Chapter 1

 

Everything Has Been Perfectly Planned

​

He feels the difference when he changes his clothes: the sloughing off of what is tight and restrictive and dull, like a snake shedding its skin. His mask is peeling away, and the beauty and perfection that is the true him emerges. He throws his pants and shirt on the bed and peels off his socks. Before he puts on his jogging clothes, he takes a moment to admire himself in the full-length mirror: his muscular shoulders, his trim waist, his powerful legs. He curls his right arm towards his chest, flexes his muscles, and then repeats the motion with his left arm. He glances down. The energy is rising. He’s ready to go but determined to wait the next few hours because the anticipation is like a performance-enhancing drug to him. He leans toward the mirror to run his fingers through his thick hair, flick a spot of lint from his arched eyebrow, and bare his teeth to check for any leftover bits of dinner. He’s flawless. Magnificent. Extraordinary.

​

He runs his hand over a small scar on his left pectoral. He has convinced himself that the slight disfigurement adds to his appeal, dirtying him up a bit and making the women he beds feel better about their own imperfections. Although their blemishes are always so much more than his. It is unsettling that he strives hard for perfection but is forced to settle for the ordinary. He often wonders how common people survive in their mundane, humdrum lives, doing the same tiring, useless, boring things every day. If he hadn’t been born so special and unique, so much more than anyone else, he wouldn’t want to be alive.

​

In a world where everyone wears disguises, he has decided that tonight he will be the Jogger, a successful man who works long hours and has to fit in his exercise when he can. The Jogger often gets home late from his job, but he’s dedicated to physical fitness, which is evident from his superior physique. Darkness is no excuse to blow off exercise. That’s what the Jogger will tell anyone who asks why he’s running alone at night.

​

Sometimes, he rides a bicycle, a slight variation on the Jogger. The bike allows him to carry more of his tools if he needs to and gives him a way to escape anyone on foot. Other times, he’s a worker: a handyman doing a job, a meter reader for the utility company, or someone canvassing the neighborhood for a worthy cause. He has facades—he thinks of them as faces—for those alter egos, but tonight, where he is going, the suburb is crisscrossed with walking paths, and the Jogger is the perfect disguise. The town is seven square miles, but the trails total thirty miles, much of them through wooded spaces. In many places, the paths run behind houses and connect to other neighborhoods and main thoroughfares, crisscrossing the town like a network of paved arteries that carry the promise of outdoor happiness. Come jog here, ride your bike, walk your dog. Commune with the trees and nature. Find your purpose.

​

This is the fourth time in as many weeks that he’s become the Jogger, driven to the town, parked his car, and run the trails. He goes in daylight and nighttime, but he is a nocturnal predator; his eyes have become used to the dark. He carries a small tactical light, but it has a particular purpose, and the only other time he’ll use it is in an emergency.

​

Because the trails are not lighted and are rarely used at night, people don’t realize how much of their lives can be observed from the paths once the sun goes down. After the sky turns to dusk and people turn on their lights—effectively turning their windows into one-way mirrors—he likes to stop and peek in for a closer look. He can watch them, but all they can see when they look out is the flat black of a darkened, murky landscape. Sometimes, he likes to watch the little people-puppets working out their blasé dramas. They think they’re safe, but he’s in control. He can see them eating dinner, observe whether it’s their week to have the kids, and learn their routines. He knows when the women are going to be alone. He can step into their little lives at any time with his God-like prerogative and make chaos rain down.

​

Tonight, he’s going in. Tonight, he will unleash himself.

​

He pulls on his jogging pants; his tools tuck easily into his pockets. After he finishes dressing, he slips on his running shoes, pulls them tight, and ties them with double knots. The feel of the laces excites him because it’s his binding of choice. Strong but thin and light, easy to carry and easy to throw away if he has to jettison his tools unexpectedly. The knife tucks into a sheath that buckles around his ankle. He has a gun, but he won’t need it tonight. He knows what he’s doing. He’s already been in the house. He’s been watching her.

Everything has been perfectly planned.

…

 

The cat had gotten out again—darted out the door when Keiko Kimura carried in the groceries—and made her usual sprint for freedom down the asphalt path to the main walking trail. Keiko was not as spry at seventy-two as she used to be and took her time going into the kitchen to put down the bags and grab a flashlight from the drawer. She wasn’t worried. Muffin always went to the same place: down the trail until she found the patch of grass she loved, where the path turned toward Ocean View Road.

