Date: 2025-11-25 00:00:00+00:00
Publisher: One More Page Press

A Different Type Of Poison

Liz Alterman

Published by Liz Alterman
www.lizalterman.com

Copyright © 2025 by Liz Alterman

Liz Alterman has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work.

ISBN (eBook): 979-8-9999247-0-4

ISBN (Paperback): 979-8-9999247-1-1

ISBN (Hardback): 979-8-9999247-2-8

A DIFFERENT TYPE OF POISON is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Contents

Prologue

1. Molly

2. Anna

3. Molly

4. Anna

5. Molly

6. Anna

7. Molly

8. Anna

9. Molly

10. Molly

11. Anna

12. Molly

13. Anna

14. Anna

15. Molly

16. Molly

17. Anna

18. Molly

19. Anna

20. Molly

21. Anna

22. Molly

23. Molly

24. Anna

25. Molly

26. Molly

27. Anna

28. Molly

29. Anna

30. Molly

31. Anna

32. Molly

33. Anna

34. Molly

35. Anna

36. Molly

37. Anna

38. Molly

39. Anna

40. Molly

41. Molly

42. Anna

43. Molly

44. Anna

45. Molly

46. Anna

47. Molly

48. Anna

49. Molly

50. Anna

51. Molly

52. Anna

53. Molly

54. Anna

55. Molly

56. Molly

57. Evelyn

58. Molly

Acknowledgments

Discussion Questions

About the Author

Also by Liz Alterman

To Sam, for the title,

Ben, for the ideas,

Charlie, for the smiles,

& Rich, for the rest.

“If a story is in you, it has to come out.”

— William Faulkner

Prologue

Istep onto the wide front porch. Its worn wood planks creak beneath me. The welcome mat lies crooked, its cheerful cherries faded. Flowers, browned and hunchbacked, wither inside the planters that flank the double doors. Petunias? Begonias? They were probably lovely. When they were alive.

It’s dusk. A full moon rises behind me. No light inside. Still, it’s bright enough that when I press my face to the glass I can see an entry table, mail stacked, shoes jumbled in a pile, a couch and a pair of armchairs to the left.

Once I had the address, I scanned the old listing photos. I wanted to get the lay of the land, a feel for the house, its exits. That’s the right thing, the smart thing, to do.

It looked nicer online. Doesn’t everything?

My right hand hovers above the doorbell. In my left is a bouquet of lilies. Peonies felt too on the nose. The book is tucked beneath my arm. Its weight steadies me. That’s all I need, really, but, of course, I brought other things too.

It’s time.

I take a deep breath, let the clean country air fill my lungs. Nearby, someone has cut the grass. My nose twitches at the sweetness of it.

I press the bell, its chime dulled, muted, either by the window panes or the ringing in my ears as I wait, wondering how this will go, what will happen from here.

Shadows shift behind the glass, movement. A figure comes toward me.

When I see her face, I nearly step back. She’s aged quite a bit, like someone who’s been through it. Haven’t we all, each in our own way?

Still, it’s been a particularly rough time for her.

It’s about to get a lot worse.

Chapter 1

Molly

Enjoy the moment, I remind myself and smile at the audience. My audience. I took half a Xanax before I left the house. It’s starting to work its magic, the butterflies in my stomach slowly settling.

My other novels never drew a crowd like this. Of course, they were “quiet fiction” as Denise, my former agent, loved to call them. Tales of dysfunctional families in sleepy towns leading small, sad lives. Nothing like my latest, a thriller, that has rocketed to the top of bestseller lists and remained there for weeks.

I’m seated, legs crossed beneath a flowy floral dress that cost more than my monthly car payment. Perched atop a navy velvet chair to my left is the reigning queen of suspense, Selena Sandborn. It’s a pinch-me moment. I can’t believe she’s here—this brilliant author with the cascading silver hair and shock of red lipstick. As a teen, I read her twisty epics—filled with strong-willed, wily women—by flashlight beneath a fraying quilt so my mother wouldn’t catch me wide awake well past my bedtime. Now her novels line my office shelves.

Selena lobs softball questions my way, yet it’s obvious she’s read my words and that alone is as unexpected and magical as a lottery win. She lives a few towns away and has a new book out in September so this event benefits her too. Still, she’s here to interview me. Me.

What a change from the days when I’d lug a box of my books to a signing because Bonnie, the local bookshop owner, was reluctant to stock more than a half-dozen for fear she’d have to return them.

Inside the corner of that musty store, I sat surrounded by classics and bestselling debuts, trying not to sulk, pen in hand, writing nothing more than grocery and to-do lists.

I’d end up dragging home all but one copy, a sales associate making the lone pity purchase with a smile, a shrug, and the kindly, “If it hadn’t rained, I’m sure you’d have had a great turnout!”

Tonight, I didn’t have to bring so much as a water bottle. Everything has been handled for me. It’s a ticketed event. Sold out for weeks, Georgia, my new agent, reminded me this afternoon in her “enjoy the moment” email. Bonnie had to move the reading from the bookstore to this theater nestled among the rolling hills of a small Hudson Valley college. Of course, most people are probably here for Selena, but Georgia had the grace not to mention that.

Pink peonies, soft as cotton candy, bloom in a pale green vase set on the low table between Selena and me. It’s a nice touch as this particular flower plays a role in my novel.

Book covers larger than movie posters stand on easels flanking us. Against a ruby and gold backdrop, blackbirds hover above the silhouettes of two young women, their hair blown wild in the implied breeze. Tree branches, bare and menacing, arch and twist to create the title: Birds at Night.

Seeing my name, M.J. Archer—even though it’s just my initials followed by my ex-husband’s surname—makes my breath catch every time.

It doesn’t seem real. But it is, and I need to focus because Bonnie is striding purposefully through the aisle, saying, “Next question! Yes, you with the ponytail.”

As a young woman stands, a hush falls over the room, the only sound the soft rustling as the microphone changes hands.

I brace myself. This is the scariest part. The not knowing. The seconds when I wait, wondering: What will this person ask?

Over the past few months, I’ve fielded dozens of questions about my writing process. My answer never changes.

“With two young children, I always keep a notebook in my bag so I’m able to write wherever and whenever I have an idea,” I say. “Sometimes it’s not even writing. I’ve been known to leave myself a voice memo—or, in the old days—a message on my answering machine.”

The implication: I’ve been at this for ages! garners a few chuckles. People swoon at an overnight success story but who do they really love? An underdog. They want to hear about the struggle, the muddy boot prints on your once-pure and hope-filled heart. They want to know how you found the strength to rise when the world tried to hold you down.

“What made you shift away from literary fiction?” is another popular question. It feels like an insult but whatever. Each time, I fight the urge to say, “Money. Duh.”

That’s not entirely true. This project has been a demon inside me, clawing and screaming its way to the surface for years, but rather than get into that, I opt for a simpler response. “I tend to pursue the project I’m most passionate about at that point in time. If you’re going to spend years writing, revising, and rereading, you need to love your story, whichever genre it may be.”

This is typically met with affirming nods all around, the audience transformed into a sea of bobbleheads. It’s the truth yet it feels like I’m lying. This novel didn’t take years. It flew out of me, as dark and fierce as one of the blackbirds on its eye-catching cover.

There’s only one question I refuse to answer directly.

I draw a deep breath as the woman begins. “Um, hi.” Her voice wavers. “These characters feel so real to me. Did you base them on people you know?”

There it is. I’ve rehearsed my answer at home in the bathroom mirror. I like to think I’ve mastered this response but my nerves betray me. Heat spreads across my chest and rushes up my neck to my face. Beside the vase of peonies sit two glasses beaded with condensation. I reach for mine, wishing it were filled with wine instead of water.

I take a small sip and pause for effect, remembering a line from the novel: When in doubt, answer a question with a question.

“Oh goodness, I think we all know people like these characters, don’t we?” With a throaty laugh and a head toss, I lean into the witty artist persona I’m attempting to cultivate on this tour. Selena joins in and soon hoots and howls ripple through the theater, bouncing back to me, a gift from the generous acoustics.

I could say more but I don’t. There’s power in silence. The levity subsides, shifting to a lull that gives way to another swell of applause. When it does, I smile. This time genuinely. I’ve been promoting this book for six weeks and it never gets old, this feeling of adoration, of people cheering just for me. It’s foreign and fantastic. Heady. A drug without side effects.

Still, pain stretches from my left eye to my hairline, signaling the start of a migraine. Storm clouds loomed on the drive here, flashes of lightning electrifying the late spring sky. Now raindrops patter against the roof, puddling and pooling on the skylights. My mind shifts to Ingrid’s tears. I picture my daughter sobbing an hour earlier while I raced from room to room trying to locate a missing earring.

“What is it now, love?” My voice was strained, my patience waning as I dumped makeup bags and rooted through the hamper.

I’d returned from my three-city tour nearly a week ago but hadn’t fully unpacked.

“I can’t find my raspberry tights,” Ingrid whimpered. Her “r”s came out more like “w”s.

“Shoot!” I muttered. Once again, I’d forgotten to respond to emails from the speech therapist Ingrid’s kindergarten teacher recommended.

“I need them for tomorrow,” my daughter whined, “for the concert.”

The concert. When was it? 10 a.m.? I had a radio interview scheduled. What time was that? Ten-thirty? No. Eleven. My chest tightened.

“Help me look!” Ingrid begged.

“I can’t right now, pumpkin. I’m already late.” I didn’t need to see my five-year-old’s face to know it was crumpling. “Did you leave the tights at your dad’s?”

Dan and I separated two years ago yet somehow our daughter still hasn’t grasped that her belongings, like her holidays, her home, and her heart, will be forever divided—something always missing, invariably left behind. Because of us, she’s become tortoise-like, carrying what she needs, what makes her feel safe, on her back in an endless shuttling.

“Isaac,” I handed my phone to my son, who, at eight, is already as tech savvy as any personal assistant I could’ve hired. “Text your father, please. Ask if he’s seen your sister’s raspberry tights.”

“My lucky tights!” Ingrid corrected.

“One sec.” Isaac’s brown eyes remained fixed on my iPad where he played yet another game of Subway Surfers. When his avatar failed to land on the next train, he swapped devices, sent the text, then toggled between apps.

“Hey!” He smiled, revealing the tooth he’d lost at lunch. “You got invited to something!”

“To what?” I moaned, envisioning an end-of-the-school-year Mothers’ Tea or an “invitation” to co-chair next year’s Field Day committee.

“A book club,” Isaac said. “It’s from someone named Anna Fox. She says she’s obsessed with Birds at Night and wants to know if you can come to her book club.”

A giddy rush surged through me, that same welcome dizziness I felt when I stood after finishing a martini.

When my last two books came out, a few kind-hearted local friends—mostly moms from Isaac’s school and Ingrid’s daycare—invited me to their book clubs, especially once word of my divorce started to spread.

“We want to support you!” these women said, rubbing my arms as if I’d received a devastating diagnosis. In their eyes, I imagined, a failed marriage and the pursuit of a career as a novelist were as dire as any illness.

I appreciated their thoughtfulness but it hit differently when strangers reached out. Their interest seemed pure and, therefore, more valuable.

At the bottom of my author website I’d written a few lines: I love to meet readers virtually or in-person. I promise not to drink all your chardonnay!

I hadn’t gotten many inquiries in the past, perhaps a handful of requests from librarians for virtual visits. But now with buzz building around Birds at Night, I needed to delete that paragraph or I’d never have time to finish the sequel.

“Did Anna Fox say where she lives?” I finger-combed the back of my hair as I waited for Isaac to blurt “Alaska!” or some far-flung place nowhere near our home in New York.

“Milltown, Ohio,” my son said. “That’s where Nana lives, right?”

“It is.” I abandoned my earring search, settled on silver hoops, and reached for the phone.

I skimmed the message. Anna Fox? Did we go to high school together? Anna Fox?

Ingrid’s chaotic ransacking of the house made it impossible to focus so I tossed the phone in my purse, grabbed an umbrella, and hurried out the door as soon as Heather, my tenant-slash-babysitter, arrived to stay with the children.

On the drive to the theater, I assured myself that once I had a few quiet moments to think, Anna’s face, and whatever connection we shared, would swim back to me.

Anna Fox. The name floats through my mind now as I sit on the stage shifting in my chair. Her words “It would be wild to see you again!” imply that we know one another. I should remember her, it suggests. Why don’t I?

“We have time for one last question!” Bonnie, the bookstore owner, chirps, hurrying toward the front row.

A young woman stands and grabs the mic with the swagger of a standup comic. Is she smirking or is that a trick of the lights, which seem to burn brighter, turning up the dial on my headache?

“When’s the sequel coming out?” she asks.

My first instinct is to flinch. It’s an innocent question, but because I’m woefully behind she might as well have hurled a grenade on stage.

Months ago this show of interest would’ve filled me with joy. People care! They want more! Now my stomach churns as numbers cycle through my mind—12,891: my current word count, 67,109: words left to write, 8.29.25: the date the finished draft is due.

I blink, determined to banish these digits. The tour has devoured days of my life and consumed crucial headspace, but it’s selling books so new events continue to flood my calendar.

“Don’t freak out, Molly. This is what we want. It’s good news.” Georgia repeats each time I protest that I have no time to actually write. “You’ll get it done,” she promises—spoken like someone under thirty who has boundless energy and no children.

I’ve already gotten one deadline extension. I doubt I could stall Georgia or my editor again.

As the woman in the audience awaits my response, the sour taste of self-doubt coats my tongue. I swallow it and smile.

“Aw, thank you so much for asking that!” I press my palms together. “The sequel is in progress. And on that note, I should probably head home to work on it!” I wink, attempting to stop the pulse twitching behind my left eye, and pantomime typing. I hope it comes off as quirky or endearing and not completely unhinged, which is how I feel when I think about the mess that is my manuscript.

It’s after 10 p.m. The drive along country roads stretches, dark and winding. Every mailbox looks like a deer. I pump the brakes, elbows and knees weak and wobbly in anticipation of an animal springing into my path.

I’d hoped to be in bed by now but clearing the signing line took forever—not that I don’t appreciate people waiting to meet me. Still, my legs and feet ache from wearing heels and the effort of popping up to pose with fans for selfies. Someone switched off the theater’s air-conditioning early. Rivers of sweat trickled down my sides; my once flowy, dry-clean-only dress is now plastered to my skin. I don’t need a mirror to know my face is shiny as a red apple, hair frizzy from the humidity. If anyone tags me on social media, I’ll like their pics without so much as glancing at myself.

By the time I roll down my long driveway and step out of the car, I feel as if I’ve run a marathon. Before I turn the key in the lock, Heather opens the front door.

