Finn shrugs and looks across the parking lot at the thick stand of trees that separates the lot from the local middle school. From far away he can hear the shouts of kids playing, the occasional whistle. The familiar sounds of weekend soccer matches. The message from the universe is loud and clear. Everyone is living their lives, moving forward. He’s stuck, unable to get past Autumn’s death. And the answer is a resounding no, she would not want this for him.
“Let’s say you’re right,” Aziz says, “just for shits and giggles, that it is one of the neighbors. Why do you want to live with these people? You’re young. You have your whole life ahead ofyou. Move on, Finn.” Aziz stands up and shoves his hand deep into his pocket, and in doing so, reveals his holstered gun. Finn stares at the gun, which reminds him that Aziz is the detective, not him. He has the badge, the gun, the temperament, and the training.
It’s just so hard to let go.
“Take it easy, Finn.” Aziz nods at him before getting into the unmarked sedan parked in front of the bench. “I’ll be in touch if anything else develops. But think about what I said. Think about leaving this neighborhood.”
Finn scrunches his face up as if he is already deep in thought. As if he will take this under serious consideration. But the detective’s news about the DNA has the opposite effect on him. He’s already brainstorming ways he can use this new knowledge to help catch Autumn’s killer. The detective may be a pro, but Finn has something going for him that Aziz doesn’t.
He’s an insider here. Just another unassuming Eastbrook neighbor.
ELEVEN
On the way back from Yumi’s, I start to feel lightheaded. As a pulsing sensation squeezes my temples, I stop at the corner and lean against a wooden fence post, trying to steady myself while Kugel buries his nose in a patch of liriope.
Maybe I did too much, walking all the way to Yumi’s. It didn’t seem like an exertion, but there’s no getting around it: I am wiped out and a headache is coming on.
The post I am leaning on is part of a white picket fence, and even in my dizzy state I can’t help but note the irony. Since we moved into this picture-perfect neighborhood close to twenty years ago, I’ve learned the hard way that money cannot solve all the problems life throws at you. These perfect houses behind picket fences often hide ugly realties. Chronic illness, infidelity, substance abuse. I thought I had seen it all in my two decades living in Eastbrook. Now I can add my own strange experience.
“Caren, you okay?” I look up to see Shawn walking toward me. I’ve known Shawn for years, had dinner with him andKenya dozens of times, attended the same neighborhood parties, but we’ve never really connected past a surface-level friendship. He’s smooth and fluid, both in his professional life as a successful architect and in the neighborhood, where he’s seemingly everywhere—at pickup basketball games, fixing up the pool on handyman day, running the grill at the Labor Day cookout. He’s smart and witty, but he suffers from a common DC syndrome—his intense eyes perpetually scan the room for someone more interesting than me to talk to.
“Do you need some water?” he asks, homing in on me with an intensity that makes me uneasy.
“I’m okay.” I straighten up. “Just felt dizzy there for a moment.”
“That can happen after a concussion.”
I blink. “How did you know about the concussion?”
“Oh, I saw Miguel this morning on his way to work. He told me you fell and hit your head after the party Saturday night.”
I nod, taking this in. Normally the close-knit atmosphere is one of my favorite things about this neighborhood, but this makes me feel strangely suffocated. Although Eastbrook is right outside the nation’s capital, it often feels like a small English village where everyone is connected in some way and news travels fast. Washington is a transient city, but many people move into Eastbrook and stay. If someone is diagnosed with cancer, it is only a matter of hours until a meal train is established. But this feels different, like my story is being rushed to press without all the facts.
“I’d better get home.” I tug at Kugel’s leash, suddenly so exhausted I feel I might have to lie down right here in the liriope.
“Did Kenya call you?” Shawn asks, ignoring all my cues that I want to get going. “She wants to make sure you know she’s here and that you don’t let the whole yard sale thing get in the way of your recovery.”
I bet she does, I think. It’s an ungenerous thought, but I know that Kenya’s probably worried my health issues will throw our timeline off track. Kenya’s not the type to let a little concussion get in the way of the Eastbrook Annual Summer Yard Sale. “Not yet. But I’m sure we’ll talk later today.”
“We can’t drink like we used to, am I right?” He smiles, his deep dimple appearing in his cheek.
“I’m not sure what you mean.” But I do know what he means. The same thing the police officer meant. I feel powerless to stop this narrative from spinning around. “Is that what people are saying?”
“It’s cool, Caren. We’ve all been there.” His response contains a multitude of meanings. The casual, intimate tone hints that we are close enough to be honest. The word choice tells me he thinks I drank too much and can’t face that.
I bristle. “I wasn’t drunk.”
“All right, calm down. Don’t shoot the messenger.” He holds up his hands, his tone teasing and light.
“I am calm,” I say, but I am seething. We say our goodbyes and part, heading in different directions.
Back at the house, I feel like it’s all I can do to get to the sofa and lie down. I’m not normally a napper, but I fall into a deep sleep. It’s almost two hours later when I am dragged out of sleep by the buzzing of my phone. I roll over, ignoring it, but a moment later it rings again. I see it is Miguel calling and answer. If I don’t, he might get worried.
“Hey,” I say, my voice groggy with sleep.
“What are you doing?” he asks. “Are you okay? You didn’t answer your phone.”
“I was napping.”
