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Chapter One

Scarlett

PRESENT DAY

“ S carlett, honey. Should I wear the suede jacket or the cashmere cardigan?” My mother calls from the top of the ornate staircase overlooking our marble front entrance.

“Suede jacket,” I answer, not bothering to look up as I fix my hair in the mirror by the teak double doors, because I don’t think a guy who was raised by a serial killer and just got swung from three months in a psych ward is going to care if his new middle-aged neighbor shows up for dinner in a creme cashmere cardigan, a suede jacket, or a cheap terrycloth bathrobe. Not that my mother owns a cheap terrycloth bathrobe… but still.

“You didn’t even look at the pants I’m wearing,” she sighs. “This is important. It’s the first time the Brauns are having people over since they found Dylan.”

She means since Dylan got caught stealing over six-hundred dollars in cash and jewelry and then tried to pummel the cop who arrested him. Because let’s be clear here, Dylan Braun was not magically “found”. He stumbled into the cops’ laps by slipping up during a break-and-enter. Then a fingerprint check matched ones found on a couple of the infamous Maytag Killer’s earliest crime scenes: larger versions of the kid’s prints whose call for help all those years ago came in fifteen minutes too late. Prints belonging to the boy the press dubbed The Maytag Kid - the “Maytag” part, by the way, being a reference to the serial killer’s habit of stashing his victims’ bodies in their own washing machines.

Only now the Maytag Kid isn’t a kid anymore—he’s a full-blown teenager. A street rat and a thief. A thug who tried to fight off three cops. Who broke one of their wrists and put them out of commission for three weeks.

So, yeah, that’s how ten years and nine murders after the 911 call that started the whole thing off, they finally “found” the infamous Maytag Kid. And how DNA tests revealed he wasn’t in fact the killer’s real son. Because it turns out the psycho kept three-year-old Dylan as some sort of living trophy to commemorate his first kill, after he murdered the boy’s mother fourteen years ago. He even had the gall to raise Dylan as his own son after that.

And Dylan’s real father? He’s my neighbor, Philip Braun. My dad’s best friend. A super nice guy who went through hell and back when he was the main suspect for months in his wife and son’s disappearance all those years ago. And even when his name was finally cleared, he never really got to fully mourn their loss, since the investigation turned up nothing but dead-end leads. No bodies found. But nothing to indicate they were still alive, either. Mother and son had just disappeared without a trace.

Phil is remarried now, and he and Diane and their daughters have lived next door to us for as long as I can remember. So these joint family dinners aren’t a new thing. The stressing over what to wear beforehand totally is, though.

“Scarlett… Please pay attention.” My mother gives both options a sturdy shake to get my attention. “Which one?”

I look up this time and scrutinize the two tops, comparing them against the cinched khaki trousers and pale blouse she already has on. “Definitely the suede jacket.” It really is the better option. Not that I have much experience in the fashion dos and dont’s of awkward gatherings with close friends celebrating the return of the husband’s long-lost kidnap-victim-turned-petty-criminal son. But I get why mom is so keyed up tonight. She is desperate to do everything she can to make Phil’s father-and-son reunion nothing but smooth sailing; desperate for Dylan to like his new home, his new family, his new neighbors. For his transition from a world of bloodbath, nights spent on the streets, and months in a lockdown psych unit to one of private schools, family movie nights, and lavish backyard BBQs to be seamless and happy. Basically, my mother’s outfit choice is a metaphor.

“Guuuuys! Let’s goooo! ” my six-year-old sister, Sadie, calls from the long hallway leading from the kitchen to the front of the house. “I want to go meet Kenzie’s surprise brother!”

Kenzie is Phil and Diane’s youngest daughter. So, Dylan’s half-sister. Also, my little sister’s ride or die BFF. Sadie is at the Braun’s house almost every day. It’s practically her second home. She appears now in the front hall, a wild clash of pinks and purples against the cream marble foyer. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s gooo!”