“Hey, Molly!” She smiles and waves me in as if it’s her home and I’m a surprise guest. She holds an almost-empty wine glass, a good one from the set Dan and I registered for months before our wedding. Dan insisted we divide them when we split. Now we each have four. Had. I’ve already broken two.

“How’d it go?” Heather asks.

“Good, thanks,” I whisper, dropping my purse and keys on the entryway table. “Great, actually. Really nice crowd. How’d it go here?”

“Pretty well.” She nods, then winces. “Except …”

“What?’ I groan, hopping from foot to foot to pull off my heels.

“Dan called and Ingrid told him you were at another signing.” She presses her lips in a thin line.

Heather has overheard Dan complaining that I leave the kids too frequently. He dropped them off one Sunday afternoon as I was on my way to give a lecture on creating complex characters for a local writers’ collective.

“Nice, Mol, you haven’t seen them in forty-eight hours and there you go, running out the door, dumping them with a stranger.” He’d given Heather a quick up-and-down before she whisked Isaac and Ingrid into the kitchen for a snack.

Dan’s not really angry about who’s minding our children; he’s furious that my book is a success. That I’m a success. He’s probably sitting across town in his charmless beige condo on his old iPhone 8 firing off another nasty email—or maybe it’s already waiting in my inbox.

“No worries.” I tell Heather, not wanting to burden her with my family drama. “I’ll handle Dan.”

As I move toward the kitchen, now happily barefoot, my stomach growls. I’m usually too nervous to eat before events. Would Heather think I’m feral if I ravage the leftover chicken fingers waiting on the stovetop? They’re shrunken and cold. I pitch them in the trash and go straight for the merlot. It might make my headache worse yet I can’t resist. The bottle Heather opened is expensive, worthy of a fancy glass but I can't be bothered so I pour a few inches into a coffee mug and take a sip. The wine slides down my throat, warm and smooth as liquified velvet.

“How’d it go otherwise?” I venture, not sure I really want to know.

“Okay but Dan said he doesn’t have Ingrid’s tights." She hides her grimace behind the balloon goblet. “And he can’t make the concert tomorrow.” The wine has left a berry stain on her full bottom lip, which she rolls downward in an exaggerated pout. “He’s got a meeting.”

Relief and guilt swirl inside me. I’m thrilled he won’t be there even as I know Ingrid will be devastated not to see her dad.

“She was pretty inconsolable but then Isaac showed her a video of a kitten drinking from a baby bottle and she settled down.”

“Good, good.” I nod and finish my wine in a single swallow.

For the millionth time, I worry that Isaac is growing up faster than he should, the divorce forcing him to morph into Ingrid’s third parent—the one who’s most constant in her life thanks to all that back-and-forth between homes.

“Dan sounded pretty upset to miss it.” Heather sweeps her thick, honey-colored hair to one side and twists a lock between her fingers. She studies it, no doubt checking for non-existent split ends. “I think he feels bad.”

“Don’t let him fool you!” I laugh. “He might be out of practice but he’s still a fairly decent actor.”

She releases her hair and arches an eyebrow.

The wine on an empty stomach is loosening the knot at the base of my neck. I refill my mug and slide the bottle into the recycling bin. “Have I never told you how we met?”

She shakes her head, green eyes widening.

“I wrote a one-act play for this tiny festival. Dan was starring in a different one. He caught my eye at a dress rehearsal. After the final performance, we were outside at the cast party sharing a cigarette—God, I miss smoking,” I interrupt myself, “and making fun of the prop mistress. He kissed me as it started to rain, and the rest, as they say, is history.” I nearly smile at the memory.

“That’s really …” I know what she’s thinking … a sweet story if only it had a different ending.

“So you stuck with writing but he stopped acting? Or does he still do it?” She rests her elbows on the kitchen island, propping her chin in her hands.

I take a long, slow drink, wondering why I started this conversation and how I’ll end it. She seems interested in learning more about this side of my ex. I’d rather nip that in the bud. “He stopped.” I set down my mug, brush crumbs from the counter into my hand, and flick them toward the trash. “Dan folds when things get tough. He lacks fire, grit.”

“Oof, and you’ve got tons of that, right?” Heather chirps. “I mean, you wouldn’t be a bestselling author if you were some slacker.” She inches closer across the island. “What’s it like to support yourself with your art? Did you always want to be a writer?”

I’m flattered by her interest but I’ve already answered enough questions for one day and I don’t enjoy talking about my past. I’d much rather focus on the future.

When I don’t respond right away, Heather stands and waves her hands. “Sorry, sorry. It’s late. You’re probably exhausted. I should go.”

She places her glass beside the sink. The kids’ plastic cereal bowls and dinner dishes wait there surrounded by a cluster of water bottles and half-drunk cups of coffee. A wave of tiredness sweeps through me. I’ll never catch up.

“Shoot!” I knock my forehead with the heel of my hand. “I meant to swing by the ATM and completely spaced out. Can I Venmo you?”

“Stop! Do you know how many people would kill to hang out and drink wine with M.J. Archer?” Heather protests with a laugh. She moves toward the side door, then halts. “I made these really cool plates this afternoon. They’ll be ready next week. They’d look amazing in here.” She makes a sweeping gesture that knocks a magnet off the fridge. She doesn’t pick it up.

Heather is twenty-seven and a potter by trade—possibly a less realistic ambition than trying to write for a living. She's placed pieces at the more eclectic boutiques in town and does fairly well at the annual county arts and crafts festival. Her parents cover her rent. I googled their Upper East Side address. They live in an elegant pre-war building. I took a virtual tour of an apartment for sale two floors below theirs. Of course, I want to support Heather—artist to artist—but I know she’ll be fine.

“How many should I bring you?” She turns the side door’s squeaky knob and looks over her shoulder, nailing me with her gaze. “Four? Eight?”

I don’t need or want any, but I’d like her to head back to the carriage house I wish I could afford to keep as my writing studio. Someday, I tell myself. When the sequel becomes my second bestseller.

“I’ll take four.” I force yet another grin, keenly aware that my night out just cost a lot more than I intended.

I check the locks, switch off the lights, and drag myself upstairs. The event went well. They all have so far but still, the talking, the smiling, the being “on” drains me.

Outside Isaac’s door, I stop. Shoot! The tooth fairy! I tiptoe down the steps and fish out a five from my wallet, return to his room, place it under his pillow, and kiss his forehead.

Across the hall, I straighten Ingrid’s quilt. Something lands at my feet. In the glow of her dragonfly night light, I recognize the little ball as her bunched-up raspberry tights. I breathe a sigh of relief that we won’t have to resume the search for them at 7 a.m.

In the bathroom, I study my face as I brush my teeth. Lines, thin and long as spiders’ legs, form on my forehead and fan out beside my eyes. I turned thirty-nine in March. Maybe it’s time I tried Botox. Georgia was stunned when I confessed I’d never given it a go. Too scared of needles.

“What about lash extensions?” she cooed on our last video chat. “Oooh and have you thought about spray tanning? You’ll be inside a lot this summer typing away but you still want that healthy glow, right?”

When I didn’t answer, she backpedaled. “You look amazing, Mol, don’t get me wrong. All I’m saying is consider gifting yourself with a refresh. You’re a star now. You deserve it.”

I’m not an idiot. More attractive people have an advantage in nearly every aspect of life. Publishing is no different—just another popularity contest.

As exciting as the past months have been, they’ve taken a toll. I sleep less now than when Isaac and Ingrid were newborns. The feeling that there’s always more to do—words to write, social media posts to create, emails to respond to—weighs on me, heavy, constant. And, of course, the children should come before all of that.

I bow my head to spit. Silver strands poke through my dark roots. I’ll make some appointments tomorrow.

I slip out of my dress and hang it on the back of the door. From the top of the hamper, I grab an old concert tee, tug it on, and head down the hall, careful to avoid the creakiest floorboards.

My unmade bed never looked so inviting. I slide between the cool sheets and try to savor the stillness but even after the wine and Xanax, I’m wired.

Plucking my phone from the nightstand charger, I start scrolling. Dozens of notifications await. I swipe through photos from tonight, liking them and copy-pasting Thank you for coming! over and over.

I shouldn’t, but before I can stop myself, I open a review site to check Birds at Night's rating. It’s slipped from 4.2 to 4.1. It’s ridiculous that dropping a tenth of a point makes my stomach lurch and yet, it does. I scroll and find a new one-star review. Reading these is like pressing on a bruise. Why can’t I stop? I expect the usual: Such a slow burn! or I guessed every twist! This is worse: M.J. is clearly a disturbed individual. I’d have given this negative stars if I could, left by reviewer NAD123. I click the profile. This is their only review. No other ratings. It’s dumb but it always makes me feel better if a nasty reviewer's rating average is low. Like, if they hate everything, that says more about them. This lone review feels personal.

I close the tab. While I’m thinking about people who can’t stand me, I check my email, anticipating one of Dan’s rants. The most recent message is from Georgia. Just the sight of my agent’s name gives my heart an anxious little zap … until I read the subject: You killed it tonight, gurrrrl.

She must’ve checked social media or watched online. Bonnie said the bookstore’s new intern planned to livestream it.

My pulse slows. I’ll open her message in the morning in case it’s not all friendly congratulations. There’s likely to be a Ready to share more pages? Send soon, please, which would keep me up all night and kick my writing paralysis into overdrive.

Skimming the rest of my inbox, I see the name Anna Fox.

Anna Fox?

I open her message. Her profile picture is a white rabbit. Hardly helpful. I read her email again. It’s kind, complimentary. She used my name—Dear Molly—rather than M.J. the pseudonym I chose for this book. Birds at Night is such a departure from my other novels, I wanted a bit of distance from them. Plus, initials always seem interesting, mysterious.

I skim.

You lightened your hair. It works for you!

I’m in Milltown!

It would be wild to see you again!

One thing’s clear, Anna adores exclamation points. Georgia would die. I smirk, recalling how she scrubbed eighty-seven instances of the punctuation mark from my manuscript before it went on submission.

I slide my index finger along the dimly lit screen, gaze drifting lower.

XOX Anna Fox

Anna Fox. I use my married name now, kept it after the divorce. Mason, my maiden name, is too “mid-alphabet,” Georgia insisted. Maybe Fox is Anna’s married name?

If we go to Ohio, the kids and I could visit my mom, kill two birds and all that. But, Milltown… Ick.

“If I had weeks to live, I’d spend them in Milltown because it would feel like years,” Gavin, one of my closest high school friends, loved to joke. That was before he moved back there to help his dad after his mom passed.

Dull as the town is, I’ll accept Anna’s invitation. I know it makes me seem desperate, but my first instinct is to say “yes” to everything. Because my other novels flatlined, I refuse to let Birds at Night's momentum falter. Plus, her interest is almost enough to block out that one-star review.

I’ll set up a few other appearances while I’m in the area. A signing at the local bookstore. A talk at the library. A reading at the cute coffee shop that hosts open mic nights. Newspaper and online coverage for all of it. In the morning, after coffee, I’ll think of other opportunities.

I roll onto my back and start my reply.

It will be great to see Gavin, to spend time with Mom—and Anna, too, I suppose, even if at this moment I have no memory of her.

Chapter 2

Anna

She’s coming! Molly’s coming!

The heat from the phone turns my palm clammy. I switch hands, wiping the slick sweat on my sheets. For the past thirty minutes I’ve been reading what I wrote and what she sent back. Again. And then again.

It took her less than six hours to respond! And she was at her event for at least two of those. I watched the livestream on YouTube. The crowd loved her but it wasn’t her best reading. She seemed distracted. Was she thinking about me? My invitation? I marked my message “read receipt” so I’d know when she opened it. 5:49 p.m. Her reply came through just before midnight.

To wake up and see that she’d written back, well, that was like Christmas morning.

Other emails followed hers. I can redeem reward points for a free side of guacamole. My eye doctor is hosting a pre-summer sale on sunglasses. The sandals I ordered that look like the ones Molly wore to her Brooklyn event arrive tomorrow.

I delete them all so her message stays at the top of my inbox.

I’m obsessed with Birds at Night, I told her. I wrote that it was epic; that her characters felt incredibly real to me, that the setting—that college campus way up in the mountains—was so atmospheric, it was like I’d been transported there.

Too much?

“Most people are hungry for praise,” Mama used to say, “feed them. When they’re full, they’ll do whatever you want.” She was right. It worked. Molly Mason—excuse me, M.J. Archer—is coming to Milltown.

I read her reply one more time though I’ve got it memorized.

Aw! Thank you so much, Anna! Great to hear from you! Throw out some dates—maybe around July 4th? I’m sure we can make something work. Looking forward to it!

The exclamation points—does she mean them? Is she really looking forward to this as much as I am or is she copying me?

I laugh, a deep belly Pillsbury Doughboy giggle, at the thought of her imitating me. An author should have a great imagination. Of course there are some who prefer to pull from their real lives rather than make up a story. Where does Molly fall on that scale of fact versus fiction? I plan to ask when I see her.

It’s not even 8 a.m. Too soon to reply? I’m still in bed. I need to get up. Get to work. July’s more than a month away and this place is a rental so there's only so much I can do to prepare. Still, I want everything in order before she arrives.

When she gets here, sees my face, will she remember me? Or will it take her a minute? It’s been a long time. I’ve changed. Molly hasn’t.

I recognized her right away in her photo on the book jacket. It's what I read between the covers that shocked me. Her other novels were fine, but this one blew me away.

Every few pages, I turned back to stare at that photo. In her ruffly cream blouse and slim dark jeans, she’s thin, petite. She’s lightened her hair a bit but her deep brown eyes still have that same spark, like she’s got a secret she’s not gonna share. I’d forgotten the slight cleft in her chin. I remember Mama used to say, “Dimple in the chin means the devil lurks within.”

Not a day passes that I don’t miss Mama.

Nope, Molly hasn’t changed much, but will she look that good in person? The years have been kind to her or maybe she’s had work done. More likely someone airbrushed the hell out of that author photo.

Back in February, the library hosted a workshop on DIY headshots. No one’s came out like hers.

But then Molly isn’t like everyone else. Never was.

I always hoped I’d get the chance to see her again. Will she feel the same way?

Chapter 3

Molly

Seated on the hard metal folding chair in the third row, I wave to moms I know from pick-up and drop-off.

Large fans at the front of the gym recycle warm air and the sticky sweet scent of apple juice and donut holes waiting on back tables for the post-concert celebration.

Sweat beads above my top lip and a sick feeling swims through my stomach. I drank half my coffee this morning before I realized the milk I added had gone sour.

Across the aisle I catch a glimpse of Jason Reddy, the single dad who asked me out shortly after my divorce was final.

