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The thing is, I’d just listened to that podcast—the one on the Folcrum Party. And I told Todd—that’s my husband. I told him that was the great thing about living in a place like this, that nothing like that will ever happen here. And he said I was going to jinx us. And look, well, maybe I did.

—Kelly Schwartz, Brighton Estates homeowner

In our protected bubble of the world, I was a cookie-cutter version of the other wives. It was a classification I both embraced and detested.

You could recognize us by our cars—Range Rovers were preferred, but any luxury SUV or six-figure sedan was accepted. Our husbands worked long hours; our kids attended the same elite schools; and if the wife worked, it was in a job like mine, something flexible enough to allow for long lunches at the club, afternoons at the spa, and vacations in Italy or Paris.

The outliers in the neighborhood—the female execs, the single moms, the internet models ... they never made it into the inner circle, and it was important to me, from the beginning, to have a place there. Not just a place—a throne. I didn’t come to play unless I could win, and I’d won inside these gates a long time ago.

Which mattered because these women would be vital in confirming my character and situation. In the aftermath of the party, they’d be questioned by the police about our family. When that day arrived, they needed to give the right answers about Grant, and about me.

While I was still figuring out those answers, I had no doubt they would deliver on whatever I needed from them. Everyone would. I’d spent years building my reputation, and it was impenetrable in its perfection. Still, a qualified expert would be nice. Someone trustworthy, who could speak to the media and be sworn in on the stand. Someone the jury and public would trust in and believe.

I needed a manipulatable pawn, preferably one with a lot of initials after their name.

I had a need, so I found a solution.

Dr. Leslie Maddox.

After pulling into the Stony Brook Medical Center, I parked in front of a small bungalow with window boxes full of hot-pink roses. I checked my phone. Twenty minutes early. Not wanting to look too eager, I waited in the vehicle’s cool interior, listening to one of Grant’s playlists as I watched the building’s front door. I flipped past a Gin Blossoms song and started “Glycerine” by Bush. My husband had a nostalgic love of nineties alternative rock.

Dr. Leslie Maddox had been recommended by Laura, who had used her for marriage counseling, and Tracy, who had raved about her willingness to prescribe Ambien. I’d asked enough questions to arouse their interest, written down the woman’s name and number in front of them, and then abruptly changed the subject.

Breadcrumbs. Lay enough of them down on the ground, and even the stupidest of animals will find their way. I needed a trail of breadcrumbs that would create doubt and suspicion around my husband, for the women in my neighborhood to gobble up like Vicodin.

We’d see how easily Dr. Maddox took the bait. I almost hoped she was savvy. It’d be nice to have some sort of a challenge in this game.

When the clock on the dash ticked to five minutes prior to my appointment, I turned off the engine and opened the heavy vehicle door.

“So ...” Dr. Maddox tucked one blue-bottomed ballet flat under her thigh. “You’re married, right? You said you were married?”

“Yes.” I tried not to bite out the word.

“Oh, that’s right, I wrote it here. ‘Married to Grant.’ Oh whillikers, married thirteen years.” There was a twang of Midwest in her voice, and that, paired with the mousy-brown curls that reached her shoulders, the tiny gold hoop earrings in her ears, and the floral Apple watchband that bisected her chubby wrist, completed the caricature.

No one had mentioned she was a hick, and while I liked the low-hanging fruit, I wasn’t sure how much confidence she’d invoke on the stand.

“I do marriage counseling also, just in case you ever have need of that.”

“Yes, I saw that on your website. Your expertise is one of the reasons I picked you.” That, and her immediate availability. Her calendar had more spots than a teenage boy’s face, and I had been able to book a session for the following day.

“No pressure, of course—and that’s not why you’re here, right?” She didn’t wait for me to respond. “Now, let’s talk about you .” She adjusted her red plastic eyeglasses with one hand and beamed at me. “What is there to know about Perla Wultz?”

“Well, I work from home, managing our family’s apartment complexes. I have a daughter, Sophie.” I delivered that idiotic smile parents revert to when they speak of their children. “She’s, um—well, she’s the light of my life. I’m sure every parent says that.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised.” She had her pen out, writing in a yellow spiral-bound notebook. I looked past her to her bookshelf, where there was a long line of these notebooks, organized by color, and wondered what yellow meant.

“What kind of a girl is Sophie? How old?”

“She’s eleven. Very smart. She should be, especially with Grant as a parent. Creative. Funny.”

“Do you consider Grant to be smarter than you?” She tilted her head and blinked at me in an uncanny impression of an owl.

I weighed the possible answers, taking my time and knowing that the longer I stalled, the more unsure and insecure I would seem. Good. I needed those pieces of the picture to compete with the arrogance I knew could potentially seep out.

That would be my downfall, if any. My cockiness. Of course, I was already ahead of that train. My confidence in my ability to handle that risk ... the irony wasn’t lost on me, and I stifled a smirk at the thought. Smirks didn’t belong here. No smirks, no eye rolls. I needed to be a concerned mother and wife, just waiting for this professional to unlock “all” my secrets.

It was laughable, the idea that Dr. Maddox would scrape anything out of me. For her efforts, I had manufactured two juicy tidbits, ones I would place close to the surface and release easily once prodded.

The first would be that my husband had a growing obsession with the Folcrum Party murders.

The second would be that he was displaying increasingly odd and erratic behavior.

Both had little to no potential blowback for me, but would serve well in complicating the investigation into Sophie’s birthday-party events. And that’s really all I needed. To keep the cops juggling enough balls that they wouldn’t have the time—or desire—to look for another one. I would go unnoticed as a potential suspect while reaping all the rewards of a grieving mother.

Out of all the roles I had ever played, it would be the most important, and I had no doubt of my ability to perform it.

“Perla?” Dr. Maddox prodded.

“Is Grant smarter than me?” I straightened in my seat. “Well, in some areas.” I let my voice warm with pride. “Grant is a genius when it comes to math and computers. Sophie certainly got his aptitude for learning.”

“In your intake application, you said that your husband was one of the things you wanted to talk about.” She hooked her pen through the notepad’s circular spine and lifted her chin, meeting my eyes. She did have pretty eyes. Bright green—like Kitty, God rest her soul. “What’s going on there?”

“What’s going on?” I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and realized we might reach the finish line of this to-do item quicker than I had anticipated. Talk about a sledgehammer versus a surgical knife. “That’s a deep well to drop down. I just ... I have some concerns. Probably silly stuff, really. I guess it finally feels like the right time to talk to someone and see if I’m crazy.”

“Why are you worried about him?” The pen was staying in place and I had her full attention, which was good. She didn’t realize it now, but I was going to make her famous. She’d end up writing a book about Grant and me, once I gave her permission to share the story. It would become a New York Times bestseller, with copies in every bookstore window.

“Well, I’m not even sure I should say.” I looked helplessly toward her door, then at the clock on the wall beside us. Not even fifteen minutes into the half-hour session. “I mean, it’s probably just me being paranoid.”

“Well now, sometimes being paranoid is a good thing. It causes us to keep our eyes open. To see more.” She smiled encouragingly. “So go on. That’s why you’re here, right? To see if your concerns have validation?”

Like leading a lamb to the slaughter.

I cleared my throat and knotted my hands in my lap, my mind flip-flopping over how far to push the envelope in this initial session. “There’s a side of my husband,” I said carefully, “that scares me.”