Meredith Lane clutches the bronze knob on her front door as a third, tentative knock lands on the other side. Her mouth pushes into a polished smile, an expression she has been practicing in mirrors ever since their arrival in Lake Blair, before unlatching the dead bolt. The performance is necessary. She needs to sell this fictional happiness, normalcy, to the golden-haired woman who had insisted on welcoming her into the community.
The move from Portland wasn’t difficult in miles—barely three hours north into the wet, cloistered Washington woodlands. But in spirit, it had been grueling. Everything they owned fit neatly into a single moving truck, the weight of their lives condensed to boxes. They wouldn’t have made it here at all if Parker’s father hadn’t left them an impressive sum after his sudden passing, with the cravingfor a fresh start. The insurance money alone gave Meredith enough to disappear forever.
People whispered that leaving town so soon after her husband’s “tragic” death was suspicious. Meredith didn’t care. That man’s daily legacy had been bruises and contempt, his voice a fist, his presence a prison. He used his body like a machine against her. Physical, emotional, sexual. No torment was off-limits. If anyone wondered whether his death was accidental, as she claimed, well, they were welcome to wonder. They’d never find anything. What mattered most to Meredith, anyway, was Parker. She wanted this place to save him. To make him better. Blair, this tight-knit, insular place, might just do the trick. It has to. If she can wedge them into the right social circles, show the town’s perfect housewives that Parker is ordinary, maybe they can finally outrun the old life. Outrun what he had done. Even if she knows, deep down, that isn’t possible. Because Parker isn’t ordinary.
The door swings open on its slick hinges, and there stands Alice Bly, sunlight incarnate. Her hair gleams like ripe wheat, her smile dazzling and unforced, a bottle of chilled Pinot Gris clasped in her manicured fingers. She must be in her early thirties, Meredith guesses. Must be nearly a decade younger. Yet somehow she has managed two daughters, single motherhood, and a rise to community prominence.
An envious tickle creeps up Meredith’s throat at the sight of her.
Peeking shyly from behind Alice’s legs is her butter-yellow-haired daughter, Imogen, clutching a pie dish swaddled in plastic wrap.
“Hi!” Alice chirps. Looking down with a grin, she adds, “What do you say, baby girl?”
“Welcome to Blair,” Imogen says softly, her small voice shining like the sun. She showcases the pie, sticking it out for Meredith to take.
“Well, thank you, Imogen,” she replies, grabbing the dish.
She hopes she has the child’s name right. They have only met a couple times: at the hectic end-of-summer boat party, and at the community center, when she and Alice took her and Parker on a tour.
“We had an apple-picking day in the yard and used the Galas to make a crisp for you and Parker,” Alice explains, waving the wine. “And this is for us.”
Of course she picked the fucking apples herself,Meredith seethes.
“How thoughtful,” she says instead. Her silver watch reads 4:00. “Just in time for a drink.”
Though, these days, it’s never too early for Meredith to imbibe.
“Come on in, girls,” she adds.
She ushers them inside her modest living room, which smells faintly of a new lavender candle. She only finished arranging the room yesterday—fretting over every frame on the wall, every crease in the throw blanket—anxious to present a version of their lives worth envying. She’s riddled with nerves at the thought of it looking unstylish.
“Where’s little Amelia?” she asks.
“Well, if you’d believe it, she already caught a cold during her first week of second grade.” Alice huffs a laugh. “I have a friend over at the house watching her.”
“Oh, I feel terrible,” Meredith admits, plopping into one of her beige armchairs. “We could have rescheduled.”
“She’s in good hands,” Alice assures her, sitting on the sofa next to Imogen. “It’s only a short drive across the neighborhood anyway if she needs me. Plus, I’m the one who feels terrible. I barely got a chance to speak to you at the boat party.” She looks at her daughter. “But you introduced Parker to all your friends, right, sweetie?”
Imogen nods shyly, hands cupped in her lap.
“Speaking of,” Meredith says, springing up, “let me go see where he’s gotten to.”
She sweeps down the hallway, her heels clacking on newly lacquered floorboards, and returns moments later with her son, both hands on his shoulders. Parker’s dark hair falls like a curtain over his eyes, and he offers what some might generously call a smile when his gaze meets Imogen’s.
“Hi, Imogen,” he murmurs.
“Hi, Parker. Want to go play?”
Without another word, the two children slip away together, their footfalls vanishing down the hall.
“He’s… having a hard time adjusting,” Meredith says when she and Alice are alone. She sits carefully, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her pants. “Ever since his dad passed, he’s quieter. More withdrawn.”
This, Meredith knows, is only part of the truth. Parker has been quiet and withdrawn since the day he was born. He didn’t even cry when he exited her birth canal.
“Can I ask what happened to him?” Alice gently ventures. “Your husband.”
Meredith releases a sheepish chuckle. “I think we’ll need some wine for that story.”