We’d met at back-to-school night, exchanged an eye roll when the kindergarten teacher cooed, “Don’t worry, there'll be plenty of opportunities for each of you to volunteer in the classroom this year!”

I kept bumping into him. First at the farmers market, then at a Halloween parade. He looked me up in the parent directory. I was flattered. After a few flirty texts, we agreed to meet for drinks at a tavern in the next town, away from “our neighbors’ prying eyes” he wrote, adding a winking emoji. A little cringey but he knew to put the apostrophe after the s in neighbors so I agreed.

I hadn’t dated since Dan and I separated. Writing Birds at Night consumed every child-free moment. Jason, with his slick black hair and intentional stubble, seemed like the dating equivalent of training wheels—an easy starting point. There was little chance of falling for him. Still, I was optimistic. I was starting over. I’d been working hard for so long, didn’t I deserve a bit of fun?

We sat at a high-top table near the bar. Cabernet for me, a Belgian ale for him. Was this what people did? I wondered. Suss each other out over potato skins? See if it was worth committing to entrees and two additional hours of conversation?

Dan and I had been together for more than a decade. Sitting across from a stranger, waiting for that frisson of chemistry to spark felt as foreign as if I were training for a space mission.

After small talk about the stress of co-parenting during the holidays, Jason segued. “So, I googled you.” His words came out in a naughty sing-song like he was confessing to peeking through my underwear drawer. “Those books … do you pay someone to publish them?”

“No.” I laughed. It wasn’t the first time I’d gotten that question. “The publisher offers me an advance and then once it’s earned back through book sales, I receive royalties.”

His eyebrows formed a V as he sucked a gummy wad of cheddar from his thumb with his rabbity front teeth. He probably thought this was sexy but it reminded me of a precocious badger from a cartoon Isaac and Ingrid adored.

“Can you make a living at that?” He raised the pint glass to his lips.

Birds at Night sold at auction—publishing’s version of a bidding war. For a moment, I fantasized about revealing the figure and watching him choke on his beer.

“If you’re asking if I can cover my half of this, don’t worry, I got it.” I smirked.

“No, no. I didn't mean it like that.” He reached for a napkin. Finally. “And this is on me. My idea, remember?”

“Yes, you’re incredibly original!” I wanted to say.

As Jason rambled on about the motorcycle he’d bought himself as an early Christmas gift, I tried to pay attention but my gaze involuntarily drifted to the band setting up in the corner—more specifically to the drummer, his muscles straining against his short-sleeve tee.

Jason said he hadn’t gotten to really test out the bike because his accounting firm was “busy as fuck” that time of year. I did a little math of my own. If I left then, how much would I have to pay Heather? How many episodes of mindless TV could I watch in blissful peace and still get six hours of sleep? Isaac and Ingrid rose before roosters—especially on weekends.

For my last birthday, Gavin sent me a journal. It had a turquoise cover and creamy pages with gilded edges. I’d been jotting ideas for the sequel in it: new character descriptions, snippets of dialogue, possible red herrings. Like Ingrid’s tights, the journal felt lucky, special. For weeks, I’d been promising myself I’d type those notes into a Word doc. If I headed home, maybe I’d finally do it.

Jason must’ve sensed he was losing me. He leaned forward, a mischievous twinkle in his hazel eyes. I hoped he was about to share some salacious tale about a kindergarten parent. He beckoned me with wiggling fingers. I scooted nearer.

“Are you shaved … down there?” His beery breath extinguished the votive candle that had flickered beside the condiments.

I snort-laughed. Which was stranger: that he asked or that he said “down there” like someone in an old school douche commercial?

“If not, that’s kinda my thing.” He licked his lips and made a buzzing sound like the hum of an electric razor.

“Shoot! You know what?” I patted my pockets, then opened my purse. “I think I left my phone in my car. New sitter. I don't want to miss a call. Would you excuse me?”

I hurried into the crisp autumn night and sped home. From my driveway I sent a text.

Family emergency. Sorry!

I added a sad face emoji.

He responded right away with an identical sad face and:

Really?

Yes. Kid vomit everywhere.

I lied. Would that image put a stop to his finger licking?

Oh man, that sucks. No worries! Do it again soon!

“Ah, to have the clueless confidence of a middle-aged man.” I sighed and gave his reply a thumbs-up. I needed to appear pleasant so he wouldn’t start a rumor that I had gonorrhea out of spite.

Jason winks at me now from across the aisle. I close my crossed legs a little tighter and study the concert program, its cover dotted with kid-drawn musical notes.

“Hey, Molly!” Melanie Walker, mother of Ingrid’s classmate Sage, plops down to my left with her squirming toddler and sweaty husband. She waves her phone before pressing it into my hand. “Can you take a few pics of us? Moms are always stuck behind the camera unless you take selfies but I suck at those,” she says out of one side of her mouth as if confessing to a crime. “My arms are like seal flippers!”

I make a quick note to give a character this trait in the sequel. The sequel, which I should be drafting right now instead of snapping horizontal shots of flipper-armed Melanie.

“Now the other way!” she commands and, like a trained seal, I do it before giving her phone back. “Thanks!” She inspects the photos to ensure I’ve done an adequate job, then her eyes go wide. “I just finished your book!”

I appreciate this—that she’s read it—but it’s awkward when someone says those words and stops there. They don’t need to add an “I couldn’t put it down!” or “I’ve recommended it to everyone I know,” but a simple “I enjoyed it” is nice and steers the conversation to its natural close.

“Aw, thank you.” I hate how my voice hitches up at the end.

“That one chick was completely deranged!”

“Did you think so?”

“Don’t you?” She jerks back like I’m crazy for not agreeing with her.

It’s a compliment when readers treat characters as if they’re actual people. Sometimes I have to gently remind them they’re not real.

“Well, if she were average, she wouldn’t be very interesting, would she?” I hold up my palms.

“Anyway,” Melanie continues, “I’m in a book club. We take summers off but I’m going to suggest it for our September meeting. It’s my turn to host.” She rolls her eyes as if assembling a charcuterie board and buying a few bottles of wine is akin to launching a presidential campaign. She places a moist hand over mine. “I want to support you.”

The book is in development with a major film studio. An Emmy-nominated screenwriter is adapting the novel. “I don’t need your support, Melanie,” I want to say with a villainous laugh but instead I squeeze her hand harder than I should and muster my most earnest, “You’re the best!”

“Just don’t drink all my vino!” She cackles, a reference to the line—I promise not to drink all your chardonnay!— on my website.

I really need to delete that.

With the mention of Melanie’s book club, the name “Anna Fox” bubbles up. Maybe I shouldn’t have responded to her message so quickly. After years of feeling desperate for anyone to show a shred of interest in my work, it’s hard to break that Pavlovian “Thank you! Yes, of course I’ll be there!” response.

Has Anna written back? Will she include something—some nugget, a tiny detail—that reminds me how we know one another? If not, I’m sure it’ll come back to me. I’ve been stressed lately and can barely remember which day it is. I’d nearly forgotten all about this concert and the radio interview that starts soon.

As I pull out my phone to check the time, the children make their way to the stage, fanning out from the wings, filing onto the risers so we can see every adorable face. Ingrid appears, her eyes scanning the crowd for me. She’s tall for her age so she’s relegated to a top row. She paired her lucky raspberry tights with a yellow gingham dress. She’s ready for clown school in this zany ensemble, especially with the carrot-colored hair she inherited from Dan.

A few months after we’d gotten together, he’d asked, “It’s the ginger that’s holding me back, isn’t it?” We’d been drinking bourbon on the patio of this tiny bar that hosted live music and slam poetry on Saturday evenings. We sat on the same side of a picnic bench. He lit two cigarettes and handed one to me. “Do you think if I were blond like Brad Pitt,” he took a long drag, attempted and failed to blow smoke rings, “or had the dark mane of say, Jon Hamm, I’d get more roles?”

“Maybe?” I raked my fingers through his shaggy orange mane. “But I love your hair. It’s different. Unique.” It was early days—when everything about the other person seems interesting, special. But even so, I knew he could have thick chestnut or golden locks and it wouldn’t have helped. The truth was Dan hadn’t truly craved that life.

I learned prematurely that if you want something badly enough, you need to be relentless. Maybe even a little bit crazy. You can’t let anything or anyone stand in your way. But, of course, that’s not in everyone’s nature.

Ingrid finds me in the crowd and waves excitedly. I blow her a kiss. In two seconds, Ms. Latham, the music teacher, will welcome us and tell us to switch our phones to silent.

I reach for mine in my lap, still expecting a scathing email from Dan. It’s 10 a.m. I’m surprised he hasn’t written yet to complain that I left the kids with Heather again last night or to ask me to record the concert for him. I refresh my inbox.

As if I manifested it, a message from Anna Fox arrives.

I open it as Ms. Latham taps the microphone.

“Welcome parents and grandparents, caregivers, and siblings dragged here against your will,” she trills to light laughter and a smattering of applause. “We have quite a show for you today, so sit back and prepare to have these tunes stuck in your head all weekend.” More laughter. “You’re welcome—and enjoy!”

Melanie’s toddler kicks my arm. “Sorry! Sorry!” Melanie murmurs, securing her child’s flailing limbs.

“You’re fine!” I wave it off, eyes returning to my phone. The school’s Wi-Fi is interminably slow. As an off-key rendition of “This Little Light O’ Mine” begins, Anna’s reply slowly loads and that sick feeling swims through my stomach once more, spreading. She’s simply written one word:

“Yaaaaaaay!!!!”

Chapter 4

Anna

Libraries have always been my happy place. Surrounded by words. Worlds. Slide a book off a shelf. Slip inside the pages. Try on another life. The musty scent of all that paper. It’s got a name, actually. Bibliosmia. Over time, as books decompose, they give off a smell that comes from volatile organic compounds. I explained it to my colleague Trudy after she said a worn copy of The Yearling emitted the same “old person funk” as her grandmother’s house.

“Sounds like a sexually transmitted disease!” she’d laughed. When I didn’t join in, she cleared her throat and added, “But that would make an excellent Jeopardy! question.”

Judith, the program director, shushed us and we returned to sorting and shelving.

That’s another thing I like. The quiet.

But today there’s a steady buzz. Rainy days are like that. Plus, it’s Friday. Senior Stretch in the main conference center. Conversational Italian in the small study room. Jammin’ Jeanie’s Toddler Jamboree in the basement.

Noise usually bothers me but this morning I’m grateful for the distraction. It's been three hours since I wrote back to Molly. My stupid “Yaaaaaaay!!!!” probably scared her off. I can come on too strong sometimes.

I sing the alphabet to myself as I sort the books dropped in the overnight bin. When they’re in order, I’ll re-shelve them. I pull a few more from the bag hauled in by Bob, our maintenance man, and there’s Molly’s face. It startles me, seeing her so unexpectedly. The copy of Birds at Night falls from my hand and lands on Trudy’s black patent leather Mary Janes.

“Ouch! Someone’s awfully clumsy today,” Trudy tsks. “I saw you making quite a splash at the water fountain earlier.” She chuckles, in a good mood because she’s got Saturday off. “You were face-down like a sparrow in a birdbath.”

I’d been thinking about Molly’s message and leaned too far forward. My blouse is still damp. I touch the wet spot, pick up Molly’s book, then slide it in between Isabel Allende and Linwood Barclay novels, all bound for the new fiction section.

Trudy points at the ruby spine. A nest of dark brambles separates “M.J. Archer” from the title. “Did you read that?”

My cheeks grow warm. I hold my breath. Do I tell her that I own it in all its formats: hardcover, eBook, audio on CD and digital? I’m bursting to say that I emailed Molly. That she wrote back. That she’s coming to town. That maybe she’ll stay with me. But I shouldn’t. “No one likes a show-off,” Mama would scold.

Before I can say anything, Trudy grimaces. “I fell for the hype. Again. Completely overrated. I saw an online review that spoiled the ending, which didn’t help. This summer, I swear, I’m reading nothing but memoirs and historical fiction. I want to learn something, you know?”

I learned plenty from Birds at Night but I don’t mention that.

“Hey,” she lowers her voice and looks over each shoulder. “Has Professor Hotness been in yet?”

A bit of a local celebrity, Professor Andrew Harkness teaches at the nearby university. He wrote a book on the scarcity mindset’s impact on intergenerational poverty. Each week, he holds an information session on financial literacy topics for seniors and anyone who wants to benefit from his wisdom.

“Nope, haven’t seen him yet.” I sort another few titles.

“Phew!” Trudy mimes wiping perspiration from her forehead. “I was in the basement setting up for Jammin’ Jeanie and thought I’d missed him.” She bites her lip. “I’d let him check my balance sheet all damn day.”

“I don’t want to know what that means.”

Trudy’s an odd mix of old fashioned and boy crazy. She wears cat-eye glasses and poodle skirts, cardigans joined at the neck by vintage sweater clasps, yet talks openly about masturbation. She moved to Milltown for her college boyfriend, who strung her along and then ended their relationship just before her thirtieth birthday.

I made the mistake of telling her I’d been through a bad breakup, giving her false hope that I’d be her new wingwoman. Each weekend since I started here she asks if I want to hang out. I don’t. But I get it. Compared to me, Trudy is a supermodel.

“People like a Plain Jane,” Mama would insist whenever I complained about my dull brown hair and hazel eyes. “You blend right in. Nobody feels threatened.”

An older lady with a cane hobbles toward us. “Am I late for Senior Stretch? Is this the place? Today’s Friday, isn’t it?”

“It is Friday,” Trudy assures her, “and you’re right on time. Let me show you where it is.” As she breezes past me in a personal cloud of powdery perfume she whispers, “Poor dear. If I ever get like this, promise you’ll shoot me.”

“Gladly.” I smile and stroke the spine of Molly’s book. Trudy’s review is so harsh. Early praise is a blessing and a curse. How could anything live up to those lofty expectations? I got a copy the day it came out, went in blind. I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

Beneath the circulation desk, I sneak a peek at my phone and refresh my email for the billionth time. The little wheel spins like I’m playing a slot machine. Will this be my lucky turn? No. Nothing yet.

I know Molly’s online. I went to the ladies’ room a few minutes ago and checked social media. She just posted a video of her daughter’s school concert. None of my business but that feels risky. There are a lot of sickos out there and her account’s not private. It takes less than a minute to find her home address—if you know her real name. I use a fake one on those sites. Of course, I’m not selling anything or trying to grow a following. She also added a story about a radio interview. Tune in at 11 a.m. Eastern! she wrote in one of those captions that disappears then repeats.

I want to listen but I was running late and forgot my earbuds. It’s Molly’s fault. She got me so excited by writing back, I wasn’t thinking straight.

I steal another peek at my phone. One new message loads. A streaming service, recommending a true crime series.

