside of your heritage, because Harriet wasn’t Ethiopian but
she knew how to make doro wot and would be happy to bring that. Would it be homage or appropriation? No one could decide.

  “Or we could just skip the cooking and invest in a neighborhood security camera,” Annie said.

  Jen held her breath as she waited for the group to jump on the suggestion, but instead the conversation turned to a showy and pointless debate about who should be the creator of a Multi-Culti Night assignment sheet.

  (Spoiler alert: it was going to be Janine.)

  If the security camera idea resurfaced, Jen was prepared to give a pretty little speech about how Orwellian panic could erode the warm neighborly trust that was the essence of Cottonwood. She’d work to get Harriet on board first and then sell it to the rest.

  But why did Jen even care? Laurel Perley, not Abe, was the one who went out late at night, got into who knew what kind of mischief.

  Because Jen didn’t like thought of the entire neighborhood gunning for a child, any child. It was a matter of principle!

  “Jen,” Janine said. She twirled her pen like a baton. “Do you have a specific dish in mind, or should I just write down Something Filipino. Yes?”

  Jen managed to keep a straight face. “Something Filipino. Thanks for your cultural sensitivity.”

  Deb snorted loudly, but Janine flashed a distracted smile. “You’re welcome, sweetie.”

  Annie Perley was on the sofa, her hand pressed against her mouth to stifle laughter, her shoulders shaking in mirth. She did not look in the least concerned about an Orwellian panic overtaking the neighborhood, or about video cameras capturing her daughter in the act.

  Laurel Perley had come over last week for ice cream and video games after a game of basketball with Abe and Colin. She seemed polite and sweet and not at all like someone who would destroy property.

  And then there was Abe.

  If Jen had to bet, who did she think the video cameras would capture?

  Sure, Jen. Scofield winked. It’s just a matter of principle.

  MARCH

  To: “The Best Book Club in the World”

  From: proudmamabooklover3@hmail.com

  Hello Ladies!!!!

  The book: This month, we will go dark and searing with a true crime read, THE MONSTER NEXT DOOR.

  “How well do you know your neighbors?”

  A husband, a wife living in a quiet town. No one suspected her tragic death could have been a murder until …

  Five years later and two states over, the same man is widower-ed (if that wasn’t a word before, ladies, it is now!!!)

  Horrible luck or has the monster next door left a trail of bodies?

  We’re definitely going in like a LION with this MARCH pick, hahahahaha!

  The place: Deb Gallegos’s House, 7:30.

  PS. Speaking of local monsters, I’m conducting a poll about whether to move our neighborhood St. Paddy’s Day Four Leaf Clover display inside this year … FOR PROTECTION.

  Please weigh in!! United we stand.…

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Annie was on her bed, folding laundry, when Lena called to ask about the dress code for Laurel’s graduation.

  “Is a sundress appropriate?” Lena asked.

  Annie glanced out her window. The sky and ground were the same dove white, and in between them were giant drifting snowflakes.

  “How can you even think about sundresses in this weather?” she said. “It’s casual. I guarantee that whatever you put on, you’ll be the best-dressed there.”

  “Does Laurel have a dress yet?”

  Annie plucked Hank’s T-shirt from the laundry basket and shook out the wrinkles. “Laurel does not.” She folded the shirt, reached for another.

  “Laurel does not what?” Laurel said. Her head poked in Annie’s doorway. She had on her snow jacket and hiking boots.

  “Lena asked if you had a graduation dress.”

  “Tell her I’m wearing sweats under my gown,” Laurel said, but she was smiling.

  “Are you going up to Sierra’s?”

  “Abe’s.”

  “Again?” This was the second time in a week. “Is your phone charged?”

  “Yep. I’ll be home for dinner, byeeeee.”

  “She sounds happy,” Lena said. “Lighter.”

  “She does.” Annie paused.

  “But?”

  “Have you met Abe?”

  “He’s very handsome.”

  “I think he’s on the spectrum.”

  “Ah,” Lena said. “I can see that.”

  “I mean, the kid has an aide. They pretend he’s a babysitter, but what seventh grader do you know who has a babysitter? I’m not trying to be judgey, it’s great if Laurel has neurodiverse friends, but … what do they have in common? Abe is really into video games and Laurel has been fighting all year to be treated like a grown-up.” Annie paused. “I just don’t get it.”

  “For one,” Lena said, “he looks like a teen idol. And she wasn’t into running before this year either. She’s exploring new interests.”