​

Stupid cat. Keiko often teased Muffin that it might be a good idea for her to see what it was like out in the big, evil world by herself, with nobody to serve her Fancy Feast. But Keiko's late husband Fumio had dearly loved the silly mop of fur, and so did she, even if she was unwilling to admit it most of the time. She thought of Muffin as one of the last little bits of Fumio she still had left.

She walked silently down the path, not calling out for Muffin because the cat had only ever responded to Fumio’s voice. When Keiko took the right turn onto the main trail, she saw a man in dark athletic clothes standing at the backyard fence of the young woman who lived at 1522. When the man saw Keiko, he waved. She smiled and gestured back. He kneeled to tie his shoelaces, then turned and jogged toward the Hillcrest path. She hadn’t recognized him, but her eyes were not what they used to be. It was dusk, and the man was wearing sunglasses. He was probably the career navy man who lived at the top of the circle. He was always out running, but usually in the mornings.

​

Keiko was bad with names. What was the name of the young woman in 1522?  She’d been at the neighborhood picnic last week and had walked Keiko home to help her carry things. Hailey? Something with an ‘e’ sound in it. She’d been very nice, new to the neighborhood, and what Fumio would have called a real looker. Maybe the man in the sunglasses thought so, too, and was hoping to have an excuse to talk to the pretty girl on his jog. Keiko had a feeling he’d be tough out of luck; she thought she remembered maybe-Hailey mentioning a man. A boyfriend or a husband who was out of town, unless that was just something she said to keep the neighborhood men from hitting on her at the picnic. Keiko wouldn’t blame her if that were the case, especially with what had been happening lately. Young women were being cautious.

​

Keiko reached the woods and switched on the flashlight. It gave her a weak circle of illumination that was just enough to keep her from tripping over her feet now that dusk was turning into night. Fifty feet down the path, she found Muffin sitting on her patch of grass and batting at fireflies. “Bad kitty, Muffin. Bad kitty.” She reached down with a grunt and scooped up the cat, who crawled up her chest and positioned herself, purring, over Keiko’s shoulder for the trip home.

​

Hours later, Keiko woke up on the couch. She’d fallen asleep after dinner, watching some detective show. All the carbs from the pizza had made her sleepy. She shouldn’t have eaten the whole thing, but who was she keeping her figure for at her age? Muffin was perched on Keiko’s hip, staring out the French doors onto the patio and growling low in her throat. Muffin had a habit of spotting neighborhood cats and rushing at the glass to howl at the invaders of her territory. “Stop it, Muffin.” Keiko brushed the cat onto the floor and sat up. She stretched her legs out and rotated her ankles. Waking tended to be a process at her age. She frowned, remembering it was Wednesday; she had to put out the garbage for pickup tomorrow.

​

While wheeling the bin down her driveway to the street, she thought she heard something. An animal keening or crying? She looked around. Was that what had spooked Muffin? She’d heard rumors of aggressive coyotes; hopefully, they weren’t interested in making a meal out of a stringy old lady. The sound was coming from down the street near the young woman’s house. She saw the woman’s door opening, and the keening got louder. The woman was coming out of the house, screaming. Screaming without words. She was wearing a short, lacy nightgown and turning in a circle as if she were lost. Her hands were bound behind her. Keiko saw that something was covering her eyes, and there were dark bruises around her throat. Then the woman screamed louder, and her words were clear: HELP, HELP, HELP.

​

Keiko saw the porch light switch on at her neighbor’s house, and she reached up to her chest and squeezed the button on the emergency alert necklace her son had bought for her after Fumio died, and she ran as fast as her seventy-two-year-old legs would carry her toward the young woman from down the street.

​

 

Chapter 2

 

Everyone Has Secrets

 

Mairead was holding a tray of cookies on her lap, and every time Mateo drove around a corner too fast, she had to play goalie to make sure none of the cookies escaped from under the plastic wrap that kept coming loose from the platter. Delia had told her she didn’t have to bring anything, but the coconut macaroons were a family tradition and Abby’s favorite.

​

“Can you slow down a little? I should have put the cookies in a sealed container, but I wanted them to look nice. Another fast turn, and they’ll end up on the floor.”

​

Traffic was backed up at the light ahead, and Mateo slowed down. “Sorry, Babe.” He smiled and reached over to try to snag a macaroon, but she blocked his hand.

​

“Hands off. They’re for the party.”

​

“Party, that’s a nice name for it. I usually think of these things at your sister’s house more as advertisements for conspicuous consumption.” The light was red, and he turned to her. “Just what a thirteen-year-old needs, more spoiled rich kid stuff rained down on her.”