A few weeks ago, I saw the announcement about the Birds at Night movie deal. Who will play Carly and Clementine? How will the director handle the murders? At least one will be a flashback. I get chills just picturing them. The scenes from the book are so real, the details rich, vivid. Devastating is the only word to describe them. I’ve set a google alert for her name and another for Birds at Night so I’ll know as soon as there’s any news.

I open Molly’s message again. A thumbnail picture of the book cover appears below her email signature along with links to her website and social media channels.

For a second, I pity her. So much to keep up with. I wonder if she has an assistant. A thought hits like a punch to the gut: What if I’m not emailing with Molly at all? Maybe some teen intern is cringing at my ridiculous “Yaaaaaaay!!!!”

That’d be something. Me stewing over every word, thinking Molly’s there on the other side of the screen and it’s someone else entirely.

A lump the size of a fist swells in my throat. My skin gets hot and prickly. I blink away tears. I may be counting on something that won’t happen. I have to get a grip.

But it’s so hard to keep Molly out of my head—especially here. Everyone requests the book.

“Do you have any copies of Birds at Night by—”

I stop them before they say her name. It’s almost like a private joke. Not only do I know who wrote it, I actually know the author personally. Of course, we haven’t seen each other in a million years but still, it counts.

“I checked the shelf but didn’t see it,” my patrons continue. “I thought maybe someone returned one early …” They look at me, desperate, as if I can conjure the novel magician-style just for them.

“Don’t worry, we’ve ordered more copies.” I nod. “If you placed a hold, you’ll be notified by email.”

Dozens have suggested it for the library’s monthly book club.

Imagine if they knew Molly was going to pay me a visit? But what if she ghosts me? The thought forces all the air out of my body. I twist the ring on my middle finger. It’s loose but I like it. The square purple stone set in gold. I wouldn’t have picked it but it’s grown on me.

A woman called about it earlier. Said she’d let her daughter play with it during yesterday’s Story Time with Stacey. I put her on hold and opened a drawer. There it was, shining beneath the ugly glare of the recessed lights. I plucked it from the pink plastic lost-and-found basket.

“I’m so sorry, we haven’t seen it.” I slid it onto my finger, wishing I didn’t bite my nails. “I’m sorry,” I said again with a bit more feeling. “I know how upsetting it is to lose something you care about.”

The caller sighed. “Thanks for looking.”

“Of course,” I said. “Best of luck.”

I hung up.

It’s so hard to know when people are lying and when they’re telling the truth. Things get blurry.

Molly knows this too.

Chapter 5

Molly

“Gotta tell ya, M.J., you freaked me out big time with this book,” Sebastian Carpenter, host of KTLA’s drive time morning show, roars, his deep voice designed for radio.

“Um, thank you?” I laugh, hoping I sound lighthearted and fun though I’m still catching my breath after racing home from Ingrid’s concert. If I didn’t dart out of the school, Jason Reddy or a Melanie clone would’ve cornered me. If I missed this phone interview, Georgia would kill me.

When she told me about this opportunity, she’d been so excited, but I wanted to ask how many people listen to the radio. Satellite, maybe. If I’m alone in the car or kitchen, audiobooks or podcasts are my go-to. When I’m with the kids, it’s all soundtracks from their favorite movies.

My segment, part of the weekly summer book review series, is six, maybe eight minutes max, but I didn’t prepare and it shows. Um, thank you? Did I just say that? On air? Hardly scintillating conversation. I need to get it together. Fast.

Sebastian waits a beat, expecting me to say more. My brain buzzes, a big static nothing.

“Seriously, thank you for reading it,” I force all the cheer I can muster into my voice, “and for having me today! I wish I were in LA, it’s pouring here.”

Mercifully, Sebastian ignores my babbling.

“Let’s dive—or should I say fly?—right into Birds at Night. I read it in two sittings, M.J. Phenomenal. Let me ask you this: you think dark academia will ever go out of style?”

“Let’s hope not because I’m working on the sequel!”

“My daughter's headed to college this fall. After reading your book, I’m thinking maybe she should live at home. I’ll buy her a car. She can commute. Better yet, I’ll pick her up and drop her off.” He barks a laugh.

“As a parent, I totally get that, just don’t tell her it’s because of me!” I sound like I’m trying too hard, but Sebastian rolls with it.

“The thing that sucked me right in is the way you drop us inside the mind of this strong but also desperate young woman who’s both a victim and a villain. How much fun is it—or how difficult is it—to strike that balance when creating a good character who does bad things? Gotta be tough, am I right? Now, I can’t say too much because readers need to experience it for themselves. On that note, would you give our listeners a taste?”

“It would be my pleasure.” After the drafting, revising, and proofreading, I could practically recite the entire novel from memory, the way I can “read” Ingrid’s beloved bedtime stories with my eyes closed. But nerves and exhaustion erase the words that should spring to my tongue. I reach for the newest edition, the one that bears the word “bestseller” and the famous actor’s book club seal on the cover.

My mouth is so dry it might as well be packed with sand. Where is a water bottle when I need one? Half-empty coffee mugs line the sides of my desk. I can afford a cleaning person, but I didn’t grow up that way. Plus, I used to joke that I’m too disorganized to have help. Weeks after Ingrid was born, a friend knew I was staring down a tight deadline and sent over her cleaning lady. In her attempt to tidy up, the woman accidentally recycled a draft covered in revisions I’d painstakingly made by hand while breastfeeding. I pulled the marked-up manuscript from the blue bin beside our curb minutes before the truck barreled down our block. Dan had laughed as I stood in the street barefoot, clutching the pages to the front of my bathrobe as if I’d found gold at the bottom of the bucket.

“You really ought to be more careful about where you leave your stuff, babe.”

That afternoon while the children napped, I lit one of his golf shoes on fire behind our shed.

“Take it away, M.J.” Deejay Sebastian urges.

I clear my throat, lean into the microphone I use for interviews, and try to sound interesting, authorial.

Chapter One.

The first time Carly sees Clementine it’s through the doorway of their adjoining rooms. They’re eighteen, their futures packed with promise, bright as Roman candles.

Straddling the threshold, one flip-flopped foot in room 512, the other in 514, Carly’s fists are shoved deep in the pockets of her overalls.

I’m reading too fast. I take a breath, slow it down.

They weren’t supposed to live inside The Carthage, a turn of the twentieth century hotel whose once-great beauty has dimmed and dulled like a dead and dried bouquet. In July, one month after the university sent freshman housing assignments, a second notice arrived. A maintenance crew had discovered asbestos festering among ceiling tiles in the dorms of the lower quad, relegating Carly, Clementine, and hundreds of their classmates to this tumbledown behemoth perched on a crumbling cliffside. Now here they are—in small single rooms, connected by a thin wooden door.

Behind Carly, her mother pulls jeans, sweaters, and pilled bedding from trash bags—their version of luggage. Carly knows she should help. It’s a long drive back for her mom, who spent the morning complaining about her sciatica and can’t afford a second night in a motel. But Carly remains rooted to the moss green carpet, lured by the siren song of an unfamiliar sound—laughter.

The girl and her parents work together hanging posters and stacking shoeboxes at the bottom of the closet, chatting happily while Curtis Mayfield’s “Move on Up” plays through a mint green bluetooth speaker. As Carly watches, a strange calm descends, a sense of contentment she’s only ever experienced amid the numbed-out bliss of sitcom reruns.

She uncurls her fists and studies these people as if they’re one of her lab experiments. If she observes them long enough perhaps she’ll figure out how to replicate their behavior.

“Carleen,” her mother pants from the middle of the unmade bed,“help me wrangle these pillows into their cases. I need to sit a minute.”

Reluctant to turn away, Carly is mid-pivot when another voice, this one light and melodic, calls to her.

“Carleen?” The girl’s eyes shine a soft blue-green that reminds Carly of Lake Erie. Her hair is copper, shiny as a lucky penny. The late-August sun streaming through the window creates a halo effect that makes Carly’s breath catch. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there at first.” The girl grins and blows a big pink bubble with her gum. “We’re totally in the zone.”

“Totally.” Carly returns the smile, a warm feeling spreading through her like quicksilver.

“I’m Clem. Nice to meet you!” She places her hand in Carly’s. Her bones are thin and birdlike. How easy it would be to crush them, Carly thinks. “How cool is this place?” Clem flings her long, tanned arm wide, as if she’s a gameshow assistant displaying prizes.

Carly tries to see her room through Clem’s bright eyes, willing herself to forget the ivy growing through the wall above her desk, to overlook whatever’s breeding beneath the clawfoot tub, to ignore the scent of cigarette smoke that wafts up like a phantom.

“So funky and retro, right?”

“Right. Totally.” Carly nods.

As they made their ascent along the winding road that led to this relic, Carly’s mother bounced the Buick’s front tire off the curb, unable to stop staring at the building.

“Well, isn’t this something?” she mused. “You know what this looks like?”

“An ancient ruin.”

“No! Stop! That place in The Shining!” her mother said, referencing a movie Carly had never seen. “Oh, it was terrifying. I had to cover my eyes the first time I watched it.”

“Great, thanks for that. Now I’ll never sleep again.” Carly’s head knocked against the window as they barreled through yet another pothole.

Her mother reached over and chucked Carly under the chin, murmuring lines from the film—“Redrum. Redrum”—while Carly considered jumping from the moving car, weighing the pain of mangled limbs against more time with her mom.

Sebastian interjects with a laugh. “Typical teen!”

“Should I keep going?” I never know how much is enough.

“Absolutely!” he says.

Eyes toward the sky, Carly noticed The Carthage’s rooftop lay flat as a tennis court. A low wrought iron fence, bars missing and crooked, wrapped around the perimeter, enclosing twin chimneys as if they might decide to up and leave.

The pulse behind Carly’s left eye kicked up the way it always did when she got nervous. She didn’t want to be there, moving into some creepy hotel that belonged in a poster for a horror film. And she definitely didn’t want to be at this university, or anywhere on the East Coast. She’d been handcuffed by a full scholarship, awarded because she checked the right boxes: female, poor, from an underrepresented state, interested in studying biochemistry.

Carly had worked her ass off in high school, every counselor insisting education was the key to unlocking a new world, a better life. As she aced the ACTs and AP exams, she dreamt of California, of palm trees and possibilities, of swapping the gentle lapping of the lake for the roar of the Pacific Ocean. Never once had this school, landlocked and lusterless, crossed her mind.

“Just think about it, CarCar,” her mother had pleaded when the acceptance email arrived, the scholarship figure the closest they’d ever come to a lottery win. Short of a miracle or another college coming through with a similar offer, it was a done deal.

“This place might not have asbestos but it’s sure as shit full of lead paint and mold,” Carly moaned as her mom swung the sedan, trash bag luggage blocking the rear window, into a parking spot.

But now with Clem beaming at her, Carly is almost able to shed the anxiety that nearly toppled her in the elevator, its heaving groans and sighs reminding her of her grandmother during her final days.

Carly’s spent much of her life attempting to balance the good with the bad. If she hadn’t accepted the scholarship, agreed to come here, if they hadn’t been forced to move into The Carthage, Carly might not have met Clem.

The dorms where they were originally placed stood a good fifty yards apart. Carly’s proposed room on the ground level of Abbot Hall faced the foothills of Mount Marcy while Clem’s— a fourth-floor triple in Mordant—featured wide casement windows that overlooked the sprawling campus in all its brick and white columned splendor.

They might’ve bumped into one another at a crowded party or in the student center food court. Perhaps they’d have exchanged a “Hey!” a flicker of recognition passing between them, before heading in opposite directions.

Or maybe their paths would never have crossed and they’d have fulfilled the dreams that seem so attainable the afternoon they move into the rundown hotel.

Carly is thinking about fate and asbestos when Clem asks if she’d like to take the shuttle to campus and grab dinner after their rooms are set up and their parents leave.

“Totally,” Carly says. It’s her third “totally” and her cheeks burn at her lack of imagination, and yet she’s sure she’s not the first person struck dumb by Clem’s beauty.

Carly, who has always felt like a Velma in a world full of Daphnes, hopes Clem can’t read her mind. She’s already picturing them hanging out—her mind fast-forwarding through a series of images—lingering over brunch, exploring bookstores, thrift shops, and as the montage plays behind her eyes, the tightness in her chest loosens.

On the endless stretches of highway that separated their home in Ohio from upstate New York, Carly’s mother repeated,“This is it, CarCar, your fresh start,” like a parrot in possession of a single sentence.

After the fourth time, Carly turned, seatbelt slicing into her neck, and said,“‘Fresh start’ is redundant. All starts are fresh. Same with ‘new beginning.’”

Her mother’s lips curled inward, a gesture Carly knew meant either she was craving a cigarette or fighting not to say something she’d regret.

“See? That’s why you’re going to a fancy-pants college on a full scholarship and I’m a waitress.” She reached over and squeezed Carly’s knee, her press-on nails digging through denim.

Standing beside Clem in 514, Carly thinks that for once maybe her mother was right: this could be the start of something good. But this feeling—can she trust it?

In Carly’s limited experience, even the best beginnings turn into weird middles and then, almost always, very bad endings.

“And that’s where I’ll stop.” I exhale, parched, breathless.

“Oof! See what I mean, folks? M.J.’s the real deal,” Sebastian says. “Tell me you’re not immediately sucked in. I could listen to you read for the next eight hours, M.J.!”

“You’re too kind!” I wince at how canned I sound. “If you’d like to hear more, there’s an audiobook version and the voice actor, Marla Davis, is fantastic. If you have a summer road trip planned, I highly recommend picking it up. There’s my shameless plug.”

“And what are your summer plans, M.J? Any West Coast stops where our listeners can catch you in person?”

“I wish!” I say. “I’m actually taking a little road trip to my hometown to visit friends and family.” And possibly a random woman I can’t seem to remember who just wrote “Yaaaaaaay!!!!” I cringe. What have I agreed to?

“And where’s home for you, M.J.?”

“Milltown, Ohio.”

“Ah, the Buckeye state!”

Georgia will kill me if I don’t mention the sequel as often as possible. “Other than that, I’ll spend the summer finishing the next book.” That familiar sense of dread fills my chest as I remember that I'm closer to starting than finishing.

“Well, I, for one, am going to smash that pre-order button so hard,” Sebastian booms.

“You’re the best!” I say. “Thanks again for having me. This was really fun!”

After the call ends, I give myself a few minutes to decompress, grab a glass of water, and throw a load of laundry into the dryer.

When I can’t avoid it any longer, I drift back to my desk and open the journal Gavin gave me. On the first page there’s a label: If lost, please return to … Gavin filled in the blank: Brilliant author and my best friend, M.J. Archer. I run my index finger over his sophisticated cursive and smile.

