Could it be deliberate? Would Maeve’s aunt stoop that low? For the last few days, as she’s waited, feeling sick, for the inevitable pile-on, Nika’s been assuming Ms. O’Donnell is just a nosy old cow, too stupid to pay attention to where she’s sending her bitchy messages. But what if it’s more than that? What if Maeve, in some twisted attempt at revenge, fed her aunt the information and got her to send the message? Maeve Khoury is that kind of person. She’d turned a bit of banter into a huge drama last year, claiming they’d been bullying her. She’d sent her mother to school to report them, too much of a coward to handle it herself. They’d all been summoned to the principal, and their parents had been calledagain. Celeste and Warren had believed Nika’s side of the story, believed she wasn’t involved. And luckily, none of the screenshots Maeve had saved showed Nika’s messages. But—Nika acknowledges now—Maeve knew she’d been part of it. And maybe, since she and Maeve used to be best friends, Maeve was angrier with Nika than she was with Ariana and the others.Isangrier. Maybe she’s not over it. If that’s what this is—some kind of revenge—Maeve needs to cop on and get a life.
A knock on the door tells her Celeste is here. Nika really doesn’t wantto talk to her mother right now, but Celeste might be suspicious if she doesn’t let her in.
“Yes?”
The door opens, and Celeste comes in, hovers near the bed but doesn’t sit. Her dark red hair falls in immaculate, precise waves to her shoulders. Her thin eyebrows rise in a question.
“Is everything OK?” She says it in the same business-like tone she uses when taking work calls or talking to the man who cleans their windows.
Nika smiles up. “Yes, why?”
Celeste clasps and unclasps her hands. “Well, it’s just that Juliette Sullivan is claiming that this boy you’re seeing is Ariana’s boyfriend?”
“OK. First of all, they were pretty much almost broken up, and second of all, there’s nothing serious going on between us. It’s all good; Ariana gets it. Wow, was Juliette really talking about us? Like, gossiping about a group of kids?” Nika wrinkles her nose.
“Well, you know how she is. She likes to have her finger on the pulse…You’re sure everything’s OK? You’d tell me if it wasn’t?”
“Of course I would, you know that.”
“OK. I’ll pop in later to say good night.” Celeste hesitates and, for one crazy moment, Nika thinks she’s going to hug her. She doesn’t. She leaves, pulling the door closed.
Nika switches on her phone. It explodes with notifications. She doesn’t exit the group this time. If she does, they’ll know she’s seen the messages, that they’re getting to her, and they’ll just add her straight back. What is she going to do? She needs a distraction. A bigger drama.
And then she remembers what’s under her bed.
33
Susan
Sunday
Jon took up my suggestion and went for a Sunday night run. Or a walk, anyway. Toher, I imagine. I wonder where she lives and if she’s married too. I suppose if she’s not, they don’t need a hotel, they might go to her house.Happy one-month anniversary. Who even buys a gift after one month, let alone inscribed jewelry? But Jon loves a big gesture. On our one-month anniversary, he surprised me with tickets to New York. I thought it was romantic. I guess it’s just what Jon does. I hate her, whoever she is. Does she know about me? I suppose she might not know he’s married. Though if the bracelet was here, thenshewas here, and if the bracelet was stuck behind Jon’s night-stand, then that’s where she lost it, in my bed.God…This also makes me wonderwhenshe was here—it’s not like I’m out much. Apart from one weekend away with Leesa and Bella, I’ve been here every single night since Bella was born. Could it have started before that, before Bella? Something—the distance between us—tells me it’s new. But what do I know? And I guess illicit affairs don’t need to happen at night; maybe she was here when I was out during the day. I hate her, I think again. And the feminist in me knows I’mnot supposed to blame the other woman, that Jon’s the one who’s cheating, but I just don’t have it in me not to blame her too. I hate her. I fuckinghateher.
As I move into the living room, I hear a noise outside the window. Is Jon back already? I listen, but there’s nothing more. On the baby monitor, I can see Bella, deep in sleep. On TV, there’s nothing I want to watch. I flick mindlessly between Netflix and Prime, unable to focus on anything but needing a distraction.
A few minutes later, I hear a noise again, a rustle from outside. I turn down the TV and wait, but again there’s no follow-up sound. And although my rational brain knows it was nothing more than a fox or a breeze, and although I can see Bella on the monitor screen, I decide to go upstairs to check on her.
• • •
Bella’s fast asleep, just like she was onscreen. Her soother’s fallen out, but she doesn’t need it once she’s in a deep sleep. Small, quiet, even breaths through button nose and rosebud lips. I melt on the spot, just as I always do. Pre-baby me would have rolled her eyes. But I can’t help it; she turns me to mush. A memory surfaces now, of a less good time. Standing over her bassinet, sobbing, my hands over my ears. I swat it away and go downstairs.
The house feels ominously quiet. The sounds—the ticking of the living-room clock, the whip of a small breeze outside—are no different to any other night, but now it’s eerie. I’m still rattled, I think, about the supermarket. And I still can’t make sense of it. Did I move her and forget? Is all this getting to me so much it’s affecting my parenting? Or did someone else move her? Neither of these is a good answer. The living room is dark now, as dusk closes in, and shadows of swaying trees pattern the wall opposite the window. We never pull the blinds during summer, but tonight, I feel exposed. I get up to close the living-room one and switch on a lamp.Better. Marginally. Before unpausing whatever I wasn’t really watching on TV, I glance at the baby monitor one more time.
And my breath stops.
There’s someone in the bedroom. Visible on the screen. A shadowy figure in the grainy feed. There’s someone upstairs in our bedroom, standing over Bella’s crib.
34
Susan
Sunday
For a tiny fraction of a second, I freeze. Then I’m running—out of the living room and up the stairs. I don’t know what I’m going to do when I get there, only that I’d barrel through anyone to get her, to grab her out of her cot, to keep her safe. I barge into the bedroom, not stopping to turn on the light. It’s too dark to see him, to see anything, but it doesn’t matter, I just need to get to her. And then she’s in my arms and I’m running again, back out of the bedroom, down the stairs and out the front door. Only then, when I’m in the driveway, does it feel safe to stop. If he’s inside, we’re OK, the outside world has neighbors and streetlights and video doorbells. Out of breath, I lean against the garden wall, confused about what to do next. Someone is trying to hurt me, hurt Bella. Someone is in our house, and maybe the same person was in the supermarket today. My breath starts to slow. Nothing stirs inside the house. From behind me comes the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. Jon. And whatever else is going on, right now I’m just glad to see him.
Worry creases his brow when he gets out of the car and sees me standing there, Bella in my arms. In gulpy breaths, I explain, and now he’s pullingme into a hug, Bella sandwiched between us. A delay, he’s saying. Something about a delay. It takes me a moment to tune in.
“There’s a delay in the feed. You sawyourselfon the screen.”
