The Perfect Neighbors

by Sarah Pekkanen

  She could only see blackness. She waited until her eyes adjusted and she found a light switch, then she shut the door behind her and turned it on. She crept down the stairs, wincing as one near the bottom groaned.

  The basement wasn’t finished. The floor was cement, and exposed pipes twisted in a labyrinth overhead. She glanced around, taking in a few suitcases, Christmas decorations stored in big plastic bins, and odds and ends of dusty furniture. There was also a workbench in one corner. Tessa moved over to it, noticing the paintbrushes and neatly stacked cans of stain, hammers, and wrenches. There wasn’t anything out of the ordinary here.

  But the back of her neck was tingling again. This felt different from when she’d seen the nanny with her crying son and had spotted the suspicious-looking man at the playground. This felt like certainty.

  She looked around, noticing for the first time two other closed doors leading off the basement.

  She tested the first one. It opened into a laundry room. An empty plastic basket sat by the dryer, and a jug of Tide rested atop the washer. Tessa closed the door and walked over to the second one.

  The smell of chemicals hit her the moment she cracked open the door. The room was small, maybe ten feet by eight feet, with a large rectangular table in its center. Atop the table were four plastic trays and a pair of tongs. By the far wall was an easel.

  A darkroom, Tessa realized. She hadn’t been in one in years, not since a photography class she’d taken in high school.

  The door was painted black on the inside and a strip of black felt ran around its seam to seal off the light. Even with the door open, though, it was hard for Tessa to see the images on the photographs stacked at the end of the table. She dug into her pocket for her phone and used its screen for extra light. The photographs were all of flowers, she realized as she used her free hand to riffle through them.

  Apparently Danny loved roses and azaleas and poppies. He’d zoomed in on their petals, capturing them in glorious detail. She let the last photograph drop onto the table, feeling the sag of disappointment. She’d been so sure . . . but there wasn’t any evidence here.

  She’d go back upstairs and exit the house and then reopen the front door and call out his name. She’d revert to her original plan.

  Tessa straightened up and as she did so, her phone cast a light over the easel in the corner. There were more photographs attached to it with little clips.

  She walked over, her heart pounding. She held up her phone as her eyes scanned the rows of a dozen or so photos, then covered her mouth as nausea roiled her stomach. The photographs were of little boys. Even though she’d expected—wanted!—to find something, she wasn’t prepared for this.

  At least the neat rows of photographs weren’t graphic. The boys were all in their underwear. There were some shots that appeared to be taken in the changing room of a swimming pool, judging from the towels and goggles scattered about. And others in a smaller space—a bathroom. Tessa recognized a few faces from Young Rangers: little Sam, who’d broken his arm last year; Max, a cheerful, pint-sized chatterbox; Henry, who had an irrepressible cowlick right in the front of his brown hair . . .

  And Addison. He was on the bottom row. In the photograph, he was struggling to get out of his pants, balancing on one leg as he used his hands to wrestle his jeans off his other foot. The Young Rangers uniform was on the floor beside him. His tongue was sticking out of the corner of his mouth, an indicator that he was working hard at something. Addison had the same look when he was doing math problems.

  A wave of rage spread through Tessa as she grabbed the photograph of Addison and tore it away. How had Danny done it? Maybe he had a peephole in his bathroom with a camera attached. Her beautiful, perfect son . . . And all of those other innocent children. Danny had preyed on them, earning their trust. She had to get out of here before she vomited, before she grabbed the hammer from the workbench and slammed it against Danny’s skull.

  Tessa clattered up the stairs, breathing hard, then raced through the front door, leaving it open behind her as she ran outside. She fumbled through her purse until she found her keys and she started her car, revving the engine. She’d drive home to Harry. They’d call the police together. She had the evidence in her hand. Danny would get locked up. She’d call the other parents, she’d call the newspaper, she’d make sure he never, ever . . .

  “Wait!”