Gavin knows the internet is my nemesis, a source of endless distraction.

“Remember how you’d fill those spiral notebooks senior year? Go old school, Mol,” he’d said when I told him I was having trouble focusing on the sequel.

I pick up a pen and begin.

Chapter 6

Anna

Molly posted a new story on social media. I hurry down the back staircase. I don’t want any of my colleagues to think I’m behaving like some teenage fangirl, so I duck inside the janitor’s closet and tug at the string that switches on the overhead light.

Molly's profile pic is an extreme close-up. In it, she’s wearing reading glasses with bold black frames, a pen clenched between her teeth, copies of Birds at Night lined up behind her on a bookshelf. I press on her face and wait for her story to load.

It’s buffering. The library’s Wi-Fi is notoriously slow. In the basement with its cinder block walls, I might as well be in Amish country. “C’mon!” I stomp my foot, rattling a bucket and causing a mop to clatter to the ground.

Finally, it loads. The image is a promo photo of some slick-looking deejay with the letters KTLA plastered across his t-shirt, then some wiggling lines, suggesting sound waves. I hold the phone to my ear. It’s a series of clips from the radio show. I can barely hear over the clanging cymbals and the non-rhythmic beating of bongos coming from Jammin’ Jeanie’s Toddler Jamboree in the next room. I jack up the volume as high as it’ll go.

Molly clears her throat. The first time Carly sees Clementine it’s through the doorway of their adjoining rooms.

Her voice so close to my face gives me a tingling feeling. The hairs on the back of my neck rise. I strain to hear.

They’re eighteen, their futures packed with promise, bright as Roman candles.

If I get the chance, I’ll ask her why she chose to tell the story in third person instead of first. Why not “The first time I saw Clementine …”

She wants to create distance. I get it.

Sliding down the wall, I check for spiders before I sit on the concrete floor. Snippets from the first chapter start and stop as Molly spins her tale. I close my eyes. She does a fine job but I’m spoiled from the audiobook’s professional narrator, Marla Davis, who’s so much more animated.

When Molly finishes, the deejay, Sebastian something, lays it on thick about her talent. She laps up the praise. Who wouldn’t?

What will he ask her next? I hope it’s “Where did the idea for this novel come from?" That’s what most people want to know.

Instead, he’s going on about summer plans when the closet door flies open. I jump up, expecting Trudy, who tracks me like a bloodhound anytime I’m not in the stacks or behind the circulation desk. But it’s only a toddler on the loose.

“Scram!” I hiss and yank the door closed. I pull the string and plunge the closet into darkness. I need to hear the rest of this interview.

“I’m actually taking a little road trip to my hometown to visit friends and family.”

“And where’s home for you, M.J.?”

“Milltown, Ohio.”

My arm goes limp; the phone hits the floor with a smack. She’s really coming! Body buzzing, I turn and press my forehead against the cool wall.

Molly wouldn’t say it if she didn’t mean it. And on the radio … with how many people listening? Thousands? Millions? Over the past few months, her Instagram following has exploded. I check it every day.

She said she’s coming “to visit friends and family.” I’m sure she didn’t mean me, and yet it sets off a ringing in my ears.

I shouldn’t get my hopes up. What are novelists if not glorified liars? Still, I’m betting Molly tells the truth far more than most.

Chapter 7

Molly

The alarm on my phone buzzes against my desk, reminding me to pick up the children. In less than two hours, I’ve scribbled down hundreds of words. Are they poetic? Suspenseful? Filled with gorgeous imagery? Great dialogue? Nope. None of the above. But they're more than I’ve written in weeks.

Sebastian’s enthusiasm amped me up like a case of Red Bull. I pressed my pen to the creamy blank page and a miracle happened. Words flowed. I got lost in the story again. Finally.

I took a short break at one o’clock and threw together a salad. I ate it while posting clips from the interview to my socials after Sebastian’s team forwarded them with a “You rocked it, M.J.!” message.

As I dash from the porch to the car, rain soaks my cotton tee. I’m just getting in when Heather approaches from the winding path that leads from the driveway to the cottage.

“Molly!” She’s holding her umbrella like it’s a parasol while I’m turning into a human sponge. “I’m so glad I caught you! The sink’s leaking again. Can you call the plumber?”

Shit! It’s always something with this place. That’s what you get when you go for “rustic charm” though I’m sure new homes have issues too.

“Sure, I’m running to pick up the kids but can call him as soon as I’m back. Do you still have the bucket I gave you last time?”

“I think you took it to let the kids wash your car. I’m using a bowl.”

My impatience is spiking. “Okay, as soon as I get home, I’ll bring it over.”

“I have Pilates but you’ve got a key so you can handle it, right?”

“Yeah, sure, of course.” I’m annoyed to take on one more task and another expense, but I am the landlord so I suppose that goes with the territory, literally. “Back soon,” I call as I slip into the driver’s seat.

The constant churning in my stomach has returned. I shift my thoughts back to the writing I accomplished earlier. Georgia typically emails on Friday afternoons to “check in.” For once I can tell her I’m making progress and it won’t be a lie.

I still need to come up with sixty thousand more words and at least two plot twists, but I’ll deal with that later. I’m choosing to focus only on forward momentum in the hope that it’ll propel me along.

“Words beget words,” Selena Sandborn said at our event after an attendee asked her secret to penning a dozen novels in as many years.

“Trust that the muse will show up when you need her, and if she doesn’t come on her own, plant your ass in the chair and summon her!” Her advice elicited gales of laughter.

It sounds ridiculous, but I know what she means. Sometimes the muse pays a visit and other times she remains on an extended vacation. Birds at Night shot out of me, raw, untamed. This still-unnamed sequel is a different story.

But today the muse returned. I could’ve written all afternoon if I didn’t need to collect the children. Still, it’s good to leave in the middle—to know where I’m heading and feel that itch, that craving to get back to it as soon as possible.

As I wait for the windshield to defog, I glance at the dashboard clock. 2:53 p.m. After I bring Ingrid and Isaac home, I’ll fix them a snack, help them pack their things to take to Dan’s for the weekend. Once I drop them at his condo, I can dive back into the story.

Checking the rearview mirror to make sure I don’t have spinach in my teeth, I whisper, “It’s going to be fine.” Talking to myself has become an odd habit. It started when I began reading early drafts aloud to catch typos and overused words.

Dan told me I sounded crazy.

I read louder.

I’m about to back out of the driveway when my phone pings. Speak of the devil. It’s a text from Dan with three little words that make my nostrils flare.

Check your email.

I put the car in park and grit my teeth. Maybe it’s because I’ve spent the past two hours crafting my antihero’s escape, plotting sinister scenarios, but something about Dan’s tone seems threatening. A chill ripples down my spine. I switch off the air conditioner. The wipers scrape the windshield. I flinch at the sound. The rubber is spaghetti-thin, barely hanging on. I need to take the car in for other maintenance too. There goes another thousand dollars. And I can’t forget to call the plumber.

Molly, Dan’s email begins. I’m putting this in writing because I want a record of it … blah blah blah … I don’t want to discuss it in front of the kids. Be advised.

My skimming stops, eyes latching onto that last bit: Be advised.

“Someone’s been watching legal dramas again,” I snicker before reading on.

I’m going to request a modification in the spousal maintenance order.

He’s trying to sound lawyerly. He means “support” or “alimony.” I sit straighter. The chill that left me cold seconds ago morphs into white hot rage. My vision blurs. I blink to focus and return to the email.

Clearly, there’s been a significant change in your financial situation. I saw the movie deal announced in Deadline so don’t bother downplaying it.

“Thanks for the congratulations, asshole.” I give him the finger through cyberspace. In the early days of our marriage, we’d joke that I’d write something—a play, a novel—with a lead role for him. There’s nothing like that in Birds at Night, and the film news, the fact that he’ll have no part in it, not even the chance to be on set, has to sting.

Let’s play fair, Molly. No need to get the lawyers involved.

See you at 6.

Since I’m in writing mode I fire back an immediate response.

Dan,

Love that you’re (finally!) taking an interest in my career. Go ahead. Make your request. File your motion. I’ll see you at 6 … and in court.

Before I can reconsider, I hit send. My pulse pounds in my ears as I throw the gear shaft into reverse and barrel out of the driveway, nearly hitting a dog walker. I wave an apology and speed down the block.

“The fucking nerve of him!” I slap the steering wheel.

On weekend afternoons when Dan and I were together I’d write in two-hour blocks at my desk in the drafty attic of the home we shared. I’d come downstairs, stiff from my rickety wooden chair, my mind foggy, almost jet-lagged from time spent in that other, fictional world. Re-entry was never easy—Isaac and Ingrid hurling themselves at me with their competing demands, Dan scowling as he opened and closed kitchen cabinets.

Instead of “How’d it go?” Or “Make good progress?” he’d ask, “What’s for dinner? We’re starving,” as if he didn’t have hands. Had he been that helpless when we met? Or was it because I stayed home with the children and handled all domestic issues that somehow we’d teleported to the 1950s?

While I rounded up ingredients for a meal, he’d grumble, “Maybe you should care more about your real family than your fake ones.”

“They’re called characters.” I refused to take his bait. “Give me thirty minutes and I’ll have something ready, but for future reference, I’m happy to show you how an oven works.”

“No need to be a bitch about it, Molly.” He’d drop his voice so the children wouldn’t hear. “I’ve had the kids all afternoon, you know.”

“They’re your kids, Dan,” I’d say. “It’s not like I asked you to take my shift at a daycare center."

The end of my marriage began not with a big scene but with a series of small snipes, a low rumble of discontent that rose to a thundering chorus of resentment. There was no shouting, swearing, or slamming things. Nothing worthy of a screenplay—not even a dramatic one-act. It started with Dan diminishing my dreams and putting his most basic needs above my personal fulfillment. And that ignited something in me. How long can a fuse burn before the bomb goes off?

If I’d devoted hours to a different endeavor—running? gardening?—a thing that didn’t remind him he’d abandoned his creative side, would he, could he, have been more supportive? If I’d achieved financial success sooner, would he have behaved differently? I’ll never know.

One thing is certain: now my “fake” families are paying for my real one and he’s not getting a cut.

It has to kill him.

The irony makes me smile as I sail through a yellow light.

When my lawyer told Dan we wanted him to agree that he couldn’t stake a claim to any proceeds from my future works, he’d laughed. “Not a problem, Mol. Go ahead, keep all seventeen dollars for yourself.”

His dig was a reference to a particularly disappointing royalty check I’d received years earlier: seventeen dollars for six months’ worth of sales for my novel, Unhappy Endings. As if that meager amount wasn’t embarrassing enough, the check had been delivered to our neighbors who opened it by mistake. Pity practically dripped from the Post-it they attached to the ripped envelope.

“So sorry, Molly.” My neighbor Frances had written. “Roger didn’t notice it was addressed to you. For what it’s worth, I loved this book.” She’d drawn a little heart in the bottom corner.

Dan’s snide remark, uttered with such malice that gray afternoon in my attorney’s office, would’ve stung if Birds at Night hadn’t been nearly finished. I knew I had something even if my then-agent Denise said early chapters were “riveting but too different” from my other works. This book was different. But different isn’t synonymous with bad or less. Sometimes different is the only way forward.

“It’s good, Molly, don’t get me wrong,” Denise told me, “but it’s not what your readers expect from you.”

“Readers? What readers?” I wanted to demand. I wasn’t under contract with my previous publisher. Denise could’ve sent it anywhere.

I said I’d think about her feedback. Days later, I wrote to say it was best if we parted ways.

Good luck, Denise replied. She probably thought I was making a rash and foolish decision. For a moment after I read her words, I was lightheaded. I hadn’t expected her to persuade me to start another book similar to my previous works, nor had I thought she’d reconsider and vow to shop Birds at Night around until it found the perfect publisher.

Still, I was filled with that unnerving sense of drifting, loose, unmoored, clutching at empty air. Then I remembered I was good at starting over. Beginning again. Isn’t that what women do—have always done—to survive?

I keep a quote in my desk drawer, one I hope to use as an epigraph someday: Let me fall if I must fall. The one I will become will catch me.

I’ve always caught myself.

Is there any other choice?

Chapter 8

Anna

Trudy rings the bell and, in her usual bossy whisper, announces that the library’s closing in ten minutes. It’s almost five—officially the start of the weekend.

I doubt I’ll get a response from Molly now.

The average person spends four hours and thirty-seven minutes per day on their phone. I learned this while helping an eighth grader research a project about technology and addiction. I’m doubling that statistic today, compulsively scrolling, hoping Molly gets back to me.

What’s she doing tonight? Something fabulous no doubt. I visited the events section of her website. Nothing’s scheduled but she could be attending a barbecue, a dinner party, another book club. Or maybe she’s home writing the sequel. She brings it up every chance she gets. No release date yet. No title either. I’m dying to read it. What will she dream up next? I hope she’ll finish the first draft before she comes to Milltown.

“Hey!” Trudy switches off the copier.

When I look up, all the patrons have filtered out—our colleagues too. I vaguely recall a chorus of “goodbye”s and “have a great weekend”s. I’ve been staring at the purple ring. I like the way the overhead lights hit the amethyst and make a little rainbow on the wall above Trudy’s latest cookbook display. My fingers curl around the handle of the drawer that holds the lost-and-found basket. I’ll keep the ring. Just for the weekend.

I turn toward Trudy. “Yes?”

“My goodness, you’re in your own world. I had to say your name three times.”

“Sorry,” I mumble and collect my backpack. “Were you asking me something?”

“I said, ‘What are you doing tonight?’”

“No plans.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them—the opening they give her.

Trudy’s nice but quirky and intense. She asks a lot of questions.

“Want to come to my place for dinner?” She shuts off the lights. “I’m in a celebratory mood.”

“What’s the good news?” I ask. She mentioned she’d started dabbling in poetry again. Maybe she got an acceptance.

Trudy’s heavily penciled eyebrows, usually hidden behind the silver frames of her cat-eye glasses, arch toward her blunt auburn bangs. “On his way out this morning, Professor Hotness said, ‘Have a good weekend.’”

She already told me that. Once in the break room and again as we set up tables for the afternoon chess club. It’s true. He said it, but he also called her ‘Tracy.’ We wear name tags. I don’t mention this or the snarky, “Maybe don’t start planning your wedding registry just yet,” that nearly slips out. If Trudy wants to believe her prince charming has arrived in the form of an adjunct professor who thinks he can save the world through financial literacy, who am I to ruin it?

She holds the door for me, then firmly shuts it and punches in the alarm code. “I made a tuna casserole. We could play Scrabble while it heats up.”

