The Perfect Neighbors

by Sarah Pekkanen

  “But he did,” Susan said. She blinked back tears. Mr. Brannon’s eyes were red, too, but he was smiling.

  “Eventually,” Mr. Brannon said. “They stopped coming back to me after a couple of weeks. Oh, Miss Susan, I’m so lucky Edward has his mother’s heart . . . I told him I’d like to meet his partner sometime. And they have a little girl. They adopted her when she was just a baby.”

  “You have a granddaughter!” Susan exclaimed.

  “She’s eleven,” Mr. Brannon said. “Her name is Sara. I asked if it would be okay to send her a letter. Edward wasn’t sure, but he said maybe, if he read it first.”

  “I’m so glad,” Susan whispered over the lump in her throat.

  “To think that after all this time, I could have a family again . . . ,” he said. “When you get to the end of your life, you realize the only important thing is love.”

  Susan took his arm, which felt soft and frail beneath her hand, and gave it a gentle squeeze.

  “I think Edward has your heart, too,” she said.

  • • •

  Before Newport Cove

  Once, Tessa had been called for jury duty, and although she’d just spent the day sitting around a waiting room, her juror number too high for her to be called in on a case, it had gotten her wondering: could she vote to impose the death penalty? She hadn’t been sure she could be part of a decision to take another person’s life, no matter how severe the crime. That reasoned, sensitive woman seemed like a stranger to her now.

  Harry had handled everything. He’d touched Danny’s body, tried and failed to find a pulse. He’d taken his own outfit along with Tessa’s clothing and shoes, even the towel she’d used after showering, to a Dumpster behind a hardware store. He’d created the alibi by changing the clock and waking up Bree. He’d cleaned up the blood he’d tracked into their house on his shoe.

  Harry had also found a television show he’d TiVo’d and insisted the two of them watch it together the next morning while the kids were still asleep. “That’s what we were doing that night,” he’d said. “Stick to the truth when possible. We ate pasta. I did the crossword puzzle. We watched Game of Thrones. Remember the plot. But don’t give away too many details, act like you’re searching your memory for what we did at first. And don’t mention Bree waking up. That’s our ace in the hole, if we need it.”

  Tessa had turned her head away from the television, shuddering. Blood had never bothered her before—Bree and Addison had had their share of nosebleeds and scraped knees, and Tessa had briskly dealt with the cleanup—but the gory battle playing out on-screen had made bile rise in her throat.

  “But I must have left behind some evidence!” she’d said. “A fingerprint, or some clothing fiber . . .”

  Harry had shaken his head. “You’ve—we’ve—visited the house before. Remember the barbeque Danny held a few weeks ago for the Young Rangers and their families?”

  When Detective Robinson had come by the house—“Just a formality, we’re interviewing everyone who knew Danny,” she’d said—Tessa’s raw nerves had been cocooned by a Xanax. By then, she imagined, Danny’s body had been removed from the driveway and autopsied. Maybe the detective already had clues.

  “It’s horrible,” Tessa had said, sitting next to Harry on the couch and clasping her hands together to keep them steady. “Who would want to kill Danny?”

  “Did your son ever mention anything about Danny touching him inappropriately?” the detective had asked.

  “What? No! Why?” Tessa had asked.

  “There were some photographs in the house . . . ,” Detective Robinson began.

  “Oh, no,” Tessa had said. “Addison was never alone with Danny. He just saw him at the meetings.”

  Her focus was wrong, Tessa had realized. She should’ve acted more concerned about the photos, less on the details of the uniform transfer.

  “Wait, what kind of pictures?” she’d asked quickly.

  “I can’t give out that information. But we’re suggesting all parents have their children talk to a psychologist, even though there’s no evidence of any physical contact,” Detective Robinson had said.

  Tessa had nodded. “Of course, we’ll do that.” And she would, down the line. But she knew Danny had been alone with Addison just that one time. Addison wasn’t at risk.