​

“Be nice, Mateo. Thirteen is important. It’s kind of the coming-of-age birthday. Like a quinceanera, only a few years sooner. And Delia’s my sister. She and Abby and Aunt June are my only family. Not to mention Delia’s my employer—and she’s gotten me a lot of freelance work, too, so if you have to think of it as one of those work things that you have to go to for your spouse, like those awful Synchrodine weekends, then do that.” She gave him the glare he called her schoolmarm look. “Because a birthday party for our niece can’t be as bad as having your boss’ boss stare at my boobs for two days.”

​

“How many times are you going to use that against me? Can I help it if my wife has a great rack?” He reached out and gently ran his fingers down the side of her left breast. She stiffened and shifted closer to the car door. Would it ever feel right to be touched again? She was afraid that it never would.

​

Mateo hesitated and then used the opportunity to reach down and liberate a cookie from the tray.

​

“Ha!”

​

“Ha, on you.” She did her best to push away her thoughts and smiled at him. He was trying. “I made extra because I knew you’d do that. I just wanted to make you work for it.”

​

The light changed to green, and he made the left onto Lawyers Road. Both sides of the road were full of parked cars, where usually there were few. A hundred feet later, he turned and drove through an ornate brick entranceway. Ten or fifteen vehicles were parked along both sides of the driveway leading to Delia and Tyler’s Georgian brick mini-mansion.  Mateo pulled the SUV into an open spot. “It’s amazing how lucrative serial killer violence porn is these days.”

​

“Be nice, Mateo. I’m her writing assistant, so we’re profiting off ‘serial killer violence porn,’ too.”

“I keep telling you you’re too good for that stuff, Mairead. You should aim higher than doing research for ‘world famous, true crime author Delia McManus Quartermain.’ Dig into the freelance jobs full-time for a while and see what comes up.”

​

Mateo was her biggest advocate, even though things had been rough lately. She was enjoying the joking back and forth, even if it was at the expense of her sister and her family.

While she and Delia had always been close and fiercely protective of each other, when Tyler and Mateo were added to the equation, it always turned into a kind of us-versus-them mentality.  It was hard not to mock the ridiculousness of the lifestyle Delia and her husband lived, with Delia’s ten best-selling true crime books and Tyler’s career as the host of his own documentary crime show.

Mairead and Mateo got out of the car and walked toward the house. They could hear music and the sounds of the party coming from the backyard.

​

“I’m sure Indy would love to step into your research job while she’s finishing her Masters,” Mateo said. “Then she could foist her nanny-to-the-demon-seed duties onto someone else.”

“Oh, come on,” Mairead said, though she couldn’t help but smile. “Abby’s just going through a difficult age. All thirteen-year-olds are obnoxious.”

​

“Demon seed, I tell you. You said Delia never told anybody who Abby’s real father is. I’m just floating the possibility of who he might be.” They climbed the front steps to where dozens of Happy Birthday balloons were positioned on both sides of the entranceway. “Look at this stuff. You know what I got for my eighteenth birthday, which is the real coming-of-age birthday?”

​

“A hundred-dollar bill and a ride to the recruiting office. You’ve told me that story a hundred times.” She reached over and gave him a quick kiss. “And aren’t you lucky because the Navy made a man of you. Now be nice, and we’ll be out of here in a couple of hours.”

 

There were rented tables with bright umbrellas in the backyard, a bar in the corner of the patio, and a long, draped table for food. A biker-looking dude with a red bandana was manning a huge barbeque grill and smoker, and whatever he was cooking smelled terrific.

​

Mairead could hear voices coming from the second floor of the house. Three sets of French doors opened onto the second-floor veranda. The center doors to Delia’s office were wide open. Delia was fond of taking visitors up there to show off under the pretense of offering them one of her books. Framed newspaper and magazine articles lined the office walls, and there was a bookcase full of her books and awards she’d won. Mairead thought that if she were a famous writer, she’d probably want to show off, too. She wouldn’t, but she’d want to.

​

There must have been a hundred people in the backyard. Abby and an equally sullen group of eight or nine kids were scattered around the pool, sunning themselves and staring at their phones. They were at the age when it was cooler to pose in bathing suits and sunglasses than to splash around in a pool playing Marco Polo. Mairead waved at Abby, who gave her an anemic wave back.

Mairead’s Aunt June was sitting at one of the round tables on the lawn with Indy, the young woman who worked for Delia. June motioned Mairead and Mateo to join them.

​

As Mairead set down her tray of cookies, Mateo said, “I’ll get us a couple of drinks,” and headed for the bar.

​

Mairead kissed Aunt June on the cheek. June looked very willowy and regal in a red caftan and big silver earrings that almost matched her silvery bun. “Hi, guys,” Mairead said. “This is something, huh?”