Last month, I turned down her invitation for a paint-and-sip class. “Say ‘no’ too many times, people stop asking,” Mama used to scold.

The air is thick and gauzy. My Nissan Sentra is the only car in the parking lot. It’s coated in pollen, even after the earlier downpour. Trudy’s duplex is two blocks away, so she walks most days. “Better for the environment!” she reminds us.

“Does your place have air conditioning?” I ask. My landlord doesn’t cover utilities so I wouldn’t mind soaking up some free cool air.

Trudy frown-squints and pushes the glasses up the bridge of her nose with her middle finger.

Great, I’ve offended her. “I mean, should I go home and change?” Wool trousers and a turtleneck seemed appropriate this morning when it was barely sixty degrees, but now it’s at least eighty-five and I could wring out my bra.

“You’ll be fine. Oh, and I have some wine leftover from last night.”

When I don’t ask “What was last night?” she fills in the silence. “I hosted my book club. Remember? I invited you. You said you’re part of another book club that was meeting last night. How’d that go, by the way? What did you read? If you ever host, I’d love to join you. I’ve got the time.”

I wait for her to add “now that Jeremy’s gone” like she usually does, but maybe Professor Harkness’s “Have a good weekend” is enough to make her momentarily forget her almost-fiancé.

We start walking toward her house. I don’t really have a good reason not to go and what else will I do at home other than wait and hope to hear back from Molly?

“We read a lot of sci-fi fantasy stuff.” Sweat trickles down my back.

Trudy grimaces. “That’s not really my scene.”

“You’re welcome any time.”

“Thank you. I can’t really leave Lou too long. I was stirring a batch of peach sangria last night and when my back was turned, she ate a half a pound of salami and some artichoke dip. My fault for putting them on a low table but she’s so short. You’ve seen her.”

“Only in pictures.”

“You follow her on Instagram, right?” She stops in the middle of the crosswalk.

“Not yet, but I will.”

“Oh, you’re in for a treat!” She claps.

By the time she opens her garden gate, my turtleneck is damp, clinging to my stomach. My knee-high socks are like tourniquets.

Louisa May Alcott, the basset hound Trudy adopted after Jeremy took off, whines by the door as we enter.

“Mommy’s home, Lou.” Trudy bends to stroke the dog’s ears. “Shoes off, please. You never know what you’re bringing in that could be harmful to Louisa’s paws.”

Harmful? I don’t point out that the dog ate a frat boy-sized serving of salami on her watch. I slide off my flats. My big toe pokes through a hole in my sock. My nails are overgrown, polish chipped. I tuck my foot behind my calf.

On her stubby legs, the dog dances and whimpers. Trudy grabs the leash. “Wow, she really has to go.”

“Probably all that artichoke dip.” I can’t stop myself.

“Want to come with?”

“Well, I took my shoes off.” I sigh as if I’d just gone to the effort of removing figure skates. “I think I’ll enjoy the AC.” I’d rather look around her place.

“We’ll be back in a jiff!”

Based on the way Lou waddles and hesitates to hop down the low front step, I doubt that.

While they’re out, I browse Trudy’s bookshelves, use her bathroom, peek inside the vanity. There’s nothing remarkable.

I’m about to head into her bedroom when I hear the front door creak open. They’re back sooner than I expected.

“Sorry about that,” Trudy calls.

“You’ve done a nice job with the place,” I say.

“Thank you!” She beams and sweeps into the lemon-yellow kitchen to wash her hands. “Still filling in some bare spots left by Jeremy.” She blows an exhale that lifts her bangs. “Have a seat.”

The metal chair’s legs scrape against the linoleum. As I sit at the small pink Formica table, the vinyl seat flattens beneath me like a whoopee cushion.

Trudy removes a Pyrex dish from the fridge and places it on the stovetop. Then she goes back in and grabs two bottles of wine. “White or rosé?”

“Water’s great, thanks. Or iced tea if you have it.” I stoop to scratch between Lou’s ears. The dog lets out a low growl.

“Louisa, hush!” Trudy says to the dog, then to me, “It’s Friday night. Don’t make me drink alone!”

Alcohol doesn’t mix well with my meds, but I can’t tell her that. “I have to drive home.”

“Yes, but like a mile—two tops.” She laughs. “I’m pretty sure you could do it with your eyes closed."

“I don’t like to take any chances and I might go for a longer drive later.”

“A drive?” She wrestles the cork from the bottle of rosé. “There’s nothing here. We just came from the most exciting place in town. Where could you possibly go?”

She’s not wrong. The movie theater closed at the end of last summer. There’s a dive bar on the outskirts that’s connected to a bowling alley and a froyo place that also sells soup and sushi. It closes by 8 p.m.—even on weekends. And that’s the end of the tour, folks.

“Just around.” Here’s another thing I can’t tell her. Sometimes I drive by Molly’s mom’s place. She’s pretty frail now. I watch her through her sheer curtains, stooped shoulders, hair matted in the back from sitting all day, watching television. She’s tiny, shrunken, like an action figure of herself minus the action. She used to be so glamorous with her red lipstick and long nails with matching polish. The first time I saw her was at the funeral, her hair dark and shiny against her coat’s white fur collar. Shoulders quaking from her deep choking sobs, barely able to light a cigarette outside the church.

“A school nurse, smoking like that.” The other women shook their heads, jealous that even in grief, Patsy Mason was still prettier than all of them combined.

“Honestly, I don’t know why I haven’t left here yet.” Trudy gulps her wine then turns to place the casserole in the oven. “My mom, my sisters, even my grandma told me not to follow Jeremy after college, and like a fool, I did. If I were a character in a novel, I would literally scream at myself.”

I offer a little laugh. “Some characters deserve to be screamed at, but I’m sure you wouldn’t be one of them.”

“The lease is in my name. It’s up in September.” She refills her glass and sighs. “Got the summer to decide. You have vacation plans? Any friends or family visiting from out of town?”

M.J. Archer! I nearly blurt but I shouldn’t tell anyone. Molly hasn’t even given me a date yet. How will I make it through the weekend if I don’t hear from her? I shake my head. “Nope. No plans.” The air in the kitchen feels thick, close, smothering. “I think I’ll have a little wine after all.”

“I knew you’d come around!” Trudy does an elaborate twirl toward the cabinet to fetch another glass. She pours a generous amount and takes a seat across from me, the puffy cushion wheezing beneath her. She stares at me quizzically, her index finger circling the rim of her glass. “So, why do you do it—drive around, I mean?”

“Settles my nerves, I guess.”

“What nerves?” Trudy giggles. “We spend all day in a library. Yes, plenty of patrons are grating, but you really can’t ask for a more peaceful setting.” She stands and opens the oven door to remove a sheet of foil from the casserole.

I’m hit with an unwelcome blast of heat. She sticks her thumb in the corner of the dish. The wine’s made her loose, sloppy. A blob of tuna drops from her thumb to the linoleum floor. “Whoops!” She licks what’s left on her finger and Lou, showing a bit of hustle, trots over to scarf it up. “You’re a volunteer! You can leave any time. Or don’t come every day.”

My cheeks burn, visibly I assume, because Trudy covers her mouth with her hand. “Oh, I don’t mean to downplay your contribution. You’re a huge help, I just mean there’s no reason to feel anxious there.”

“Thanks.” I let the awkwardness linger alongside the smell of tuna and wet dog.

She sits again and wipes her hand on a napkin. “Do you mind if we skip Scrabble? Jeremy and I played most Friday nights and it feels, I don’t know, too soon.”

“Sure, no, of course.”

“I’ve got something else if you’re game.” She reaches into a kitschy turquoise bread box and removes a deck of cards. “Jeremy always complained that I didn’t have enough interests.” Bright blues and oranges blur as she shuffles. This isn’t any ordinary deck. “A few weeks ago, a patron asked me to help her find books on reading tarot and I thought, ‘That sounds like a lot more fun than solitaire, right?’” She continues rearranging the cards without breaking eye contact. “I’m still pretty new to this, but I could give you a reading.” Louisa nudges Trudy’s leg and whines. “Lou’s not a fan of the occult. Ignore her, please.”

Beneath the table, the dog snorts and farts.

“How old is she?”

“Eight. Can you believe someone returned her? She’d been at the shelter for six months.” She stoops to cover Lou’s floppy ears. “Nobody wanted her. I thought I’d bring home a puppy but how could I turn down that face?”

I study the dog, sad jowls hang beneath the drooping, bloodshot eyes of a divorced dad on a bender.

“What can I say?” Trudy shrugs. “I’m a softie. So, how about that reading?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Yay!” She claps, hops up, and returns with matches and a stick of incense.

“Before we begin, set an intention. What do you want to know?”

I want to know if Molly is really coming but I can’t ask that. It would be like telling someone your birthday wish after blowing out the candles.

She fans out the deck. “Take three.”

I pull from the center, then left, then right.

She places the cards side by side. “Remember: You’re choosing the cards but they’re also choosing you. Or at least that’s what I read online.” She straightens her eyeglasses. “These will represent your past, present and future. Where would you like to begin?”

I point and glance at the amethyst ring, drawing her gaze to it.

“Where’d you get that?” she asks. “A secret admirer?”

I instantly regret not leaving it in the lost-and-found. “It was my mom’s.”

“Aw, that’s lovely. Such a special reminder. I haven’t seen you wear it before. Felt like you needed a little extra comfort today? I get it.”

Shortly after I started at the library, Trudy found me searching medications on the internet. I told her I was grieving the loss of my mom, that I felt such guilt about her death. She asked about my dad and I said I’d lost him too, though I was a child when he passed.

“An orphan.” She’d swept a maternal hand toward me and pushed a lock of hair behind my ear.

She’s tried to take me under her wing ever since. I’m another pet project. Louisa with longer legs.

I touch a card and Trudy flips it. “Ah! The Six of Cups. Someone from your past is coming.” Trudy purses her lips and I take a drink. “Do you think it’s your ex?”

It’s Molly. The dark hairs on my arms prickle.

“I just got chills! Did you feel it too?” Trudy shivers. “Something’s about to happen! I love it.”

“We’ll see.” I hunch forward.

“Pick again.”

Smoke from the incense spirals between us. My nose twitches and I try not to sneeze as I tap another card. It shows a heart pierced by three swords.

Trudy nods. “Okay, now that makes sense. This represents a period of mourning.” She reaches across the table to take my hand. “You’ve had a lot of loss. Remember, sadness is a town we all pass through at some point. Oh man, where did I read that?”

I take a long gulp of wine. The first sip made me think of gasoline and apple juice but I’m down to an inch now, wondering how I’d forgotten this fuzzy feeling—like anything can happen and none of it matters.

Mama didn’t really drink more than a few drops on holidays. She said Daddy ruined it for her. Maybe I get my taste for it from him. I’ll pick up a few bottles for Molly’s visit. At our feet, Lou whines. Trudy shushes her.

The third card is the Wheel of Fortune.

“This one’s a reminder that life is always changing. No kidding,” Trudy hiccups. “Your ‘fortune’ could be improving,” she sits up straighter before deflating, “or, wait, actually, it’s reversed so that’s more negative external forces or, like, bad luck.” Trudy notices my face pinch because she hastily sweeps the cards off the table. “You know what? I’m sorry, I don’t really know what I’m doing. Let’s stop here.”

She thanks the cards for their assistance, reshuffles the deck, and sticks them in the bread box.

“I mean, take what I said with a grain of salt. I’m still new at this.” She leaps to her feet. “This dish doesn’t need to be piping hot. What do you say we dig in?”

We drink more than we eat, Trudy going on about how she’s always wanted to write a fictionalized account of Juliette Gordon Low, founder of the Girl Scouts. I swallow a yawn. Lou continues whimpering and tap dancing beside the table.

“Not again!” Trudy takes off her glasses and rubs her face. Without them she looks like a different person, plain, sad. “This will be her fifth poop of the day.”

“I should go.”

“But we haven’t had dessert yet! I was hoping we could watch Jeopardy! together. The reigning champion is a librarian.”

“Next time.” As I stand, the chair tips behind me. I catch it before it hits the floor.

“Are you okay to drive? Want us to walk you home?”

A headache builds at the base of my skull. I’m not used to all this talking or the wine. I’m woozy.

“I’m good.”

“Got any plans for the rest of the weekend?” She clips the leash to Lou’s collar. Crap, she is going to walk me to the library.

“Nothing special. Cleaning out my garage.”

“I thought you rented?”

All the courtroom dramas Mama and I watched flood back. I want to channel a prosecutor, tell Trudy, “No more questions!”

“I’ve got my mom’s things in there. I should sort them. Donate some stuff.”

“You have any brothers or sisters who can lend a hand?"

I shake my head. “It was just my mom and me.”

On the sidewalk in front of her house, she places her hand over mine. It’s awkward because of the chunky purple ring and her fingers are a little slimy from the tuna, but it also feels nice. It’s been a long time since anyone touched me.

“We’re old souls, you and I. We feel things deeply. I could help if you’d like,” she says.

No thank you. I like my privacy.

“Maybe after I do an initial round?” I can imagine her stopping by to assist or offer emotional support. I need to short circuit that. “I might check on an old friend. Get out of town for a bit.”

“Huh.” She’s focused on Lou sniffing a dandelion and pulls out her phone to snap a pic. The dog loses interest and tugs Trudy toward a side street. “She’s got a special ‘spot,’ so … see you Monday?”

“Pay her a compliment!” Mama’s voice floats, soft as a whisper, inside my ear.

“Sounds good, and thanks again, that was delicious.”

It was weird actually, oily with soggy potato chips crushed on top, but at home I’d have eaten a bowl of Cap’n Crunch while listening to Molly’s book so at least I’m trying new things.

It’s time I pushed out of my comfort zone.

Chapter 9

Molly

Tall pines ring Trails End, Dan’s condo complex. “More like ‘Dead End,’” I whisper each time I pass the black and beige sign at the entrance.

Clusters of small bungalows bear faded green shutters. Like old men who can’t keep their pants up, most hang low and crooked. Some have slats missing, giving the whole place a down-on-its-luck summer resort vibe.

The first time I dropped off the children, Dan read my face and knew his new home made a lackluster impression.

“It’s all I can afford now, thanks to—” he waved a limp hand between us “—this.”

After conceding that his role as “interested customer number two” in a local car dealership commercial was probably the pinnacle of his acting career, Dan gave up his dream of one day owning a Hollywood mansion and accepted a job at a bank where someone owed his dad a favor.

I used half of my book advance as a down payment on my house.

“Not too shabby,” Dan had said when he stepped from my deep front porch through the double entryway doors. I watched as he took it in—the fireplace, the wide plank floors, the wood beams overhead. The ultimate country estate, brimming with one-of-a-kind charm, the real estate listing read. I couldn’t have written it better.