  Next to her on the couch, Harry had fidgeted, his foot tapping out a rat-tat-tat. Tessa had watched as the detective’s eyes had tracked to Harry’s shoe.

  Tessa had leaned forward, gently bumping Harry’s leg with her arm, as if it was an accidental touch. “I didn’t know much about Danny,” she’d said. “Did he have a girlfriend? Or was he in financial trouble?”

  The detective had looked at her sharply, her attention drawn away from Harry.

  “Why do you ask?” the detective had said.

  “Just curious,” Tessa had said. “I read a lot of mystery novels . . . Isn’t it usually the spouse or romantic interest who does something like this?”

  She’d widened her eyes, hoping she looked like a bored suburban housewife, eager for some drama to brighten her day. Harry had saved her when she needed it; now it was her turn to be the steady one, to guide them through the crisis.

  A few minutes later, after handing Tessa her card, the detective had left.

  “Call me if you think of anything relevant,” the detective had said, pausing at the door, holding her black steno notebook. Tessa was desperate to see what she’d written down. “Even a little thing.”

  “Of course,” Tessa had said, willing Harry to say something, to erase the blank expression on his face. But at least empty eyes were less suspicious than guilt-filled ones.

  At night, Tessa lay in the darkness, sensing Harry’s wakefulness next to her. She couldn’t get over how he’d transformed into someone she didn’t recognize to protect her. It was a side of her bespectacled, absentminded husband that Tessa had never imagined existed.

  But then, she’d also revealed a side of herself she’d never thought possible.

  I murdered a man, she’d thought.

  When Harry began to crumble—when the weight fell off, when his insomnia struck—she moved into the breach, keeping their family going, arranging for the purchase of the house in Newport Cove. Fighting for their survival.

  Sometimes, while she was engaged in the most mundane of activities, like plucking an errant gray hair from her head, or washing her hands, the thought would seize her mind, stealing away her breath: I’m a killer.

  * * *

  Chapter Forty-One

  * * *

  “I’M GOING TO DROP out of the race,” Joe said, looking at Gigi across the kitchen table.

  They’d ordered pizza and had divided the last few inches of a bottle of Pinot Grigio between their glasses. Earlier, the girls had wandered in to eat, with Melanie taking a single slice before retreating to her room. Now the house was quiet. Julia was upstairs on the computer, and Melanie was dozing again. Gigi knew her daughter’s exhaustion stemmed from emotional trauma, which could be every bit as draining as a physical one.

  “Are you sure?” Gigi asked, even though Joe’s pronouncement wasn’t entirely unexpected. What did surprise her was the twinge of sadness she felt at his words.

  “Politics is filled with people like Zach,” Joe said. “And I feel like a used-car salesman when I go door to door to talk to voters . . . I don’t get to see you and the kids as much . . . It would be worse if I won and had to be in Washington during the week . . . Should I go on?”

  Gigi reached across the table to take his hand. “You’ve thought about this a lot.”

  Joe nodded. “I’m so damn tired. How do they do it? They say Bill Clinton can meet a hundred people and remember all of their names a few hours later. Then he does it again the next night. He feeds off that kind of thing. And for what? Don’t tell me it’s all abo
ut service. It’s about ego. Power.”

  “Will you go back to your old job?” Gigi asked.

  “Yeah, for a while,” Joe said. “But I’m going to start looking for something different. I’ll call a headhunter.”

  “Okay,” Gigi said. But she was thinking about Joe’s excitement the night of the primary election, when everyone had gathered to celebrate his victory. The painkillers and champagne had erased her memory of his speech, but someone had filmed it on an iPhone and forwarded it to them. Joe had been invigorated, determined. Passionate.

  But then there was the tabloid photograph of Melanie storming away during the family portrait, and Zach and his folders. That was the flip side of politics; someone was always watching, waiting to exploit a perceived weakness.

  Gigi turned her head at the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. She expected to see Julia, but it was Melanie’s face that appeared in the kitchen doorway. She looked especially young tonight, with her round cheeks and the big, dark eyes she’d inherited from her father.