​

“Yes, it certainly is,” said Aunt June. “Honestly, it’s a lovely party, but I must be old-fashioned because I was expecting a hot dog off the grill and a sheet cake from the supermarket.” She turned to Indy. “Did Delia and you plan all this? It’s amazing.”

​

"Delia did it all," Indy said. "I didn't have to do anything but keep Abby out of the way."

​

Gorgeously young and fresh-faced, Indigo—Indy to everyone—had dark skin, big brown eyes, and a striking mass of dark brown ringlets. She wore a colorful paisley hair band that matched her blue sundress, and her hair was twisted into a gravity-defying poof at the back of her head. She was finishing up her master’s degree in creative writing at George Washington University and worked for Delia as a sort of personal assistant, helping with Abby and keeping the household running smoothly. She’d come to the house in the morning, take Abby to school, go to her own classes, and return in time to pick up Abby, drive her to after-school stuff, and run errands. She was not, as Abby had told Mairead multiple times, Abby’s nanny.

​

Mateo walked up to the table. “Hey, ladies.” He put a glass of white wine down on the table for Mairead. “I ran into your sister at the bar, babe. She said she’s in the kitchen if you want to come and say hi.”

 

Delia was helping the catering staff empty tin foil pans of food into serving dishes. Mairead would have just put out the tinfoil, but Martha Stewart wouldn’t approve of food being served from disposable pans, so neither did Delia. Mairead sometimes wondered how the two of them could be so different. They resembled each other physically very much. Each had curly caramel-colored hair, hazel eyes, and big, toothy smiles. They were both medium height, but Delia’s hair was long, straightened, and dyed four different light-to-dark blond shades that were perfectly blended to look natural. Her figure was a rigorously maintained size eight, presently clothed in a colorful tunic, a pair of white ankle pants, and leather sandals. Probably Ralph Lauren, if Mairead knew her sister. Mairead’s hair was her natural toffee brown, cut into shaggy layers and bangs. She was wearing an embroidered peasant blouse she’d bought at an art festival, big copper earrings, and a pre-ripped pair of faded jeans in a double-digit size that she got on sale.

​

“Hey, Readie-rhymes-with-speedy.” Delia had been calling her that forever, longer than Mairead could remember. “Love the earrings. You look very earth-motherly.” She handed a pan to one of the catering staff and reached for a bottle of wine on the counter to fill her glass and top off Mairead’s.

​

“Quite a party you’ve got going here,” Mairead said. “You didn’t tell me you were planning such a big shindig.”

​

Delia drained her glass and refilled it. “I didn’t want you to give me the there-are-starving-children-in-Appalachia look. I can always read your mind through that look, and your mind is always saying, ‘I can’t believe you wasted money on this crap when there are so many worthy causes out there.’”

Mairead smiled. “I have never said anything like that to you, ever.”

​

“You’re thinking it. And so am I, sometimes. But Tyler loves this kind of stuff. He always says it’s good public relations to entertain people when you’re in Big Media.” She made air quotes with her fingers. “And that we have to be social and show our success.” She rolled her eyes. “But you know me, Readie, I’m just a spooky chic from Herndon who writes scary, real-life monster books. With my sister’s help,” she added. “But if we have to feed Tyler’s head to keep him happy, that’s okay. And by head, I mean ego. His big, fat, huge ego.” She laughed, and Mairead wondered if this was the first bottle of wine she’d opened today.

​

Tyler was a little ‘full of himself,’ as Aunt June was fond of saying. He and Delia met in San Diego when he was a semi-well-known reporter on a cable news channel. She’d interviewed him for a magazine article she was writing on the Mailman Killer cases. Tyler’s investigative reporting on the case had helped the police track down the perpetrator: the man dubbed the Mailman, James Henry Blankenship. Years later, Delia and Tyler ran into each other in New York. He was working for one of the big news networks and had just been offered a job as the host of his own news magazine, showcasing complex murder cases from across the country. After a whirlwind romance, he and Delia quickly got married, and he adopted Abby. He did a lot of traveling for the show, and their time apart seemed to suit them.

​

Delia always called Mairead a natural-born people-pleaser who could find the good in anyone. Mairead didn’t think that was true, but she liked Tyler. She’d grown used to his brand of handsome, self-centered shallowness camouflaged as charm. Mateo called Tyler ‘the face that stepped on a thousand little people.’ The two of them weren’t close.

​

“We all do stuff to keep our husbands happy,” Mairead said.

​

“Your husband’s a peach. A big, hunky, sexy Latino man who worships you.” She opened a bag of rolls and started piling them on a tray. “That man is the definition of tall, dark, and handsome. Plus, he’s smart. How’s everything going?”