“You got lucky nabbing this place,” my ex-husband had said, as if hard work or talent never factored into the equation.

Heather’s rent payments help cover taxes and insurance.

Earlier, after I brought the kids home from school, I ran to the cottage to stick a bucket beneath the leaky sink. It was strange and interesting to walk through the cottage while Heather was out, seeing someone else’s belongings scattered throughout a space I own. I’d have been tempted to poke around but I left Isaac and Ingrid in the kitchen devouring their afternoon snacks. Without me, they’d go back for seconds and thirds, and when they failed to eat dinner at Dan’s, he’d blame me.

As I headed toward the door to leave, I spotted it—Birds at Night—facedown on the steamer trunk that served as a coffee table. My headshot on the back cover caught me by surprise, kind of like when you think you’re looking into another room only to realize it’s a mirror. Why hadn’t Heather mentioned she had a copy? was my initial thought. Then I wondered if maybe she’d hated it.

I’d read somewhere that the more success you attain, the more fragile your ego becomes. I’m proof of that, still curious about Heather’s opinion hours later.

I swing the car into one of Trails End’s visitor spots. If Dan had a freestanding house, I could let the children out, watch them run inside, and wave goodbye while driving off. No need to interact with their father. Because Dan’s unit is tucked away behind the garbage and recycling shed, I need to park and walk the kids along a windy path to his door.

I glance in the rearview mirror expecting to find Ingrid sucking her thumb. She gets anxious before these drop-offs, inventing various ailments, whining, then flatly refusing to get out of the car. Other times, she suddenly remembers that she forgot to pack underwear or socks and needs to return home with me.

It breaks my heart to see her so upset and I know it hurts Dan. Initially, he tried to placate her with a pirate sock puppet routine. “Ahoy, matey! Walk the plank to the freezer for a popsicle!”

It worked once, maybe twice. Now he suspects I’ve done or said something that’s made our daughter reluctant to spend time at his place,

Tonight, though, she’s calm, serene. I’m glad but it’s unexpected.

“Ready?” I ask.

Ingrid meets my gaze in the mirror.

“Daddy has a surprise for us!” Her hazel eyes sparkle as she raises her fists in excitement.

“Really?” I ask. “What makes you think that?”

Dan is as prone to surprises as monkeys are to flight.

“He told me!” She nods confidently. “Last night when we FaceTimed. He says we’re gonna love it. Especially me!”

“Well, then I guess we should go see what it is!” I grab the key fob, open the car door, and grit my teeth. If Dan disappoints them, I’ll kill him.

As usual, Isaac runs ten feet ahead of us. Ingrid does a skip-jog to keep up. This “surprise” is undoubtedly the reason she packed so quickly and without a single complaint this afternoon.

Despite the rain and the fact that I have a backpack slung over each shoulder, there’s a spring in my step too. I’m eager to get back to my story, my characters. I can feel them talking to me, telling me where they want to go next. Sometimes, when I’m lucky, writing holds that same mystifying thrill I’d only ever felt hovering over a Ouija board at a middle-school sleepover. Connecting with another world, voices from beyond. If they’re willing to speak, I need to listen.

As a reward for making progress this afternoon, I’ll stop at Rocco’s on the way home, treat myself to pasta primavera or a few slices of their burrata and basil pizza. Then, I’ll open a nice bottle of wine, pour it into a real glass this time, and continue where I left off. Tomorrow, I’ll type everything from my journal into the Word doc.

Though we’re early, Dan is waiting at the door. Through the foggy gray drizzle I make out something in his arms. White and fluffy. A new stuffed animal? I brace for Ingrid’s impending disappointment when suddenly it moves. A mouth opens and a soft meow escapes.

“A kitten!” Ingrid’s squeal radiates pure joy.

Isaac yanks the storm door open.

“Gentle.” Dan takes a step back, kitten squirming in his arms. “Easy now."

“Daddy, can I hold her?” Ingrid jumps up and down, arms windmilling. “She’s so cute!”

“Is it a boy or a girl?” Isaac holds out his hand for the kitten to sniff.

“A girl,” Dan whispers.

“Yay!” Ingrid, who has begged for a pet for as long as she could speak, turns to me. “Mommy! Look how cute! Touch her! Feel how soft!”

“I can’t, sweetheart. I’m allergic to cats,” I say. Dan knows this.

“What’s her name?” Isaac continues.

“I thought we could pick one together.”

“What about Snowball?” Isaac suggests. “Or Marshmallow?”

“What about Kitty-Cat?” Ingrid counters. She’s got her father’s lack of imagination. “What about Ingrid?” she tries again.

“That might get a little confusing.” Dan chuckles as Isaac laughs and shakes his head.

I haven’t seen my children this happy in ages. It almost softens the rage I feel toward Dan, who refused to let them bring home a goldfish from the county fair.

“Snowball,” Isaac says again.

“Snowflake!” Ingrid stomps her foot.

“What about Snowy?” Dan proposes as if he is skilled at the art of compromise, as if he is not the same man who fought me for a spatula when we divided our household.

“Snowy!” the children say in unison and step inside. The storm door slams, leaving me on the rain-soaked welcome mat.

Dan juts his chin toward the backpacks I’m still carrying and then nods at the step stool in his small entryway. “Can you set them on the bench? Got my hands full here.” He wears a heroic grin as Isaac scratches between the kitten’s ears and Ingrid strokes the pale pink pads on Snowy’s paws.

“I’d rather not.” I set the backpacks on a patch of concrete the rain hasn’t touched.

“Really, Molly? You can’t even—”

“Come in, Mommy! Come in!” Ingrid pleads.

“Does Snowy have any toys?” Isaac asks. “What about a bed?”

“In the other room.” Dan tilts his head toward the living area and they scamper down the narrow hall. He shoots me a pleading look.

I sigh, hoist the bags onto my shoulders, and open the door. The kitten twists and wriggles in Dan’s hands and he adjusts, cradling her as if she’s his very own newborn.

As I bend to set the backpacks on the stool, his voice, low and sharp, fills my ear.

“Do not get the lawyers involved.” Dan holds the cat so close her tail pokes and tickles the inside of my nostrils.

I jerk back and sneeze.

“I’m serious, Molly. Don’t.” His pupils are dark and wide as checkers, his teeth set together like a mold in a dentist’s office.

For a moment, fear creeps in. My body tenses in response to his anger. If only he’d known how to harness it, his acting career might’ve taken off.

I remind myself I have money and that gives me the upper hand. I match his expression, baring my teeth, widening my eyes.

The kitten meows as Dan’s grip tightens around her middle. Isaac and Ingrid rush in at the sound of her cry.

If the children weren’t here, watching us, I’d get right in Dan’s face, throw his words back at him. “Be advised,” I’d hiss, “you’re going to pay one way or another.”

Chapter 10

Molly

Ihunt for Benadryl while I wait for the kettle to whistle. Tea with honey and allergy meds should stop the relentless itch in my ears and throat that started when Dan all but rammed that cat’s tail up my nostrils.

“Does your homeowners association allow pets?” I almost asked but stopped myself. I couldn’t upset Isaac and Ingrid. I haven’t seen them that excited since I surprised them with a trip to an indoor water park during their spring break.

My phone chimes. Every few minutes, Isaac sends a video of the kitten rolling on her back, pawing at the air, resting in Ingrid’s lap. Just the sight of the animal makes my nose twitch.

How long did Dan have this little “surprise” in the works? For years, I’ve thought of him as unimaginative, basic. He’s getting more creative. Two can play at that game. He should know not to underestimate me, and yet he always does.

My stomach growls. On the drive home, sniffly and seething, I spaced out and sped past Rocco’s. So much for treating myself to homemade pasta or mouthwatering pizza. There’s nothing to eat here except cereal, but I didn’t get a chance to replace the spoiled milk. I open the freezer. Not even a frost-burned waffle awaits. It’s fine. I’ve lost my appetite. I sneeze twice more, pour tap water into my mug, and choke down the bright pink pill.

“Fucking Dan.” I slam the shrieking kettle onto a cool back burner. I should channel this anger into my writing. All afternoon, I couldn’t wait to get back to my desk, to dive into the story. Now I’ve lost that motivation too. The voices have gone silent. I clutch the counter as I sneeze again. I cannot afford to waste a second of quiet.

In my office, seated at my desk, I dunk my ginger-peach tea bag in the scalding water, and psych myself up to write. I can do this! I have done this! I can do this again! My usual mantra feels as tired and uninspired as I do. Stalling, I open my email. My gaze lands on Anna Fox’s message.

A quick online search of her name plus “Ohio” brings up a few links. A nurse practitioner in Cincinnati, an insurance executive in Dayton, a high school honor student, which might explain the childish “Yaaaaaaay!!!!” but teen Anna Fox lives nowhere near Milltown.

I’ll call Gavin this weekend. He remembers everyone and everything—good and bad—from high school. He’ll tell me all I need to know. If Google took the form of a man with perfect hair and an aversion to animal prints, it would be Gavin. I should call Mom too, find out which week works best for our visit. Maybe she’ll know Anna. In her days as a school nurse, Mom floated around the district, filling in at the elementary, middle, and high schools as needed. She may even still see Anna around town.

I jot “Call Gavin and Mom” on a Post-it, stick it on top of my journal, and return to my inbox.

As expected, Georgia has sent her regular Friday check-in. The subject simply reads Chapters. She usually writes Pages? Chapters means she’s expecting more. Her patience, like my imagination, is reaching its limit.

If I don’t open her message, it’ll hang over me. I click on it, one eye squeezed shut.

Rain expected all weekend. Perfect reading weather. Would love a glimpse at your new chapters while trapped indoors. Please send ASAP. xx

I pore over everything I wrote in the journal hours earlier. It’s not nearly as riveting as I remembered. The word “only” appears four times over two paragraphs. A new character comes off as flat, one-dimensional. Everyone’s dialogue sounds the same. My eyes water. I don’t know if it’s cat-related or tears of frustration. How are these the same pages I was so thrilled with earlier?

Still, I should type it all up. I take a deep breath and open the document, which I’ve unimaginatively titled Birds at Night Part Deux. Georgia says finish the manuscript first and we’ll worry about what to call it later.

Despite my recent success, self-doubt wriggles and worms inside the folds of my brain, mocking. Hey! Remember me? I’m here in case you forgot you’re no good at this!

Three published novels, five unfinished manuscripts started during or after college, and a handful of one-act plays performed at festivals, and still, it’s there, a squatter I can’t seem to evict. One good sentence can banish it temporarily. But it’s never far off. When I wrote my first two books, there was no pressure—zero expectation. Now, my agent, editor, and readers are waiting for me to deliver and I’m frozen.

I can’t share these new pages with Georgia tonight. They’re crap. Even if they weren’t, she’ll take one look and realize exactly how far behind I am.

With each blink of the cursor, stark against the blank screen, seconds tick by. I sip my tea and blow my nose, the skin beneath it already red and stinging. An antihistamine fog settles over me as the allergy meds kick in. Simply lowering my cup to its saucer requires effort.

I stand and move toward the couch. The children and I picked it out at IKEA. They whined the whole way there but quickly came around once they spotted the enormous ball pit where they played happily for thirty minutes. The next day we all had pink eye.

Before I sink into the cushions, I pull a copy of Birds at Night from the bookshelf that hangs above the sofa. Georgia suggested that I strategically position it opposite my desk. The decorative dark wood ledge holds a dozen hardcovers of my novel. Ten stand side by side, their blood red spines commanding attention against my soft butter-yellow office walls. Two copies face out.

“Every interview you do on camera, boom! There’s your book behind you,” Georgia had said. “Are you familiar with the Rule of Seven?”

It sounded vaguely familiar.

“Studies show the average person needs to see something at least seven times before they begin to recognize it and think about buying it. The more often readers see Birds at Night, the more they’ll want it.”

To me, it’s more than just a marketing ploy. With the books there and Birds at Night’s framed cover above my desk, this office reminds me that I can write.

Whenever I get really stuck, I reach for a copy of the novel. The weight of it in my hands, the pages and pages of words, the characters and their worlds, they’re proof that I’ve done this before. They’re the hope that I can do it again.

I turn the book over and study my author photo. It was taken in the park where I sometimes bring Isaac and Ingrid after school. Gold and crimson autumn leaves from the gorgeous oak trees fan out behind me. I was thinner then, from stress. “The divorce diet,” I joked with friends who asked if I’d given up carbs.

In the headshot, my skin looks creamy, unlined, flawless, not a fly-away hair in sight.

“Are you sure you’re not a magician?” I asked the photographer when she shared the proofs.

“Just remember me when you’re famous, M.J.” She’d whistled. “This book is devious and delicious.” She’d asked to read an early copy for “photo shoot inspo.”

I turn the book over, fingers tracing the tagline: How much truth are you willing to tell?

I’d forgotten what a battle it was coming up with that. The publisher kept pushing for something bird-related to complement the title. We almost had to go with: Will the truth set you free or trap you in the cage you made? Thankfully, Georgia pushed back, earning her fifteen percent.

A thought hits me: Could The Cage You Made be a good title for book two? I jot it on a Post-it to run by Georgia. I always think I’ll remember these ideas. I never do.

I flop onto the couch, rearranging the silly throw pillows my former agent Denise gifted me following the publication of each of my first two novels. In a kitschy typewriter font, they read: Careful or you'll end up in my novel! and You're an interesting character…

I open to the page where I left off with Sebastian, taking a second to shut my eyes and replay the lovely things he said about my writing. Each compliment works like a B12 shot, injecting confidence, which is in short supply these days.

Rereading connects me with the voice, the tone, the characters. Each time I go over the story, I discover details I can weave into the sequel. At least that’s what I tell myself as I lie back and settle into the world I created.

Chapter Two.

Carly isn’t surprised when, within the first few weeks, Clem is embraced by the 530s—the “cool” girls who live in the 530 wing of The Carthage.

This wannabe sorority hosts a floor-wide happy hour on Thursdays and Fridays at 5:30 p.m., giving their self-appointed nickname a beloved double meaning.

Hand over ten dollars or Venmo Ellery, the ringleader, in exchange for a red Solo cup that grants the holder “bottomless beverages.” Revelers have a choice of domestic canned beer or colorful cocktails made with juice swiped from the cafeteria and low-tier liquors purchased with fake IDs or by older guys who accept payment in a variety of non-monetary forms.

If Ellery is occupied pouring shots, find any of the 530s. They’re easy to spot in the identical t-shirts they had specially made. White and tight, they feature a golden placard across their breasts, the numbers 5-3-0 followed by an ’s' in a bold black font, perfectly centered. On the back are nicknames like “Punch” and “Gin-Gin.” Clem, an honorary member, is “Vitamin C.”