  She glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Danny standing there, a few feet behind her.

  He stretched out his arms in an open, welcoming gesture. He was smiling broadly, the same wide grin he’d bestowed upon her when they’d first met. The one that had charmed her, charmed the other parents. Charmed the kids.

  “Where are you rushing off to?” he called. Her hand was already on the gear shift; her car was in reverse. But she couldn’t move. Danny was blocking her.

  So he knew. He’d probably heard her tearing up the basement stairs.

  He would cover this up, she realized as rage blurred her vision. He’d get rid of the evidence before she came back. Trash his computer, destroy the photographs, plaster over the bathroom peephole. All she had was one picture of Addison. It wouldn’t be enough to send Danny to jail. He’d probably get probation, and then he’d just move away and start preying on other children.

  She wondered what else he’d done. She’d read somewhere that child molesters targeted dozens—or was it hundreds?—of victims before they were caught. Had he actually touched Addison or any of the other kids?

  All of those thoughts and calculations flitted through her mind at light speed, in less time than it took Tessa to remove her foot from the brake and press hard on the gas.

  Her Toyota shot down the driveway in reverse, in a straight, smooth line, barely slowing as it smashed into Danny and he disappeared.

  She didn’t stop until she reached the street, then she glanced up at the driveway. Danny was lying motionless in the middle of it, his dark clothing blending in with the asphalt.

  You could barely even tell he was there. He might as well have been a pile of crumpled rags. She put the car into drive, still holding the photograph of Addison, and stepped on the gas again, more gently this time.

  Some time later—ten minutes? An hour?—she became aware that she was in her own driveway, her head collapsed onto the steering wheel, her body ice-cold.

  It wasn’t until a thought seized her that she was able to muster the strength to lift up her head and stare at the house: Harry.

  She could see him through the kitchen window, still reading the newspaper. Calm, logical Harry would know exactly what to do. He could fix this.

  She exited the car, closing the door carefully behind her, then went inside to tell her husband what had just happened.

  * * *

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  * * *

  Newport Cove Listserv Digest

  *A Reminder: Salsa Lessons!

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  *Re: A Reminder: Salsa Lessons!

  Not even gonna touch this one. —Frank Fitzgibbons, Forsythia Lane

  • • •

  “What was it like?” Kellie asked. “I mean, if it’s not too painful to dredge all that up.”

  She was huddled on Susan’s couch, clutching a throw pillow to her middle, ignoring the tea and croissants Susan had set out on the coffee table.

  Susan took a sip of cinnamon tea before answering. “It was the worst pain I’ve ever gone through,” she said simply.

  Kellie nodded. Her face looked drawn, and there were dark circles under her eyes.

  “Imagining the two of them together, not even in bed, though that was wrenching . . . just laughing, and hugging. Being together,” Susan said. “There was something
kind of, I don’t know, perverse about knowing their joy was the source of my pain.”

  Kellie inhaled a deep, shuddering breath. “Jason knows I didn’t love Miller,” she said. “I explained it was a crush that got out of hand . . . but it’s still a huge betrayal. I don’t even know if it was a true emotional affair, because Miller didn’t really know me. He knew the woman who was always dressed up and smiling. It’s easy to be that person for a few hours a day. But he didn’t understand the messier parts of me, all of the things you can hide when it’s not a real relationship.”

  “Have you talked to Miller lately?” Susan asked.

  Kellie shook her head. “I’ve been calling in sick to work. I don’t know if I’m going to tell him I can’t talk to him anymore or just . . . disappear.”

  “How do you feel about that?” Susan asked.

  “A week ago it would have been devastating,” Kellie said. “Now? It’s nothing.” She hesitated. “Almost nothing. I miss the feeling I had . . . of someone thinking I was pretty, that I was special. That thrill of the new. But it wasn’t about Miller. It was about those sensations.”

  Susan nodded slowly. It was the difference between a crush and true love. Randall wouldn’t—or couldn’t—give up Daphne, but Kellie was going to walk away easily.