  “Hey, baby,” Joe said. “Want more pizza?”

  “I’m okay,” Melanie said. She took a glass out of the cabinet and went to the refrigerator to fill it with water from the door dispenser.

  “You should tell her,” Gigi said to Joe.

  “Tell her what?” Melanie asked, turning around.

  Joe patted the chair next to him and waited until Melanie sat down. “I’m going to drop out of the race,” he said.

  Melanie frowned. “You’re quitting? Why?”

  “A lot of reasons,” Joe said.

  “Zach is one of them,” Gigi said, remembering her vow to be honest with her daughter.

  Melanie took a long sip of water. “Oh,” she said.

  “I figured you guys would be celebrating,” Joe said, looking from his daughter to his wife. He winked. “Unless having me around more is a bad thing?”

  “No, no,” Gigi said. She mustered up a smile. “I totally understand why you need to do this.”

  Joe nodded and looked at Melanie. “Honey? What are you thinking?”

  Melanie shrugged. “I was just telling Mom about when we went to the homeless shelter . . . Remember that little boy?” she said to Joe. “He wanted to live in a house with a backyard so he could have a dog. And when you were talking to him, you told him you wanted to help people like him.”

  “Yeah,” Joe said. He rubbed his eyes, suddenly looking more tired than ever. “Kevin. That was his name.”

  “He was really sweet,” Melanie said.

  Gigi looked at her daughter, not following her train of thought. “Do you want to go back to the shelter and see him?” she asked.

  “Maybe,” Melanie said. “But the thing is, Dad, if you’re quitting because of Zach . . . doesn’t that mean the bad guys win?”

  Joe stared at her. “It isn’t . . . That’s not the only reason,” he said after a moment. “This is different.”

  “How?” Melanie asked.

  Joe opened his mouth, then closed it. “I don’t know,” he finally said. He gave a little laugh. “Jeez, Melanie, are you saying you want me to keep running?”

  She shrugged, a teenager again. “Whatever.” She yawned and stood up. “Still tired. I’m going back to bed.”

  “Good night,” Gigi called as Melanie left the room.

  She and Joe looked at each other. “Well, shit,” Joe said. “She’s growing up.”

  “I guess so,” Gigi said, then began to laugh. “You can explain it to her again tomorrow. She’ll understand.”

  “Yeah,” Joe said. He drained his wine. “The thing is, that kid . . . Kevin . . .”

  How like her husband, to remember the name of the little boy who wouldn’t be able to do anything for his campaign, but to recoil at the idea of having to recall the names of a hundred voters.

  “Yes?” Gigi prompted.

  “I do want to help people like him and his mom,” Joe said. He sat up straighter and pushed away his plate. Gigi watched him. He still had dark circles under his eyes, but he seemed more alert than he had a few minutes earlier.

  “It would be hard on you, to have to do everything around here during the week . . . but I’d be home every weekend, and there’s a long recess in the summer . . .”

  “And the bad guys wouldn’t win,” Gigi said.

  She stood up and went over to Joe and sat down in his lap, winding her arms around his neck. Joe would be victorious and go to Washington; suddenly she was certain of it. And it was time for her to find her own passion again, right here in their hometown. Maybe she’d begin volunteering at the homeless shelter regularly. It could be something she’d do together with Melanie and Julia.

  “At least not without us putting up a fight,” Joe said, and kissed her.

  • • •

  Kellie was flipping the pages of a book without taking in any of the printed words when Jason walked into their bedroom.

  “Hi,” she said, feeling shy. They hadn’t been alone together since she’d told him about Miller.

  “Hi,” he said. Another first: he hadn’t spoken to her directly for days.

  She expected Jason to grab a pillow from the bed or get something out of the bathroom, but instead, he walked over and flopped down beside her, the mattress giving a little bounce under his weight.

  “Do you want to talk?” she asked, setting aside her novel.

  He flung an arm over his eyes, blocking out the light. “I don’t know,” he said.

