Those emails felt like a trigger, an unholy harbinger singing in the night. Like a comet burning up through the atmosphere that you need to squint to see on a dark, cold night. I cannot ignore the wickedness that’s hurdling this way.
But I don’t fall asleep soundly afterwards the way Bram does. Instead, I hug my pillow, and my thoughts drift to dark places, those secret places I vowed to never venture to again. And a part of me dares to think—maybe, just maybe, she’s behind it.
* * *
Bram doesn’t wakeme before he leaves, and depressingly enough I rouse to an empty space next to me, already cold, the warmth of his body long since dissipated. I shuttle the kids off to school, and none of the mothers in the drop-off lane even bother to give me the finger. I’ve become a social pariah once again, and, believe me, it wasn’t for a lack of trying. My mother used to say the world would never love my sister and me, not the way she did. That we were hers until the end of time. But make no mistake about it. My mother never loved us. We were her playthings, to be controlled, manipulated, hers to keep or discard as she pleased.
I take the left onto Main Street and give a dreamy sigh. In truth, when Bram and I were scouting locations to set down roots, Percy Bay met and surpassed our needs and expectations. The ocean view from the main thoroughfares was a plus, the white powdered beaches we envisioned spending copious amounts of time on were major, the stellar school system had it in the bag for us, but for me an added perk was the small-town feel, the fact it indeed had a Main Street. It felt as if we were dropping ourselves into a Hallmark movie, the ones where every problem is quickly ironed out and love trumps all as the camera pans away. And yet here I am on the aforementioned fairytale-like street, the behemoth Atlantic looking murky and dark on the horizon, ready to discuss the latest information Lena has on the murder investigation from Monte Carlo Night.
I pull into a space right next to Lena’s Suburban. Lena is the only person I know who doesn’t have children, and yet her lifestyle demands an enormous vehicle. She does most of the deliveries for the Blue Chandelier Catering Service. She’s also the manager here at the Blue Chandelier, a low-key coffee shop that also serves up oversized portioned treats. It’s my favorite place to come and unwind, and I love it that much more because it’s quickly become Lena’s baby.
When we moved here, it was the first place she applied, and, of course, they loved her. I head on in and soak in the heavenly scent of coffee. It’s the first thing that hits you right before you’re overcome with the ethereal nature of the ambiance. There’s a large outdoor patio out back that delivers an expansive ocean view. It’s always packed. You can never even hope to get a seat there. Every stay-at-home mom has turned this into her hub. It’s the go-to place to have coffee, and the writers seem to have taken a liking to it as well. I can certainly see why. The mood is romantic in a tragic way, and they play Enya on a loop. The inside, however, is just as scenic, with the entire ceiling covered in ornate chandeliers in every hue of its namesake color. The floors are dark gray wooden-patterned porcelain tiles with the hint of silver sparkles to them. The walls are covered with navy shiplap, and there are wreaths made of lavender flowers just about everywhere you look. It’s not your typical greasy spoon, and the décor is something out of a movie. I give a quick look around for Lena, and my eyes snag on a couple of all too familiar women, my least favorite cock handler and the forever hippie—Astrid and Bridget. Astrid spots me, and they cease their conversation to take a moment to glare my way.
“Here you are.” Lena comes at me with a contrived embrace, coupled with steaming hot coffee in both hands, as she ushers me along to a table near the front, far enough from the bitter mommy brigade so they can’t hear our conversation and yet not out of their line of vision. Lena was never one to run from a problem.
I can’t help but frown a bit at my sister. Her eyes are heavily drawn in with black kohl, a look that both works for her and against her. Sure, it makes her pale green eyes pop, but it also makes her look like a thirty-year-old Goth gone wrong.
“What’s this about the killer?”
She wrinkles her nose as she leans in tight. “Not the killer. They’ve finally identified the body.”
I suck in a quick breath. “The girl!” I hated referring to her asthe body. It’s too generic. I have never understood the way someone is a beloved person one moment, a corpse the next. It erases every humanistic thing and reduces them to a phylum that doesn’t even exist. You are less than an animal, relegated to something akin to morbid furniture.
