THE KILLER
The pearls sit tight around my neck, a little too tight.
I adjust them and my fingers don’t tremble, not anymore, and watch as the garden fills with women who have no idea what’s coming. They flutter across the lawn like pastel butterflies, nothing but poodle skirts and pin curls and contrived smiles. Playing pretend. Pretending they’reperfect.
As if any of us are perfect.
The punch bowl gleams in the afternoon sun, and someone has arranged petit fours on a three-tiered stand like we’re civilized people at a civilized gathering. Like we haven’t all been sharpening our claws behind closed doors for decades.
I take a sip of lemonade that’s far too sweet and watch assheholds court near the rosebushes.
There she is. Our glorious leader. Smiling that smile, the one that saysI own youwithout uttering a word. She’s been aiming it in my direction for months now, watching me squirm, savoring my fear like dessert.
She thinks she’s untouchable. She thinks her name and her money and her ridiculous peacocks make her invincible.
She’s wrong.
Through the French doors, the vintage kitchen display catches my eye. Cast-iron cookware from 1952. It’s heavy, solid, and most certainly commemorative.
It’s fitting, really.
She glances my way and her smile sharpens, just enough for me to see the blade beneath her veneer. She knows I’m afraid.
But push someone far enough, take away everything, and fear transforms into something else entirely.
Something patient. Something that smiles back.
I smooth my poodle skirt and wait.
In a few short hours, she’ll give her speech and think she’s won.
She hasn’t.
They say the fifties were a simpler time. I suppose they’re right.
Back then, women knew how to smile, keep secrets, and bury the bodies where no one would think to look.
She’s been hunting me for months.
And I bet it’s never occurred to her that she wasn’t the predator in this story.
LOTTIE
My name is Lottie Lemon, and I see dead people. Okay, so rarely do I see dead people. Mostly, I see furry creatures of the dearly departed variety who have come back from the other side to warn me of their previous owner’s impending doom. But right now, the only thing I see is the Pemberton-Clarke estate rising before me like a glossy magazine spread that came to life and decided to strangle me with a girdle.
Which is fitting, because the Daughters of Honey Hollow are currently pretending it’s the 1950s for an entire week, and nothing about the 1950s looked remotely comfortable.
This is day one of the Daughters’ 1950s Reenactment Extravaganza—seven full days of poodle skirts, pin curls, and absolutely no acknowledgment that cell phones exist while attending official events.
Seven days of retro perfection.
Seven days of forced nostalgia.
Seven days that, if Honey Hollow’s track record holds, will probably end with someone dead.
The whole spectacle ends with a Mother’s Day brunch at mymother’s bed and breakfast, where the founding members will be honored in a tribute ceremony Mom has described as a tribute ceremony for the ages.
My mother is way too into this for it to be healthy. The woman has spreadsheets.Color-codedspreadsheets. I’m genuinely terrified.
