“Your plans changed,” Cora snaps.
Willow rolls her eyes and belts out a huff. Then she looks at Max. “Vampire, huh? Super creative.”
Max doesn’t respond but just stares at and beyond her, and I realize he’s drifted off again. I wonder what the cause is this time. When he’s had these moments before, I’ve asked him afterward what he was thinking about, and he always mumbles nothing. It’s almost as if he loses time for a few seconds, his brain fast-forwarding past a bad memory.
“What’s up with you, freak?” Willow says.
“Don’t talk to him like that,” I say to my niece. Then I touch Max’s arm. “Hey, buddy, you okay?”
When he doesn’t reply, I give his arm a little squeeze, just short of a pinch. This stirs him from his reverie and he looks up to me. “Her blood looks real.”
“You know it’s not, though, right? It’s all make believe.”
He blinks, and in his eyes, I don’t see reassurance. I see fear. “I know,” he says.
This is not usual for him. Max loves Halloween, gory costumes and all. But somehow the sight of Willow’s weak attempt at horror has him on edge.
Cora claps her gloved hands together and beams a plastic smile. “Well, then, this should be fun. Shall we start?”
I kneel in front of my son. “You okay?”
“Yes.”
This is the first Halloween without his father, a reality that has to be swirling inside him.
“Okay, let’s go get some candy,” I say.
“You don’t need to come,” he says, and before I can even argue, he runs off to the nearest house, his plastic pumpkin candy pail jostling in his right hand. One moment, he seems scared; the next, he runs off into the night without me. I try so hard to understand him, and just as I think I’m getting close, something happens to make us feel more disconnected than ever.
Willow starts to follow Max when Cora says, “Did you even bring anything to put candy in?”
Willow turns to her mom, cups her hands together for a second, then continues after Max.
Cora watches her walk up to the house and says to me, “If she’s this bad at thirteen, what will the next five years be like?”
“Hell,” I say, meaning it. Kind of hoping it.
It’s just after seven and trick-or-treating is in full force in Arlington Estates. Squeals, screams, and laughter come from all directions and distances, and roving packs of costumed kids litter the streets and sidewalks. About half the packs have adults with them, many of whom have wineglasses.
“Did you bring anything to drink?” Cora asks.
“No, I didn’t even think about it.”
“Great.”
The air is still but cold on my cheeks. I tug on my wool hat, bringing it further down over my ears.
Max comes racing back from the house and nearly runs into me. His fangs are bared, which is good because that means he’s smiling.
“What’ya get?” I ask.
With a heavy lisp from his fake teeth, he mumbles, “Full-size Snickers.”
“Wow,” I say. “Good stuff.” He seems to be past whatever fear he was having a few minutes ago.
Willow comes up holding her own candy bar, and I think I see a trace of a smile on her face. She’s trying hard not to admit having fun, but there’s still a child inside her.
“Aren’t you cold, Willow?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Not really.”
“She refused to wear a coat, and I got sick of arguing,” Cora says.
Max races away while we follow on the sidewalk. Willow stays with us on the sidewalk for a couple of houses before finally joining him.
As soon as Cora and I are alone, she starts in on me.
“So people are talking about you,” she says.
“What?”
“You know what,” she says. “Apparently some cop from Milwaukee came here to talk to you?”
Tasha. I was wondering when this moment was going to come.
“He’s just closing out the case on Riley,” I say. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing?” Cora’s voice is sharp. Piercing. “A cop comes all the way out from Milwaukee, and you don’t even think to tell me?”
“It has nothing to do with you.”
Max comes suddenly bounding back like a golden retriever puppy, updates me on his loot, then slips back into the night. I don’t know where Willow is.
Once he’s out of earshot, Cora says, “Anything that involves this family and the police affects me. Affects Dad.”
“Cora, I—”
She whips her face toward me. “First, you lose your mind at the book club. And now some cop is here asking questions? People are saying all sorts of things.”
“Things like what?”
She leans in and lowers her voice. “What do you think, Rose? That you did it. That you killed Riley.”
“I didn’t—”
She cuts me off. “I don’t want to know. Don’t even tell me, because I don’t want to have to lie for you. But that’s what people are saying. I know personally of three people who went out and bought your book after all this talk started. They wanted to read the scene where the husband is killed by the wife. So good for you. More sales.”
My head is swimming. How did this all spiral out of control so quickly?
“Tasha,” I say.
“What?”
“Tasha Collins.”
“That horrible girl from high school?”
“Yeah, she’s still horrible,” I say. “And I think she lives near Dad, because she walked her dog in front of the house.”
The impatience is obvious on Cora’s face.
“So?”
“So this was right after the cop left the house, after he interviewed me. He was sitting in his cruiser with local PD when she walked by.”
“Great,” Cora says. “She’s probably fueling all this. Between that and the book club freak-out, everyone thinks you’re a killer.”
“I can’t control what people think.”
“Don’t act so helpless,” she snaps. “The Riley situation is not my problem. Your last book doesn’t concern me. What does concern me is your new one. Did you change it?”