“Her name was Erika Melon. She was from Manhattan. Her pimp helped identify her.”
“I bet he did, and I bet he did it! What was she doing all the way in Percy? We’re not exactly an L train from Times Square.”
She averts her eyes at my weak attempt at New York humor. “They don’t know. There are whispers of forensic evidence, but other than that, they have nothing. No leads, no motive, no nothing.” Her eyes narrow in on me the way they do when she’s good and pissed. “Just you, my sweet sister.” Her plain nails drum against the marble table.
“I’m no lead, and I’m no suspect. The police questioned me that night and haven’t been back. Thank goodness.” I can’t help but sneak a glance over my shoulder, only to meet up with Bridget’s dark soulless eyes and I shudder without meaning to. “I have to tell you something,” I practically mouth the words to my sister, and her hot breath heats the space between us. I pull up my phone and read off the emails I’ve received from that loon.
“Holy shit.” She gives a long blink. “Who do you think did it?”
“I don’t know. It could be anyone. We might not have had the world’s longest party, but we had an army of angry mothers filling every orifice.”
She grunts over at Astrid and Bridget just as they break out into an obnoxious cackle. “I bet it’s one of those bitches.” Lena has a dead look about her in general. She’s stunning in an I-just-crawled-out-of-a-casket-way, but by and large it creeps women out. Men seem to love her, so there’s that.
“I thought so, too, but the more I analyzed that day, the more I’m certain they were both downstairs the entire time.”
“Not true. I let the brunette bitch in. You opened the cocky gate.”
I bite down on my bottom lip so hard I taste the salty brine of my own blood. “I think maybe she sent them.” I tick my head out the window, indicating yet another infamousshe, and Lena’s eyes enlarge a notch. It’s a visceral reaction, but then, my mother only seems capable of eliciting those in anybody.
“No.” She shakes her head aggressively. “Don’t say her name. Don’t you call that demon into existence. There is no way in hell she’s capable of doing any of that, and you know it.”
“She’s capable.” Tears moisten my eyes, and I’m quick to blink them away.
Last we saw of our mother, we were running for the car, arms full of clothes, of books. We had meant to escape while she was away at the store, but she forgot her purse and came back in half the time we had predicted. She was furious, livid. Our mother is a morbidly obese woman, with a tuft of black hair that rises over her head a good six inches. She was as insane to look at as she was on the inside, and yet for so many years we had bought into everything she was selling, namely us. And we were weak on that getaway day, our limbs rubbery from years of sitting, our lungs stretched to capacity as we tried to dive into our aunt’s Ford Tempo.
Exactly one year after the great escape, our aunt was found in a motel room, an empty pill bottle by her side, facedown in the bathtub. My theory has always been that my mother had drowned her first. Of course, it was ruled a suicide. My mother was impervious to law enforcement and any other governing bodies that rule the land. She has had a get away with bullshit—get away with murder free card for as long as I could remember.
Lena closes her eyes a moment, those dark half-moons pressed with charcoal shadow fold in on themselves like Russian nesting dolls. Lena’s eyelids have been getting progressively fragile and crepey. We inherited our thin skin from our mother, among other far more indistinguishable features such as our inability to tell the truth. As much as I appreciate starting over in Percy Bay, it feels as if we’re building a sandcastle. I can feel the tide shifting, see the waves coming. It won’t be pretty when it hits. It never is.
“It wasn’t her.” Lena gives a hard sigh. “Don’t do this to yourself. She’s not out to get us anymore.” She shoots a cold glance out the window as if she were having a hard time buying this bullshit herself. Her gaze narrows over my shoulder. “The Chandelier is hosting a fundraiser for the community center next weekend out on the pier. Bring Bram and the kids. I know for a fact they’ll be there.” She casts a quick glance their way once again as they light up the room with cackles. My sister’s eyes meet up with mine. “Please.”
“A fundraiser? I mingled with a corpse at that last one. No thank you.”
“You’ll need this if you want to fit in, believe me. There’s no escaping these social circles. The best thing to do is make amends. Play nice then fade into the background like a good little girl. Your reward will be raising your kids in a stable environment. You can’t live on the run your whole lives, Ree.”