  She held her breath, unsure of what to do.

  “You swear you didn’t sleep with him,” Jason said.

  “Jason,” she said. “Please look at me.”

  After a moment, he removed his arm so she could see his clear blue eyes.

  “I didn’t sleep with him,” she said. “I never even kissed him.” She was so glad it was true.

  Jason nodded. “Is he still texting you?”

  “No,” Kellie said. “I told him I needed to focus on my family.”

  She waited, but Jason didn’t respond.

  “If you’d like to go to marital counseling, I can find someone,” Kellie said. “It might be a good thing for us to do.”

  Jason exhaled, a long, slow whoosh of breath. But then he averted his eyes so that he was staring at the ceiling instead of her.

  Kellie had the sensation that she was feeling her way through darkness, unsure if the ground would disappear beneath her feet. She felt her throat thicken, but she swallowed hard, not wanting to cry. If Jason was coming to a decision, she didn’t want it to be based on pity or obligation.

  “What I want to do,” Jason said, enunciating every word, “is beat the crap out of him.” She could hear the anger as well as the pain threading through his voice.

  She reached out a hand and put it on his arm. “I’ll never see him again,” she said. “You’re the only man I’ve ever loved.”

  Jason remained still for another minute, then he sat up abruptly and reached for her, crushing her against him. She was so startled she didn’t immediately react, then she wound her arms around his neck. His mouth found hers and he kissed her, hard and hungrily. The way he hadn’t in years.

  The five o’clock shadow on his chin rasped against her skin as his hands moved under her T-shirt and yanked down her shorts, and she felt herself responding instantly.

  “Hold on,” Jason said, pulling back from her. He was breathing hard.

  He jumped out of bed and her heart sank. But he only went over to the door to close and lock it. Then he hurried back, into her arms.

  * * *

  Chapter Forty-Two

  * * *

  IT HAPPENED ON A lazy Sunday morning, while Harry and the kids ate waffles and Tessa sipped coffee and noticed through the window that the birdfeeder she’d hung on the sugar maple tree was nearly empty. B
y now, their house in Newport Cove had scuff marks on a couple of walls, and the leaves were tumbling off the trees, in need of a good raking. By now, their house in Newport Cove was beginning to feel like home.

  Tessa’s old friend Cindy was the one who delivered the news. Tessa had always expected a SWAT team to tear down her door, to be led away in handcuffs while tabloid photographers crowded around and stuck cameras in her face and shouted questions. She could see the headline: Soccer Mom Slays Predator!

  But the end began, simply enough, with a phone call.

  “I’ll get it,” Tessa said.

  But Bree leaped out of her seat and reached the phone first. “Oh, hi!” she said. “Yeah, it’s okay here . . . My teacher’s pretty nice . . . Uh-huh, she’s right here.”

  Bree handed over the receiver and Tessa heard Cindy’s voice.

  “Did you hear?” Cindy asked, sounding equal parts exhilarated and angry.

  Tessa tapped Harry on the shoulder. When he raised his head, she gave him a meaningful look. “Hang on, let me take this outside.”

  She stepped onto the porch, closing the door behind her. “What is it?”

  It had to be about Danny, of course. Cindy wouldn’t call her with breaking news about any other subject.

  “They’ve declared Danny’s death a cold case,” Cindy said. “They don’t have any official suspects.”

  “So they’re closing the investigation?” Tessa gasped. “I figured they’d keep it open at least a year.”

  “For now, I guess,” Cindy said. “I mean, they can always reopen these things. At least that’s what I’ve learned from CSI.”

  So in a decade or two, a sharp young detective, or a seasoned veteran, could run his fingers over files, searching for the one labeled “Danny Briggs.” He could read notes about the interviews. Perhaps there were details about Harry’s jiggling leg, and Tessa’s nervousness. Harry had bought new tires for Tessa’s car and changed them before disposing of the old ones at a dump. But maybe the tires could be unearthed, the tread matched . . .