  “Should I quit work?” Kellie asked.

  Susan thought about how Jason would feel, knowing Kellie would be near Miller every day at the office. “Yes,” she said.

  “Yeah,” Kellie said. She drew up her knees and rested her chin on them. “I’ll call tomorrow. Maybe in a few months I can join another office . . . I don’t know.”

  Susan leaned forward. “Do you really want to know what I think?” she asked.

  Kellie cringed. “Of me?” she asked.

  Susan reached out and touched Kellie’s arm. “No, honey, that isn’t where I was going. I was going to say I think you need to do everything you can to show Jason how much you love him. It’s going to take time. But he’ll come around.”

  “I was thinking I’d start cooking him special dinners,” Kellie said.

  “Little gestures like that are good,” Susan said. “And you could arrange a date night once a week. Maybe a getaway down the line.”

  “I would love that,” Kellie said. “I’ve been remembering all the reasons why I fell in love with Jason. His kindness, his steadiness . . . He hasn’t changed. Maybe that was part of it; we’ve been together forever. And it was just the . . . monotony of being with the same person day in, day out. Talking about who needs to take the kids to soccer practice. Wanting some orange juice and realizing Jason had two glasses and it was all gone. The excitement disappeared.”

  “So you’ll work to get it back,” Susan said. “Lingerie. You need to go buy some.”

  Kellie smiled. “Jason would love that.” Her smile dropped away. “Or he would have.”

  Pain washed over her face and Susan could see her swallow hard. “I know this is hard for Jason, but what I never realized is how hard it would be for me, too. To know how badly I’ve hurt him.”

  Susan dropped her eyes to her teacup. She had never before thought of what Randall might be enduring. She’d been too busy imagining his joy.

  She’d been so immersed in her own agony she’d never considered the fact that the pain of their divorce might have affected him. Randall was a decent man; a kind man. He’d always carried spiders outside, rather than squashing them. Maybe he’d invited her along on Halloween because he still cared about her feelings, not because he cared what other people thought.

  “Do you really think I should buy lingerie, or is it too soon?” Kellie asked.

  Susan tucked away her new revelation, to turn over and consider more carefully later, and looked back at her friend.

  “Do it. All that effort you put into looking good for Miller, into thinking about him?” Susan said. “Turn it on your husband.”

  “Yeah,” Kellie said. “I’m going to try.”

  “That’s my girl,” Susan said. “Try to make this the best thing that ever happened to your marriage, odd as that sounds now. Now eat a croissant or I’ll hate you because you’re getting too skinny.”

  She handed one to Kellie, who broke off a corner and nibbled at it.

  “So I’ve got a question for you,” Susan said. “I met this guy at your birthday party . . . Peter?”

  Kellie furrowed her brow, then her face cleared. “Oh, Peter! Yeah, he was one of Jason’s fraternity brothers in college. I didn’t see him at the party, but Jason must have invited him. I know they’ve gotten back in touch. Peter moved back to the area a few weeks ago, after his div— Oh my God!”

  “Settle down,” Susan said, laughing.

  “No, but he’s a really good guy! Did you talk to him? Of course you did, that’s why you’re asking.”

  “We did,” Susan confirmed. “He asked for my number, but he hasn’t called yet.”

  “Well, it’s been, what, only two days?” Kellie said.

  “I know,” Susan said.

  “I’ll give you the scoop,” Kellie said. “He has one kid, but a bit older.” She furrowed her brow. “Twelve, thirteen, maybe? A daughter. He got married young, that I remember, because Jason and I went to the wedding. His wife was gorgeous but she seemed like a cold fish. That’s my completely biased take from talking to her for thirty seconds at her wedding, but if you’re not all smiling and happy at your wedding, when would you be? Jason really liked him, but they lost touch for a while even though Peter didn’t live that far away. I got the sense his wife was kind of controlling and they just did stuff with her family and friends.”