I clench my gloved fists into balls, then release, over and over. It doesn’t relieve any tension.
“My editor said it was too late.”
“Fuck.”
Willow appears out of nowhere, more like a ghost rather than a zombie. It’s clear she just heard her mother.
“Geez, what’s your problem?” she asks.
“Nothing.” Cora sucks in a breath and holds it, as if trying to ground herself. After she releases it into a sigh, she says, “How’s trick-or-treating?”
“Lame. I’m too old for this.”
“But you were planning to do this very thing with your friends,” Cora says.
Willow shrugs. “That’s different.”
“Well, why don’t you hit a few more houses? Your aunt and I need to finish a conversation.”
“Whatever,” Willow says. “Sorry to intrude.” She turns and walks away into the street and away from the houses, and it strikes me how vulnerable my niece is. That she’s too young to be dressed like that and just walking away into the night. I want to call her back, tell her to stay with us, but I don’t. I watch her drift away as Cora launches another volley at me.
“Maybe you’re not understanding all this, so let me break it down for you.” Cora stops walking and pulls my arm so I turn and face her. Her breath fogs my face as she talks. “There are rumors about how your husband might have died because of a scene in your current book. Those rumors are now viral in this town because a cop is talking to you about Riley.”
“I said it was nothing.”
Cora bulldozes over my comment. “And now your n
ext book comes out in a few months, and in that book, there’s a scene in which a teenage boy dies in the house of two teenage sisters. At the base of the fucking stairs. And you don’t think that’s a problem?”
“You’re overreacting,” I say, not because it’s true but because I know it’ll piss her off even more, which I can’t help but want in this moment.
“Either you’re an idiot or playing the part exceptionally well,” she says.
Something shifts inside me where I no longer care about crafting a perfect argument. I don’t want to hurt Cora with words. I want something more. I reach down and grab her wrist. She tries to pull away, but my grip tightens, squeezing her bones through my glove as hard as I can.
“Ow, Jesus. Let go.”
“Don’t talk to me like that,” I say. “I’ve had enough of you telling me what to do.”
She yanks again and gets nowhere. I keep my fingers in their vise grip, and I know it still hurts, though she’s not giving me the satisfaction of admitting to it anymore.
For a moment, I think she’s going to hit me. I can see it in her face, her darting eyes full of fight-or-flight indecision. And in this moment, I want her to. I want her to take a swing, because I’ll take her down. I will take my sister right to the ground, and I won’t shed a tear.
I see the moment she realizes this very thing, because her gaze lowers to the ground and her arm goes limp. I let go of her wrist and she immediately takes a step back.
“We all know you were always the violent one, Rose.” Cora manages a feeble smirk.
“That’s not true at all.”
“Sure, it is. After all, you were the one who killed Caleb Benner.”
The name smashes into me, and I think it’s the first time I’ve heard it from my sister’s mouth in at least ten years. I turn my head to see if anyone is in eavesdropping range, but no one is. Still, what a foolish thing to say out loud. Foolish, and a lie.
“You know that’s not true,” I say. “You were the one.”
Now the feeble smirk blossoms into a hearty smile. “That’s not how I remember it. And that’s not the way I’m going to describe it to the police once they come asking questions after your book comes out.” She must be certain I’m not going to attack, because she takes a step closer. “You’re the one putting us all at risk,” she adds. “I need to take measures to protect myself.”
The desire to hurt my own sister almost overpowers me, and for a moment, I see our similarities more than our differences. I resist my primal urges but stand my ground. Then I lean in closer, because I want her to smell the fury on me.
“How goddamn dare you,” I whisper. “What you did that night has bled onto every part of my life. Every decision I’ve made since then has been influenced by what you did. You think I studied criminal justice on a whim? That I became a mystery writer because I love plotting out fictional murders? That I came home because I missed my morally bankrupt family? Every fucking thing I do in this world is done to either avoid or confront my past, but I can never just be. All I want to do is just be, and I can’t. That’s what you’ve done to me. I know you don’t understand because you have no conscience, much less a soul. I can’t change the past, but I sure as hell won’t let you change the story about what happened that night. No. Fucking. Way.”
Max comes up again, startling me to the point that I almost scream. I look down at him, not even getting the satisfaction of seeing Cora’s reaction to my words.
“I want to go home,” he says, tugging my arm.
“Max, quit pulling on me.” My voice is harsher than I want it to be, but I’m not in a gentle space right now.
“I don’t like it here,” he says.
“You just started. What’s wrong?”
“Everything is stupid.”
His plastic teeth are missing, likely spit onto someone’s lawn. And nothing’s stupid. It’s a code word he uses when he’s uncomfortable, overwhelmed, or scared. The brief joy he had at trick-or-treating has vanished.
But I need to finish this conversation with Cora. Otherwise, it’ll burn into my skin all night, like acid. I reach out and spin him around until he’s facing the opposite side of the street. “Can you do one last house? Have you done this house yet?” I point, and as I do, I suddenly realize it’s Alec’s house that Cora and I have been arguing across the street from. My gaze wanders from the patch of grass where I tripped and fell, then to the front porch, which is adorned with at least a dozen jack-o’-lanterns.