Clearly, I’m the only one who isn’t all keyed up about tonight’s dinner. I definitely won’t be clamoring like my parents for Dylan’s approval. Mainly, because I don’t clamor for anyone’s approval. Especially a boy’s. Let’s just say I’m not exactly a fan of the male species. Particularly those who have a tragic backstory they can work to their advantage in their quest to deflect and manipulate. And Dylan Braun has a tragic backstory that’s as awful as they come.

And yes, I’m aware I sound callous. Possibly bitter. I am bitter. It’s my primary underlying emotion these days. The one that has fueled all others since the incident two years ago that I prefer not to think about, involving a stupid boy, his stupid friends, and my stupid gullibility scattered across an entire summer and the sandy dock of my lakeside cottage.

But what Dylan has lived through is far beyond anything I can wrap my brain around, so I’m obviously going to give him the benefit of the doubt—a stance which doesn’t come easily to me. And I’m determined to be more than just civil. I will be nice. Which, for me these days, is also a stretch. So the only thing I'm really eager for tonight, I guess, is to get this dinner over with.

Phil and Diane call out to us from the other end of the house when we ring their doorbell then let ourselves in—welcome greetings that are definitely a few notches more exuberant than usual.

“You’re here!” from Diane.

“Welcome! Welcome! Come on in, guys!” from Phil.

And then Kenz: “YAAAAAY! Sadie’s here!”

She appears two seconds later, skidding on sock-feet down the wide-planked mahogany hallway. She and Sadie clash into a gleeful hug, giggling and squealing the way they do most of the time they’re together, a mashup of glaring colors and ruffles. The two of them rush for the stairs, skidding past Diane and Phil, who are now making their way towards us. Not that my parents or I are watching them. Because, obviously, our eyes are trained just over their shoulders to the hallway beyond, hoping to catch our first glimpse of the infamous Maytag Kid.

But there’s no one trailing behind them. Unless you count their socially awkward Goldendoodle, Walter, who barrels past them and digs his fluffy snout straight into my father’s crotch with enough force to make him stumble back a couple of paces.

“Come on in and grab a drink,” Phil says, his gaze darting over his shoulder to the staircase at the end of the hall. “I’ll go get Dylan… let him know you’re here.”

As if his son is eagerly awaiting our arrival, as curious to meet his parent’s neighbors as they all are to meet him.

Phil heads for the stairs, so my parents and I follow Diane towards the seating area just off the kitchen.

“So, how’s it been going?” my mom asks in that same hushed voice everyone uses when they talk about Dylan Braun. Like they’re worried the shadows that follow him might smother them too if they speak about him too loudly.

“Good… Okay, I think,” Diane says. Then she sighs. “He’s been spending a lot of time up in his room, honestly. Unless we specifically ask him to come down and join us.” She heads to the butler pantry just beyond the kitchen and selects a bottle from the wine rack, then uncorks it, filling the four glasses already clustered on one end of the counter.

I grab a can of Diet Coke from the fridge, then follow the three of them to the sitting area, which is a cozy mix of creams and weathered wood, with a few understated throws draped across the backs of the couches. Everything about the house exudes calm and soft and casual class. All things I’m betting Dylan Braun is not.

“So…” Mom lowers herself onto one of the couches, glancing towards the hallway, then back at Diane. “What’s he like?”

Diane follows mom's gaze. “He really doesn’t say much.”

“So, he’s shy, then?”

“I wouldn’t say he’s shy. He’s just…” Diane swishes the wine around in her glass as she takes in a long breath, then slowly exhales, like she’s turning the answer over in her head. “He’s… quiet.”

I feel that twinge of guilt again for harboring so much skepticism towards Dylan. But only a twinge. And only for a moment. Because let’s not forget that the moment he finally did catch a break, the first thing he did was sign on for a high-profile modeling gig, exploiting his tragic past in order to cash in and make big bank with a trendy clothing company. Savvy? Maybe. But also, opportunistic. Likely self-absorbed. Combine those qualities with a past that strongly suggests a high inclination towards instability and violence, and my ambivalence towards Dylan Braun suddenly doesn’t feel all that unwarranted.