​

“Okay.” Mairead hesitated. “He tries, but…you know… So, is Abby excited about her party?”

​

Delia let the change of subject pass without comment. “Oh my God, she’s been awful. Honestly, people who talk about the terrible twos have no idea how bad the terrible twelves are, although I guess it’s the terrible thirteens now.” She handed the last bowl to the caterer, grabbed the bottle of wine, and motioned Mairead into the dining room to sit down. “At first, I thought it was great when Abby got interested in the research Indy is doing for her thesis. It gave the two of them something to do together, it helped Indy, and Abbie stopped sitting around just staring at her phone all day. But I’m beginning to wonder. Abby spends a lot of time in her room reading those weird black magic books she gets from Indy, and now that their herb garden is springing up, I actually think she’s in there mixing up magic potions. Abby talked Indy into taking her to Great Falls Park to look for wild plants, and I thought I smelled something burning in her room a few days ago, but she wouldn’t let me in, and I was too tired to argue with her.” She reached for her wine glass. “We’re hoping it’s a phase.”

​

“I’m pretty sure Hoodoo is not black magic, from what Indy told me. Just African American folk magic mixed with some Native American herbalism and European immigrant folklore. Wise woman stuff, you know? I think it was a great idea to let them plant a garden. How’s Indy’s book coming along?”

​

“She finished her first draft.  It needs some work, but she’s talented. And she’s a young Black woman submitting a novel for her thesis that is set against, quote, the milieu of the Hoodoo root working culture of her enslaved ancestors, end quote.” Delia threw back the last of the wine in her glass and reached for the bottle. “Yeah, I know it’s not black magic, but it pisses off my daughter when I say that, so I do. Anyway, the agents in New York are going to eat up Indy’s book. I told her I’d send it to Meredith when it’s ready.”

​

Mairead felt a twinge of jealousy. “That’s great. I bet Indy is excited.”

​

“Yep, she’s the only happy face around here lately. Abby and Tyler have been sniping at each other constantly. They had a screaming fight yesterday because Tyler invited the couple next door and their daughter over for the party. The daughter goes to Wesleyan Hills Academy with Abby, but she’s in the geeky girl clique or something, and Abby’s group doesn’t like her. Abby was a screaming, nasty little terror about how having to entertain her would ruin her party. Tyler took her phone away to punish her, but I gave it back this morning to bribe her to be nice.”

​

“I’m sure it will work out.”

​

“Yeah, I’m counting the days. Only about two thousand more until we can send her off to college.” She stood up. “Let’s go check with the ridiculously expensive barbecue guy and see if we’re ready to feed the masses.”

 

Tyler was circulating around the party, laughing, backslapping the men, and charming the women. Mairead saw one fawning woman reach up to put her hand on his tanned, muscular arm and stare into his blue eyes while she giggled over something he said. He was handsome. Not rough-around-the-edges, rugged, good-looking like Mateo, but just-went-sailing preppy handsome.

​

Tyler grabbed a plate from the buffet and came to their table. After kissing Aunt June’s cheek, profusely complimenting her outfit, and doing a two-hand, grab-the-shoulder handshake combination with Mateo, he sat down next to Delia. “Good food, sunshine, top shelf booze, what more could we ask for?” He didn’t wait for anyone to respond. “Mateo, there’s a guy I should introduce you to later. His daughter is a friend of Abby’s. He owns a firm that does the same thing your company does. Analytics, right? Software stuff.”

​

“We do interactive data visualization software,” Mateo said. Mairead reached down and put her hand on Mateo’s leg. Tyler seemed ready to say something sure to rub Mateo the wrong way.

“You should talk to him. Maybe he’s got something available.” Tyler turned in his seat to wave to a tall man who tipped his drink toward him.

​

“I’m an alliance manager at Synchrodine, Ty. It’s a four-billion-dollar company. I don’t need a job, but thanks for asking.” Mateo picked up his beer and took a large swig.

​

“Maybe you’ll be looking in the future,” Tyler said. “It doesn’t hurt to widen your circle, Mateo. See what’s out there that might be a step up in status and more lucrative.”

​

Mateo got up from the table. “Anyone else need a drink? I’m going to the bar.” Since he’d just gone to the bar for drinks five minutes ago, everyone declined.

​

Tyler got up. “I’ll go with you, bro. I’m about ready for another gin & tonic. Did I tell you we’re replacing the Mercedes? I’m thinking about a Porsche SUV. I’ve got some brochures. Maybe you could help me decide between the Turbo or the GTS.”