“Okay, last one, but it looks stupid, too,” Max says and starts crossing the street.
“Wait,” I say. “I’ll go with you.”
He turns. “Why?”
Because the only thing more important than skewering my sister is seeing someone who makes me smile. “Alec lives there. Micah’s dad. I want to say hi.”
Alec probably isn’t even home. Most likely, he’s out with Micah doing the same thing I am, minus the horrifying familial argument.
Cora waits back on the far sidewalk, looking up and down the dark street. I walk a step behind Max, as if treating him like a shield. Up the sidewalk, to the door. We’re the only ones here, though I spy a group of four kids coming from the house next door.
Max rings the bell and it’s only seconds before it opens.
Alec.
A wave of comfort washes over me, and it’s something I cannot explain. It’s as if I’ve found the one good person in Bury, the one person who won’t judge, won’t blame, won’t gossip, and won’t look at me for anyone else than who I am. I have no idea if any of that is true, but his energy conveys that, and I don’t want to argue myself out of it.
Especially now, when I’m still so frazzled from what Cora just said. How she’s actively planning to blame me for what happened to Caleb.
He looks at me first, and the second the recognition hits, the smile comes out, wide and genuine.
“Rose,” he says.
“Trick or treat.”
Alec’s gaze is pulled away by Max’s voice. He looks down at my son and says, “Well, hey there, Max. You just missed Micah. He went out with some of the other sixth graders.” Alec steps out onto the porch and looks down the street. “They’re probably not too far. You could catch up to them pretty easily.”
Max shrugs. “We’re going home after your house.”
“So early?” Alec steps back into his house, grabs a couple of candy bars, and drops them into Max’s pail. “If I’m your last house, then I’ll give you two. How’s that sound?”
“Okay.”
Alec turns to me and leans against his doorframe.
“So, Rose, how are—”
“Do you want to go out sometime?”
I don’t know how it happened. The words just came out, sure as if I was just speaking them in my head. But I heard them, and clearly he did, too, because Alec’s eyes widen and humiliation threatens to buckle my legs.
I try to recover, throwing out words as fast as I can. Certainly more than the situation needs. “Not like that,” I say. “I mean, not not like that, but really not like that. I don’t know why I even asked you. I’m so sorry. I just thought, I don’t know, you seem like you’d be easy to talk to. But I hardly know you. But you did give me your number, so I was just thinking…”
I look down at Max and he stares at me, wide-eyed, more confused than even I probably am.
If there’s ever a moment for a deep, grounding breath, it’s now, so I take it. Even close my eyes for a second. After I let it go and open my eyes, I force myself to look Alec directly in his eyes.
“I could use a friend,” I tell him. “That’s all I was trying to say. You have no idea how much I could use a friend.”
He says nothing for a few agonizing seconds, after which he offers a gentle smile.
Finally, he says, “Yeah, I’d like that. I could use a
friend, too.”
Thirty-Two
Whitefish Bay, Wisconsin
November 1
When Colin came over to his mother’s house, she wasn’t nearly done with her ranting. He’d let himself in, expecting her to be upstairs in her bedroom, medicated by gin and edging close to sleep. But she was in a small carpeted alcove next to the dining room, the spot where his parents always sat after his father came home from work. The place where they had a drink and discussed their respective days. This was a fixture as Colin grew up, and as a boy, he often joined them, munching on the homemade Chex Mix his mom always had out. As he grew older, Colin was less likely to be part of the weeknight ritual and more apt to be up in his room doing homework or out with friends. But he always had good memories, thinking of his parents together in this room, sometimes talking, other times sitting silently and just being together in a harmonious way that only happens when no one says a word.
Now, those memories felt like they belonged to someone else. It was just after eight in the evening, and the house had just enough lights on so Colin could navigate around the piles of junk. There was his mother, pacing back and forth in the alcove like a caged panther, all tension and no space, the ambient light rendering her ghostlike. She figure-eighted around stacks of magazines, an old lamp, and three barstools, muttering to herself as she paced, not even acknowledging Colin’s arrival.
“Goddamn fucking Bryson,” she said. “Bryson took our money.” She repeated variants of this same thing three times before Colin flicked on the alcove light, stopping her in her tracks.
“Who’s Bryson?” he asked. It didn’t really matter to him, but Colin had learned sometimes having her tell him about the subject of her latest outrage was enough to calm her down.
She looked at him with wide eyes and an accusatory look, as if not knowing Bryson was a crime.
“Jerry Fucking Bryson, that’s who,” she said. “Your father worked with him for a few years before Bryson left to start some shithole company decades ago. What did he call it?” She looked around, as if the answer were painted on one of the walls. Then she snapped her head back to Colin. “Craytronics. Yes, that was it. He thought he was so smart. Smart enough to convince your father to invest ten thousand dollars. Bryson promised we’d be millionaires within a decade.”
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