“Oh, wonderful. If you see Connie, tell her I didn’t leave. I’ll be back in a few... and oh, God, the wind took the paper plates right off the... Ugh. Good Lord! What next?” She holds her head in her hand a moment and then shakes it off. A warm breeze nudged one paper plate off a table and somehow it’s Hurricane Sandy about to destroy the party and then the whole town.
“We got it, Al. Don’t worry,” I say.
She nods with exasperation and rushes off to my car to go get her emergency ice. We watch her hold her skirt down so it doesn’t blow over her head as she makes her way down the grassy embankment to the lot.
“Do you think her and Connie are...”
“Are what?” Sasha asks.
“Like, you know?” Andi says.
“What?” I say.
“Doin’ it?”
I actually spit out my drink.
“Oh, like you don’t already think that!” Andi says.
“Well, you’re not supposed to say it out loud, for Christ’s sake. They’re gal pals.”
“Lady friends,” Sasha agrees and holds up her drink. We clink glasses, chuckling at this.
“And that’s okay,” I say.
“Good for them,” Andi adds.
And that’s when we hear it. A noise so loud it hardly seems real.
At first, I think it’s fireworks because I see sparks in my peripheral vision. Sometimes folks light a few fireworks at the Labor Day party, although it’s more likely for people to do sparklers on the beach. But this sound is not fireworks.
It’s an explosion.
I don’t clock that right away. I’m paralyzed with shock as everyone around me starts to scream. To run. A few people run toward the blast to help, and some hold others back from running toward the danger. It’s sudden chaos and screaming. I just stand, motionless.
“Oh, God!” I hear Andi say, and then after what seems like minutes but was probably only a few seconds, I move—I run, calling out for Hallie, and I hear Sasha and Andi crying, panicked, running for their kids, too, and everything blurs and moves in slow motion as I see Hallie, sobbing, running toward me with her arms outstretched and fear flashing in her eyes. I hold her in my arms and the terrified crowd moves around us, and people don’t know what to do with what they’re seeing—they can’t make sense of it.
At the stop sign at the end of the parking lot, a car has blown up. My car.My carhas exploded into the night air like a firework sending shrapnel and... flesh scattered across the pavement.
Within minutes, the area is swarming with police, paramedics and the fire department. Families and friends huddle in small groups, terrified but seeking answers—me, most of all. After some time, the fire is out and officers are surrounding the car, taking a closer look. Suddenly, several officers rush toward the crowd, shouting, “Clear the area! Clear the area!” They’ve found an explosive device on the car. This wasn’t an accident.
Ally Whitlock is dead. And it was meant to be me.
Chapter One
Andi
One month later
It’s funny how time makes us forget. Like a school shooting on the news—you’re shocked, outraged. How can this still be happening? But you’re also helpless, and letting yourself feel the horror of it for too long will start to change you and jab sharp fingers into your sense of safety. It will eat at your mental health and destroy any illusion of security you might have carved out in your small pocket of the world, and that’s why we forget. Or try to, at least. It’s only been a handful of weeks since the explosion, but we’re all moving on with our lives.
Except Regan. If I knew someone connected an explosive under my car, set to detonate within minutes of the car’s starting, I’d have trouble moving on, too. Surely it was meantfor someone else—that’s what everyone says anyway. Maybe some teenagers in science class were playing a joke. One of the police officers used an example of four high school kids who threw a jar of acid off a freeway overpass—it crashed through the windshield of an innocent woman just driving along on her way to a hair appointment, and there she was, over 80 percent of her body burned so severely that she was left disfigured even after seventy-four surgeries. They think it’s just some unhinged delinquents who don’t really understand the consequences of their actions. Because what other explanation would there be for targeting a widowed mom in an affluent lake community?
Everyone is on edge, even if they believe that explanation. Nobody talks about it much since Ally’s funeral, not out loud, not in public, but the wondering sits heavy on everyone’s chests and people exchange pensive looks of solidarity in the streets, speaking more quietly to one another than they used to—an us-against-them sentiment—even though we don’t know who “they” are.
“Just because I’m a newlywed doesn’t mean I want to have sex in the hot tub,” I say to Carson when I walk onto the back deck and see him jabbing at the buttons on the side of the Jacuzzi to heat it up.
“It’s unsanitary,” I add. He’s peering at the football game on the TV in the outdoor living room over my shoulder and only half paying attention. I see the gas fireplace is lit and a couple of wineglasses are resting on the coffee table.