​

Mateo turned around and threw Mairead a look. She was going to get an earful on the way home.

“Delia,” Aunt June said after they left. “Although we all love Tyler, and he has many good points, sometimes I think he talks like that to Mateo on purpose, just to see how much Mateo will put up with.”

​

“I think he just wants Mateo to like him and doesn’t know how to make that happen,” Delia replied. “He respects Mateo. All his time in the Navy, and going to college at the same time, and coming from—you know—an economically disadvantaged situation.”

​

What the hell was Delia talking about? Mateo’s family wasn’t poor. “That’s not true…” Mairead trailed off.  Delia wasn’t paying attention. She was watching Mateo and Tyler walk to the bar together.

​

“I was thinking the other day that everyone has secrets,” Delia said. “Did you ever wonder how well you know the people you love? I read an article that said that people tend to attribute positive or negative motives to a person based on their feelings toward that individual.” She stood up. “The caterer is waving at me. I have to go see what she wants.”

​

Delia sometimes had a weird demeanor about her, especially when she was in the weeds with one of her books. She called it ‘slipping into the dark,’ as in slipping into the dark minds of the criminals she wrote about. Into the dark, evil, twisted world they inhabited when they were committing the crimes that defined them. She was only a few months away from wrapping up the first draft of her latest book. Recently there had been renewed interest in the Mailman murders, and Delia had decided to revisit the case for a new book—a sequel to her first one. She’d told Mairead she thought it would be a breeze, but it was proving more difficult than she’d expected.

​

Mairead decided to change the subject before Delia came back to the table in her weird mood. “Indy, Delia says your book is going well.”

​

Indy’s bright smile lit up her face. “Yes, I hope to be done with it in the fall. I wish I could work on it full-time, but I have classes. Did you see the herb garden?” She gestured toward the side yard, where a raised garden bed was verdant and lush with plants. “My grandma would be proud. Look how tall the angelica is already. And the boneset. We even planted some John the Conqueror to grow up the wall next to Delia’s clematis.”

​

Mairead was asking Indy which plant was Angelica when she heard sobbing, and everyone at the table turned toward the sound. A man and a woman—the neighbors from next door whom Mairead had been introduced to in the buffet line—had their arms around a crying, chubby, red-headed girl standing between them. She was one of the kids who’d been sitting by the pool with Abby.  The cover-up the girl wore over her bathing suit was stained down the front, and as she walked by, Mairead detected the smell of vomit.

​

Tyler and Mateo came out of the house, Tyler smiling and playing the charming host, as the couple and their daughter crossed the patio to the door. Tyler’s smile faded. “Tom, Laura, is everything all right?”

​

“We’re going home. Your daughter gave Hannah something to drink that made her sick.”

“There must be a mistake; that can’t be right. Hannah, did you eat too much and get an upset stomach?”

​

The people at the bar and the tables near the house had picked up on the upset in Tom’s voice and were silently observing.

​

“She said Abby gave her a drink that would make a boy at school like her,” Tom said. “There was alcohol in it; I can smell it on her breath. Hannah’s too naive and trusting to be around…around someone like your daughter.” They turned and walked through the patio doors, and the sound of the girl crying disappeared into the house.

​

“Okay, everybody, just a case of kids being kids,” Tyler said. It was apparent he didn’t want to disrupt the party. “Anybody of legal age need a drink? The bar’s still open!” The sound of laughter seemed to be Tyler’s cue to carry on, and he went over to a table and sat down, clapping a big, burly man on his shoulder and asking if the man had eaten enough barbecued brisket.

​

Delia had already left to walk back to the pool, grab Abby by the arm, and walk her into the pool house. The other kids at the pool picked up their things and headed toward the main party. Indigo, citing her need to get back to her schoolwork, said goodbye and left right before Abby came stomping through the yard and into the house. A minute later, Mairead heard a door slam upstairs.

Aunt June was gathering up her purse and a foil packet of Mairead’s macaroons. “Well, I’m about ready to pack it up. I have an early walk with the neighborhood ladies tomorrow.”

​

After a quick wave to Delia, who was circulating among the parents, probably assuring them that liquor had not been served to their children, Mairead and Mateo followed June out of the party.

Mateo leaned over and whispered to Mairead, “Demon seed. I told you.”

 

Chapter 3

 

Something Dark

 

Mairead was having one of her restless nights, finally falling asleep at 1:00 after Mateo had been asleep for hours. She woke up in a cold sweat, breathing heavily as the anxiety washed over her. When she looked at her phone, she saw that she’d only been asleep for two hours. She slipped out of bed and went downstairs, took a Benadryl, and read on the sofa until she felt tired enough to go back to bed and get some sleep before Mateo’s alarm went off.