  “True.”

  “How does she seem, in general?”

  “Happier.”

  “I would focus on that then. Maybe Abe’s company is just what she needs.”

  * * *

  Lena could have stayed on the phone with Annie all morning, but Annie had to dash off to the ice rink to drop off Hank at a skating party.

  Lena half wished Annie had invited her to tag along. On this quiet Saturday, her house felt suffocating.

  She switched on the news for some noise, opened her laptop.

  Melanie had for years teased Lena about her shopping problem, and Lena always countered that clothing wasn’t inherently frivolous. Clothing announced who you were, Alma had taught Lena. Lena had even, for a millisecond in her youth, considered a career in fashion.

  In another life, maybe she’d be behind a desk, barking orders at scurrying assistants.

  It was the quiet, Lena presumed, that kept her mind perpetually tangled in all of these alternate paths: What if there had never been an accident, or what if she and Rachel had left Cottonwood together?

  We can’t stay here.

  The first time Lena thought it had been during Bryce’s funeral. Two middle-aged men in navy suits had materialized like FBI agents. Lena got a flare of adrenaline before realizing how silly she was being. Only on television did they arrest people at funerals.

  Lena still had no idea if the men had been mourners or staff, but they’d helped Lena remove a hysterical Rachel from St. Mary’s and put her into the backseat of Lena’s car.

  We can’t stay here.

  Lena had reached into her bag, bit a Xanax in half, and held it out to Rachel in the backseat. Rachel had leaned forward to accept it in her open mouth like a baby bird.

  That night, Rachel had slept on the sofa, hands flung defensively over her face. The directive returned, tapped Lena on the shoulder.

  We can’t stay here.

  But Lena’s mind felt scrambled and frantic. Where would they go? How could she take that first step? She’d watched the sun dip behind the mountains. The realization advanced cold and slow as a glacier.

  Lena was an infection that must be quarantined. What Rachel needed most of all was to be free.

  She can’t stay here.

  Melanie’s cousin was a trustee at a New Hampshire boarding school with a decent reputation. The next morning, Lena called him and recited an early version of The Story, that she needed to put miles between Rachel and the gossip about her father. A sizable donation helped secure a spot.

  Out of all the possible paths forward for Lena, she had chosen the one that gave her nothing but space and time to think, a self-imposed house arrest.

  It might not be state-mandated punishment, but she had suffered. At heart, Lena was drawn to festivity, was a lover of parties and noise—and she had not allowed herself to enjoy any of it. (It was slightly pathetic, how she was treating Laurel Perley’s graduation like a coronation.)

  Now, Lena forced
herself to focus on the thumbnail images of clothes on her computer screen. Her mouse hovered over a magnificent Pucci caftan, its print an echo of a minidress Lena had worn to one of her parties a billion years before.

  It was a shame she’d donated that dress, which would have looked great on Annie, who dressed too sensibly in fleece pullovers and yoga pants. She’d probably wear overalls to Laurel’s graduation.

  Annie would look great in the caftan, too, though. Lena’s blood warmed as she pictured it: Annie, hair straightened, with a dramatic cat eye.

  Annie didn’t mind Lena’s fussing the way Rachel would have. She would tilt her smiling face upward, sit patiently and wait for Lena to apply that cat eye.

  Better to focus on the caftan than that unanswerable question: Have I suffered enough?

  Two swift clicks, and Lena had bought the dress.

  I noticed the outfit right away. It was old-fashioned, and I heard some people fussing over it, but to me that type of thing always comes off costumey.

  I remember specifically thinking the choice in footwear very impractical, given that the ground was still wet from the spring snow.

  After the body was found, the detective said as much, that the shoes may as well have been banana peels. Anyone foolish enough to hike in them on wet rocks, he said, was basically asking to slip.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  “Why haven’t they caught him yet?” Jen’s mother whispered into the phone. “I don’t understand.”

  “Because there are bigger crimes than a busted side mirror, Mom.”

  Jen had accidentally told her mother about the vandalism last week, and it had been their primary topic of discussion since.

  “I worry. And Paul won’t be there to help. He’s never there.”

  “Because he’s working, Mom.”

  Jen’s mother probably couldn’t stop her unhelpful worrying any more than Jen could stop her skin itching in response to it, any more than Abe could help his outbursts or the vandal his—or her—midnight destruction.

  And if everything was chemistry and genes and drive, should people even be punished for their malfeasance?