Mom sets down her glass, careful to center it on one of the “Lighthouses of New England” coasters scattered across the coffee table. “Has he—”

“Look who I found upstairs!” Phil interrupts, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

Mom and Diane swivel suddenly towards the hallway. Dad and I are already facing the entrance, so we’ve got the best seat in the house to witness the infamous Maytag Kid’s grand entrance. Only it’s less of a grand entrance and more of a subdued swagger. They appear through the wide archway, Dylan a few feet ahead of his father. And he’s… wow. Really hot .

Really… Really hot. Even more gorgeous in person than in those stupid, larger-than-life Volt billboard ads. And he was pretty jaw-dropping beautiful in those. Sage green eyes fanned by long lashes that are really too pretty to belong to a guy. Hair that I should totally hate, because it’s basically a hot mess: golden, shoulder-length waves tied haphazardly off his face in a bun with a ratty rolled up bandana, a few wayward strands falling to one side of his face. And lips so full that what should probably be a wicked scowl comes across as a sultry pout. Not unlike the expression he had in those ads, honestly. It’s only his perfectly defined superhero-square jaw that saves him from looking effeminate. That, and the distinctly male cut of his body.

He turns his eyes to me first, and they narrow slightly, but I don’t look away. I’m totally staring. We all are. There’s something about Dylan Braun that makes you want to stare. Also, ironically, something in his gaze that makes it obvious he doesn’t want to be stared at. Seems weird then, that he signed on for a nationwide shirtless ad campaign.

“Well, if it isn’t the man of the hour!” my father’s jovial voice interrupts our silent stare-down.

I finally look away, which is when I realize everyone else is now standing. I slowly get up and join the wide cluster they’ve formed around Philip and his long-lost son.

“Dylan.” Dad extends his hand. “It’s an absolute pleasure to meet you. I’m Craig, your dad’s best friend and general pain-in-the-ass neighbor.”

Dylan doesn’t return my father’s welcoming smile; just dips his chin barely enough to acknowledge his words, with no change at all in his impassive expression. His eyes skim dad’s extended hand. One second turns into two, which turns into three, which is apparently long enough to fill an entire room with awkwardness. Long enough that it looks as if he’s going to just leave my dad hanging. Also long enough for us to wonder if maybe the concept of a simple handshake is foreign to him. He was raised by a twisted psychopath, and while I’m no expert, I’m going to go ahead and assume that social etiquette isn’t exactly high on a serial killer’s list of ideal virtues.

But then Dylan does eventually take dad’s hand. Reluctantly. He still doesn’t say anything, though. Just tucks a soft strand of hair behind his ear then slips both hands in his pockets, like maybe that’ll keep the rest of us from submitting him to more handshakes.

It does. Diane lets him off the hook by issuing a sort of group introduction for the rest of us. “Dylan—this is Craig’s wife, Melanie. And their oldest daughter, Scarlett… and I’m assuming you already met Sadie upstairs a few minutes ago.” She places her hand lightly on his shoulder and we all pretend not to notice when he shifts away from her touch. We also pretend not to notice the look of embarrassment that flickers across Diane’s taut features when he does it.

There’s an uncomfortable silence, which is weird because I haven’t seen any of the people in this room in a social situation before that they didn’t totally own.

But after a beat, Dylan nods again. Barely. “Hey,” he mutters, revealing with just one word that he’s got the voice of a heart-throb—deep and slightly serrated, like he just woke up. Also totally cliché, given the pairing with those poster-boy good looks. To be fair, maybe he really did just wake up. Either way, the husky tone is a far cry from the panicked, high-pitched little boy’s voice from that haunting 911 call. My eyes dart instinctively to his neck, and sure enough, there’s a thin white scar. The one he presumably got from the cut he mentioned on that phone call. A physical stamp from the night when the world first became enraptured with the Maytag Kid. Back when he was just a nameless, faceless son of a killer.