​

The dreams were always the same. Something dark and terrifying was after her. It was always lurking but unseen. She could sense that it was there; it was only a matter of time before it would find her. Something was coming to get her and do terrible things to her in the dark.

​

Mairead thought of her dreams as the anxiety monster under the bed. They’d had a truce for years, the monster and her. Lately, the peace seemed to have been broken. The monster had gotten a whiff of the stress she’d had recently and was using her weakened state as an opportunity to peek out from under the bed and snarl at her.

​

She finally got back to sleep at four-thirty. Delia woke her up in the morning with a text that said she wasn’t feeling well so Mairead could stay home.

​

Mateo left earlier than usual for work. Synchrodyne was making a big presentation to a client, and he told Mairead he wanted to run through everything one more time.

​

She spent the morning working on an article she’d been writing about a group of artists who had turned an old sawmill into an art camp for children. She’d started it before events had turned her life upside down but then put it aside when the only thing she did except for going to Delia’s was to lie in bed staring at the TV or sit on the couch staring at her phone while the TV droned in the background. It was a good story. The camp must be just about ready to gear up for the summer. She’d call the woman in charge of the group and see if she would be interested in being interviewed again.

 

Mairead was chopping peppers and onions when Mateo got home. She’d managed to get a nap in and decided to surprise him with his favorite dinner. Last week at the supermarket, she’d picked up a couple of bottles of the Tempranillo he liked, which would go perfectly with the jambalaya she was making. He came up behind her and put his arms around her. “Hmm. You smell good. What is it?”

​

“I think it’s Eau de Jalapeno. Or possibly ‘Shrimp Defrosting in the Sink perfume.”

​

“You’re making jambalaya.” He bent his head to nibble on her neck. “My favorite. Spicy, just like my wife.” He moved his hand lower, slipped it inside her jeans, and cupped her breast with the other.

She tensed up like a thread pulled tight, and Mateo let go of her. He walked to the refrigerator, got a beer, and sat at the table.

“Yep, jambalaya, just like you like it,” she said. “Did you want to brown the andouille and the chicken on the grill? That always makes it taste better. I got that wine you like. Maybe I could—”

“Mairead, I can’t deal with this anymore. It’s been six months. I don’t know what to do. You won’t talk about it; you don’t seem to want to deal with it at all.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” She picked up the knife and went back to dicing peppers. A few more minutes and they would just be a pile of pepper confetti that would cook into nothingness in the jambalaya.

​

“It isn’t doing you any good to bottle it up.” He took a long swig of beer. “Talk to Delia, at least. Or June. They say you won’t talk to them, either. I roll over in the middle of the night, and you aren’t in bed. I know you’re not sleeping well. Or we could find you a counselor. Maybe a doctor.”

“No. I don’t want counseling. I can handle it myself.”

​

“We haven’t had sex in six months, Mairead. Every time I touch you, you pull away from me. What am I supposed to do about that?”

​

He sounded angry, and she felt herself getting angry, too. She turned to face him, the knife still in her hand.  “I don’t know, Mateo. What did you want to do about that? Look someplace else? There must be someone down at Synchrodyne who could help you out. That cute blond, what’s her name? Jaime. She’s always staring at you like she’d love to help you solve your problems.”

​

“Christ, Mairead. This is bullshit.” He stood up and drained what was left of his beer.

​

“Maybe I should just take care of you even though I don’t want to? Why don’t you drop your pants right here, and I’ll go to town?” She advanced toward him, gesturing with her knife to emphasize her words. “C’mon, whip it out! Let’s make it all about you and your needs, okay?”

​

He picked up his keys from the counter. “You’ve lost your fucking mind, Mairead. I’m getting out of here until you get yourself under control.” He went out the door, slamming it behind him. She heard him start the car and peel out of the driveway.

​

She put down the knife and took a deep breath. What had just happened? She’d been making them a nice dinner, and everything had gone to total crap in two minutes. Why couldn’t she just get over what had happened and get on with her life? Mateo had been patient, even though he did tend to come off like a macho dickhead when he was upset. She’d made allowances for that when they were dating and newly married, writing it off to his traditional upbringing, but now everything he said set her off.

​

She opened a bottle of the Tempranillo and poured herself a glass. Another glass later, she decided she’d finish making dinner, make up with Mateo when he came home, and hope that the wine would loosen her up enough to seduce him and mask the indifference she felt about their sex life. She’d hardly be the first woman to fake it for the sake of marital harmony.