  “Are you making that up?” Susan asked, giving Kellie a nudge.

  “Nope,” Kellie said. “So, will this be your first post-divorce date?”

  “If he calls,” Susan said.

  “When he calls,” Kellie amended. “You’re the perfect woman. How could he not call you? He’s counting the minutes. He read The Rules and knows he has to wait a few days or he’ll scare you off.”

  Susan rolled her eyes and handed Kellie the rest of the croissant. “Eat,” she ordered. “Then I’m going to take a couple more hours off work so we can go lingerie shopping.”

  Kellie got in the last word: “Only if it’s for both of us.”

  • • •

  There was no worse pain than knowing your child was suffering, Gigi thought as she stood outside Melanie’s door, listening.

  She’d been terrified that Melanie would shut her out again. But after she’d cried, Melanie had fallen asleep, even though it was still morning. When she’d awoken an hour later, Gigi had brought her a tray of chamomile tea and toast.

  Joe was staying home today, having canceled his campaign events. Gigi didn’t know where Zach had gone. She didn’t care, as long as he was out of the house.

  “Sweetie?” Gigi asked, tapping on Melanie’s partially opened door. Her daughter was still a lump under the covers, but at least this time her head was showing.

  “Can I get you anything else?” Gigi asked. Most of the tea was gone, but the toast was untouched.

  “No,” Melanie said.

  Gigi hesitated. Normally she’d give Melanie space, figuring that was what Melanie wanted, but she went against that instinct and sat down on the edge of her daughter’s bed. She wished she had a manual for times like these. When Melanie had been young, it was so easy to find solutions. After Melanie broke one of her new crayons at age three, Gigi had used a match to soften the wax and weld it back together. When Melanie had been left out of a birthday party at age ten, Gigi had taken her out for a special dinner and movie.

  But how did you guide a troubled, defiant teenager?

  Melanie was quiet for a moment, then: “Zach told me he thought I was pretty. He said if I just”—Melanie’s voice broke but she continued—“if I just wore s
ome makeup and nicer clothes, I’d be a knockout. So why’d he say ‘I wouldn’t be interested in her’ like that?”

  Gigi closed her eyes, wanting to absorb her daughter’s hurt. “Because he’s a horrible person,” Gigi said. “I wish I could give you another reason, something to make you feel better, but there’s something wrong with Zach.”

  “Why don’t you and Julia ever have to diet?” Melanie asked. “Why am I the only fat one in the family?”

  “Sweetie, you’re not,” Gigi said. “And you are pretty. You’re beautiful.”

  “Don’t say on the inside,” Melanie said. “No one cares about that.”

  “Inside and out,” Gigi said.

  She wondered if she should tell Melanie about her shoplifting arrest. She thought about the weight-loss book under Melanie’s bed, and that sad, crumpled lunch bag of carrots and yogurt. Melanie needed to know that everyone struggled; that even her own mother—her aggravating, bossy mother—had stumbled and fallen and gotten back up again. Soon, Gigi decided, but not today.

  “Did he ever kiss you, Melanie?” Gigi asked. “Please tell me.”

  Melanie shook her head. “But he put his arm around me when we watched the movie.” She lay back against her pillows and closed her eyes. “Is he still going to live here?” she asked.

  “No,” Gigi said. “And not just because of what happened to you . . . He made me feel uncomfortable from the start.”

  “He’s a jerk,” Melanie said.

  “Worse than that,” Gigi said.

  “Do you know when we went to serve dinner to the homeless on Thanksgiving, he didn’t do any work? He was supposed to peel potatoes but I saw him checking his iPhone the whole time,” Melanie said.

  “I’m not surprised,” Gigi said.

  Melanie sighed. “Can I have some more tea?” she asked.

  Gigi stood up. She wanted to reach out and smooth her daughter’s hair, but she decided not to press her luck. Instead she gave Melanie’s foot a quick squeeze through the blanket.