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PERLA

I kissed Grant once. I know that you didn’t ask that, but I have been thinking about it ever since it all happened. I don’t think Perla ever found out. It was at the annual Christmas party at the club. I’d had too much to drink. Jeez, everyone had. Perla was running the toy-donation desk, and I had stepped out to make a call, and he was there, and I slipped on the icy walk and he was helping me up and we just had a moment, you know. Like, just this stupid moment that happened before you know it. But I never dated him or anything. I swear. So if you’re looking for, like, a secret mistress—that isn’t me, but you should really look at the nanny.

—Marci Vennigan, salon owner

In Grant’s office, there was a locked file drawer in the far end of his massive credenza. We had never discussed it, but I’d found it when I was snooping through his office. I made the discovery on the day we left for Spain and had to suffer through eight days of vineyards and wine tastings before we finally returned home and I could hunt down the key and unlock it.

The key hadn’t been hard to find—a small gold digit on his car-key chain—which cemented my belief that the lock on the cabinet was for Sophie’s benefit, not mine.

That day I waited until he left for work and Sophie was at school, then went upstairs and opened the drawer. Inside was a thick stack of neatly labeled folders. I sat on the Persian rug in his office and spread the contents out before me.

Now, with Paige and Sophie at the mall and Grant at the office, I did the same.

The folders were a gold mine of Folcrum data, and I once again wondered how my husband had gotten copies of the original case files. Everything was here, in black-and-white printouts. The crime scene. Lists of evidence. Leewood’s fingerprint records. Interview transcripts. Photos of the victims. I stared for a long time at the photo of Jenny Folcrum on a medical stretcher, surrounded by a team of emergency professionals, her neck a bloody, gaping hole. Kitty Green’s photos were there, along with Lucy’s, and I tapped the photo that showed the jagged S cut into her stomach, in homage to the Murder Unplugged access it had provided me.

Grant’s obsession with the murders wasn’t normal or healthy, but then again, neither was mine. I ran my hand reverently over the mug shot photo of Leewood, his handsome face scowling into the camera.

Just one hour away. The familiar surge of fear and desire swelled inside me. As always, I pushed it back down and dropped the photo to the side.

I needed to focus on the crime scene photos, so I studied each one, ignoring the bloody bodies and homing in on the backgrounds, looking for small details I could claim and reuse.

The streamers around the room.

The mini cupcakes with sprinkles, the cheap package open, half of them gone.

The two-liter of off-brand soda.

The white comforter spread on the carpet, acting as a picnic blanket.

There was a lot there that I could use, and the good news was that even the minor things would stand out because they wouldn’t fit in our house.

Yes. I inhaled deeply. This could— would —work.

I returned my attention to the photos and switched my focus to the bloody carnage, taking mental notes of the stab wounds and body positions.

Could I do it? Would my relationship with Sophie cause any hesitation or issue?

I closed my eyes and thought about my child. Tried to find, in the hollow cavities of my heart, some trepidation or agony around the idea of losing her.

Nothing. It was strange how sensitive I was to triggers like jealousy, betrayal, and competition but so completely void in other areas.

Strange but appreciated. I liked the blank slate that was my heart. I liked everything about myself. This event, it would upgrade my life. Drop some of the bad, bring in some good.

Truth be told, I was excited for it.