​

When he wasn’t home by 9:00 pm, she put the food away and went to bed. She must have fallen asleep reading because she could hear her cell phone ringing far away—as if it were at the bottom of a well—and she was waking up from one of the bad dreams. Dark shadows and the silhouette on the door, and the feeling that something terrible was about to happen unless she could somehow stop it. She shook off her dread and picked up her cell phone, expecting to see Mateo on caller ID. It was her sister.

​

“Hi, Delia.”

​

“Hey, Readie-rhymes-with-beady. You still awake, too?”

​

She got up and walked to her dresser. “No, I’m asleep. This is just an incredibly life-like voice mail messaging system.” She pushed aside the fancy underwear she never had a use for anymore and found the hidden pack of cigarettes and the lighter.

​

“Ha, ha, very funny.”

​

Mairead walked to the window, opened it, and lit a cigarette, enjoying the dizzying rush of nicotine to her brain. “Tyler back in New York tonight?”

​

“Yeah, thank God. I don’t know what’s going on with him unless he’s having a midlife crisis. Not to be gross, but the man is like a tomcat in heat lately. Wait, the males aren’t in heat. Oh, whatever. He’s been wearing me out.”

​

“Gee, I’m sorry,” Mairead said, deadpan. “You do sound worn out.”

​

“Ha. Sarcasm is the last defense of the truly witless, as Aunt June would say.”  There was a pause on the other end of the phone, and Mairead heard Delia blowing her nose. “It’s this cold or allergy thing. It’s knocking me flat. I’ve taken so much stuff that I can hardly keep track. I think I took the non-drowsy cold medicine by mistake tonight, so I got up to do some work. I found something that seems weird about the Mailman investigation, and today, I got a call from Detective Robinson.”

​

The resurgence of interest in the Mailman cases had been kicked off by a conspiracy theory on a true-crime website, hypothesizing that James Henry Blankenship, the Mailman Murderer, hadn’t been killed by the cops and was still alive. There’d been a series of rapes in Northern Virginia with the same M.O. as the Mailman cases, with the law enforcement consensus being that they were copycats of Blankenship’s crimes. Someone had dubbed the perpetrator the ‘The Postman,’ riffing off Blankenship’s Mailman moniker. The Internet loves conspiracy theories.

​

Blankenship was dead, which meant the Mailman was dead. Delia should know that better than anybody; she’d written a whole book about the case.

​

She seemed to be waiting for Mairead to chime in and ask questions, but Mairead wasn’t in the mood to talk shop at—she looked at the clock—11:45 at night. Where was Mateo?

​

“Where’s Mateo?” Delia asked. “Everything okay?”

​

“How did you know Mateo’s not here?”

​

“I can hear you smoking, nitwit. If he were there, you wouldn’t be smoking.”

​

“We had a fight. He took off. He’s probably staying at Sam’s. Or someplace else.”

​

“I’m sorry. What happened?”

​

“I was an asshole; then he was an asshole.  Or something like that. Then he left.”

“Well, he is a man. You can only expect so much.”

​

There was a pause, and Mairead took another long drag of her cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke out into the night sky.

​

“Readie, do you remember that thing I talked about on Saturday?”

​

“What? About what a chore it is having to satisfy Tyler’s big…ego?” Teasing Delia made her feel better.

​

“No, about how everyone has secrets and whether we really know the people we love. Remember?”

​

“I don’t have any secrets. I’m an open book. Except for sneaking a cigarette behind Mateo’s back occasionally.”

​

“But how well do you know him? I mean, really know him?”

​

“Well, you were at the wedding eighteen months ago, only four months after I met him. Because somehow, I thought instant marriage to a guy who already had his kid’s names picked out would be a good idea. So—”

​

“I mean, really know him. What would you do if you found out something…not good about him?”

Delia was slipping into the dark again, staying up late and writing about serial murderers while flying high on Nyquil.

​

“You mean if I learned he’s an asshole who takes off and doesn’t come home? I don’t think I would be surprised.” She carefully butted the cigarette out on the outside window ledge.

​

“No. Something dark. Really dark. Maybe dangerous.”

​

“You really need to stop saying really so much. You’re really psyching yourself out, Delia. I’m not in the mood for deep, dark existentialism. I’m going back to bed. So should you. We can talk about the darkness tomorrow.”

​

“Yeah, you’re right. I’m letting my imagination get away from me. Happens every time; you’d think I’d learn. Goodnight, Readie. Love you.”

​

“Me, too. I’ll see you tomorrow. Bright and early.”

​

After Mairead hung up, Mateo texted her that he’d had a few too many and would sleep at his friend Sam’s for the night. She didn’t text him back.