“Where are Ponyboy and Sodapop?” Carly asks one Thursday evening when Clem stumbles into 514 to touch up her makeup before rushing off again. The Outsiders reference falls flat once she has to explain it to Clem, who never read the classic novel.

Carly hasn’t attended any of these happy hours—dubbed “pregaming” by the 530s. She tells Clem she has too much homework.

“They wrap up by seven,” Clem says. “You’ve got the whole night left.”

That’s the extent of Clem’s persuading but that’s not the end of the evening—not for the inner circle. They board the 7:15 p.m. shuttle and let it sweep them down the long, twisty driveway that reminds Carly of the slide in Chutes & Ladders, a game she played with her dad. One of her last good memories.

Once the 530s are deposited on campus, they sway their way toward the downtown for dinner and, later, land at the row houses where parties rage until dawn. Carly hasn’t been to those either but Clem fills her in at brunch inside The Carthage’s wood paneled dining room.

“You should come sometime,” Clem suggests, nudging powdered eggs around her plate with the half-moon of a cardboardy bagel. “It’s a blast, but,” Clem pauses to sip her black coffee, “you absolutely cannot miss the last shuttle from campus. Punch and I almost had to crash at The Hole—” She makes a “gag me” gesture. The Hole is one of the more popular but sketchier frat houses. “But we hiked it, and oh, Car, even wasted it was like Mt. fucking Everest.”

Carly smiles through the rest of Clem’s recount, delighted in her role as confidante.

While she’ll never accompany her new friend, it’s nice to be asked. At least the 530s are smart enough to travel in pairs, trios, quartets.

“When you go to parties, try not to walk home alone if you can help it,” her mother had said, another drop of wisdom distilled on the long drive to the university. “You can never be too careful.”

“It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?” Carly wanted to say but didn’t.

They don’t talk about the past—at least not that part of it.

Carly watches the 530s in the lobby and in the rickety, shuddering elevator, always growing their crew, adding contact info to their fancy phones in their custom cases. No one asks for her number.

As if on cue, my phone pings. I left it in the kitchen. The children are probably sending more kitten videos. Could I add them to my social media? I’m always scrambling for fresh content. No. I can’t risk Dan threatening me or writing something obnoxious in the comments like I’ve used footage of his pet without his consent.

After I finish this chapter, I’ll FaceTime the kids to say goodnight.

Is it her clothes? Carly knows her overalls make her look as stylish as a scarecrow. Her glasses with their dark round frames are outdated and too small for her face. And then there’s her straight brown hair, which she’s never known how to wear.

On the nights when Clem is out, Carly explores her room. They leave the door that separates 512 from 514 open. Clem’s idea.

“Gives it a more spacious vibe, right?” she’d said.

An only child, Carly’s never had ready access to someone else’s belongings. Stepping into Clem’s lair fills her with a kid-on-Christmas-morning energy, not that her childhood holidays were particularly magical, but she’s seen the commercials.

Half archeologist, half anthropologist, Carly digs, hunts, studies her finds—a charm bracelet, a silver gum wrapper with the words “Don’t forget about me” scratched in blue ink on the white underside and signed “Trey.” Beneath Clem’s pillow, where Carly lays her head, inhaling the scent of her new friend’s fruity shampoo, she finds a moleskin journal. The inside cover bears the inscription “For the girl who finds beauty wherever she goes … xo Evie.”

Who is Trey? Who is Evie? And who is Clem, the golden girl, who doesn’t seem to notice that Carly is different?

Carly flips through the pages. To-do lists, a few doodles, butterflies, a sketch of a mountain range she recognizes as the view beyond their windows.

Large swaths of time pass as Carly burrows beneath Clem’s luxurious duvet, admiring the black-and-white photographs on the walls. At first, Carly thought they were posters—these close-ups of a ladybug, a lily pad, reeds poking out of a pond, a blurred barn behind them. Clem, an art major, shot them. Carly can’t imagine going to school to study something that may or may not make any money. To pursue a degree purely for the love of it, that idea is foreign.

Sometimes Carly takes things back to her room to experience the thrill of watching Clem rush in the following day to ask, “Car, I can’t find my hairbrush. Help me look?”

“Be right there,” Carly answers and, once Clem is back in her own room, retrieves the item she buried in the pocket of her winter coat or stuffed inside a boot. She loves returning these “lost” belongings to Clem then basking in her friend’s gratitude.

When she can’t sleep, Carly replays Clem’s words “You’re the best! How’d you find it? I literally looked everywhere.”

After her phone charger disappeared, Clem said, “This makes me sound like a horrible person, but do you think the cleaning lady’s taking my things?”

“What cleaning lady?”

“The one who empties my wastebasket and makes my bed.”

“I do that,” Carly said before she could stop herself.

Instead of looking weirded out, Clem smiled and squeezed Carly’s arm.“What would I do without you?”

Carly misses Clem when she’s not on the other side of the wall. While she plunders her way through her organic chem homework, she keeps an ear pricked for Clem. She’s found herself surprisingly attached to this girl, with whom, if she’s honest, she has almost nothing in common.

When Carly spotted the first sign for the university’s exit on her drive to school, her stomach pitched. If she’d been in the dorm, she’d have been assigned a roommate. They might not have become best friends, but it would’ve been someone—someone who had to talk to her. She’d spent most of her childhood alone. This was supposed to be different. Consumed by nerves, Carly confessed to her mom that she was anxious.

“Don’t give it another thought, Carleen.” Her mother waved a dismissive hand. “You’ll have plenty in common with the girls on your floor. I always pictured college like one big slumber party. Doing each other’s hair and makeup. Talking about boys.”

Her mom couldn’t relate. If she’d ever felt a speck of loneliness, she quickly remedied it.

As a child, spinning on a stool at the Waffle Shop counter, Carly had watched grown men spill coffee on their camo hoodies when her mother batted her blue eyes at them. Before the dinner rush, her mother would use the shiny metal side of a napkin dispenser to line her lips, then fill them in with gloss until her mouth reminded Carly of a ripe plum.

“Big lips mean big tips.” She’d wink at Carly and boop her daughter’s nose with the eraser end of her pencil on her way to take orders.

Carly didn’t know the first thing about makeup or boys but she wanted to believe her mother. Someone in The Carthage would befriend her.

Things will be okay, Carly told herself as they passed a deer grazing on the side of the highway. She fiddled with the radio, spinning the dial through a haze of static.

“We’re heading into the mountains now, gonna be tough to get a signal,” her mother said.

Carly studied the skinny lines above her mother’s top lip. Souvenirs from years of smoking.

Hours earlier, at a rest stop somewhere in Pennsylvania, a scruffy guy in jeans and a flannel had started to follow Carly into the ladies’ room. She’d smelled him behind her. Tobacco and body odor. When she wheeled around, fists raised, he’d laughed and backed up.

“Take it easy now.” His close-set eyes roamed from her chest to her hips. “I didn’t read the sign. My bad.” He licked his lips before backing into the clearly marked men’s room.

As Carly waits in her room to hear Clem return, she thinks about all the terrible things that can happen to a girl when no one is looking out for her.

She realizes there is something she, Clem, and the 530s have in common. Women are prey.

I close the book and shut my eyes. Rain taps the window. Benadryl has all but knocked me out but at least it’s taken the edge off Dan’s little “surprise.” For him, this kitten packs a two-for-one punch: piss me off and win over the children.

I can’t let it rattle me. I have too much to do. I need to stay strong. If nothing else, rereading this chapter reminded me of that.

I stand, stiff from lying too long in one position. As I slide the book back onto the shelf, words tumble slowly through my mind. A phrase lurks at the edge of consciousness—a thing I’ve always known, wisdom I need to instill in my daughter, a statement I want readers to put on a t-shirt and scream from mountaintops. A rallying cry I realize now may be the perfect tagline for book two: Always the hunter, never the prey.

Chapter 11

Anna

It’s hot and gross inside the car but I’m grateful to be alone, away from Trudy with her questions, and her gassy pet.

As I turn the key, the engine chokes and sputters. What kind of car does Molly drive? Something practical for transporting the kids? Or did she blow a chunk of her book money on a flashy “look at me now” ride? How can I find out?

What kind of a stupid thought is that? Am I drunk? My arms hang limp, heavy as anchors. There’s an odd dinging. Am I imagining it? No. I’m not wearing a seatbelt. I click it into place and put the car in reverse. Clutching the steering wheel with both hands, I exit the library parking lot and pass the park. Teenagers sit in the gazebo drinking, laughing, making out. Others cartwheel across the grass. I can’t remember ever being that carefree. I roll up the windows and turn on the air conditioning. The car makes a screeching sound like a bird’s trapped under the hood.

At a red light, I shut my eyes. Images from the cards flash up along with Trudy’s voice, “Someone from your past is coming back.”

A horn blares behind me.

I should go home. The wine’s knocked me out. Little clouds of gloomy gray fog hang low, making it seem later than it is. I drive in slow loops down side streets. It’s quiet in the car. Too quiet. I switch on the stereo. I forgot where I left off. Marla Davis’s voice is so smooth and rich, I wonder who chose her: Molly or the publisher? I hope Marla narrates the sequel. Will Molly turn in that manuscript before she gets here? Birds at Night ended on a cliffhanger. Where will she take the story next?

I drive toward Sycamore Street. Even with the AC cranked full blast, I’m sweating. I’d like to peel off my turtleneck, drive in my bra. The thought makes me laugh out loud. I miss a line and have to rewind. I love this chapter—the slow, subtle way the reader begins to understand it’s all about to go batshit. I settle back into the car seat and let Marla transport me deep inside the crumbling Carthage.

Clem is supposed to stay in. For days she’s existed in a mild state of panic about her entry level Renaissance Masters class. She has a D going into the midterm. To ease her anxiety, Carly offers to help make flashcards, quiz her.

In Carly’s vision of how the night will go, they’ll sit on Clem’s bed, splitting a bag of microwave popcorn, learning all they can about Michelangelo.

That’s the plan … until Ellery, the 530s’ queen bee, shows up.

A former gymnast, Ellery bounds into Clem’s room, knocking as she enters, wired as a Jack Russell terrier. A guy she likes—a soccer player—is hosting a party. Ellery needs a wingwoman, and with that, painters, sculptors, and Carly are forgotten.

“What about Raphael and da Vinci?” Carly crosses from 512 into 514.

Ellery jumps back, startled. “Jesus Christ! What are you, part ninja? You scared the shit out of me.” She turns to Clem. “Who is that?”

Clem has already introduced Carly and Ellery twice. Once on campus and again in The Carthage’s dining room.

“You know Carly,” Clem says. “Carly, you remember Ellery, right?

Carly admires the way Clem gives people the benefit of the doubt. Carly’s own fuse runs short and hot now.

“Right, yeah.” Carly nods before turning her full attention to Clem. “Your midterm, I thought we … I’m halfway done with the flashcards.”

“If you could keep going and quiz me at breakfast, that would be amazing!” Clem says.

“Problem solved.” Ellery tugs Clem’s arm. “Now c’mon. Help me decide what to wear.”

“Wait two seconds.” Clem steps into the bathroom to freshen her makeup.

Carly is barely back in her room when Ellery says, “Dude, that was fucked up. She popped out like a Jack-in-the-Box.” Ellery makes no attempt to whisper as she mimes coiling low and springing forward. “That’s what I’m calling her from now on—Jack. But for real, you should keep that door shut. And locked.”

Carly’s mouth turns dry before she hears Clem’s reassuring, “Stop! Carly’s awesome.”

Ellery cackles. “Yeah, awesome cause she does whatever you say.”

Three hours have passed since Clem left. Two since Carly finished the Renaissance flashcards. She doesn’t regret working on them. If she never makes it to Europe to see these works of art in person, at least she’s aware they exist. But is that almost worse?

It’s after eleven as Carly lies in Clem’s bed. She should be reviewing her lab notes, prepping for next week’s bio midterm. But she’d rather be here. Her room is drafty. No matter how she adjusts the thermostat, nothing happens. Is it her imagination or is it warmer in 514?

In the middle of the night when bad dreams jolt Carly awake and she can’t stop shivering, she stands at the foot of Clem’s bed and watches her sleep.

Where Carly’s room is spare, Clem’s is cozy. Her mom sends a care package once a week. When she includes cookies or a canister of herbal tea, Clem shares with Carly. Is this what having a sister is like? Carly wonders.

This afternoon’s package contained a sweater. After she unwrapped the box, Clem made an exaggerated “Aw,” and left it in a lump on her desk chair. The label says cashmere and it’s softer than a house cat.

Between the flannel sheets and beneath the duvet, Carly strokes the sleeves and the chill she’s felt since Clem left with Ellery subsides. She should get up, finish her work, go to bed. She’s got an early class in the morning. But she’d rather read Clem’s journal though it’s pretty blah. For all her enviable style and her photographer’s eye, she’s not much of a storyteller. There’s a bit about a guy she likes. She’s seen him at parties and walking to class but doesn’t know his name. He doesn’t seem to notice her. Carly guesses that’s a rare occurrence. She feels a fleeting trickle of sadness for Trey, the guy from the gum wrapper she found in Clem’s drawer with his “Don’t forget about me.” It seems like Clem has already forgotten. Carly reads on, eyelids growing heavy.

“I know exactly how you feel, Carly.” I turn right on Elm, then left onto Sycamore. I’ve heard this chapter, read it, a dozen times, and still it makes me tense, knowing what’s coming.

I’m almost there. Molly’s mom’s house is just up ahead. I slow to a crawl. I want to finish this part.

Carly is drooling, in such a deep sleep that she doesn’t hear the key in the lock. Instead, she’s awakened by Clem’s voice, shrill as an alarm clock, repeating “What the hell?”

Carly blinks at the journal, open on her chest, then up at her friend.

“Clem, hi. Sorry, I, I—” Carly stutters.

Clem doesn’t look like herself. Her usually shiny, perfect hair is matted like a wet dog’s fur. Makeup streaks her cheeks.

There have been reports of townies—high school boys from the area—hiding in bushes throwing beer or worse at university students stumbling home. Carly wants to ask Clem if that’s what happened but she’s afraid of the answer.

“What are you doing in here? Get up.”

Carly’s heart pounds like a kick drum yet she can’t seem to move.

“Go! Now!” Clem is panting. The elevator hasn’t worked in days. She must’ve climbed the five flights—six if you count the dozen between the lobby and the first floor.

Carly wants to fling back the duvet and run to her room, but she’s wearing Clem’s new sweater, its tag digging into her neck, and other than that—only underpants.

“Why are you in here?” Clem’s face contorts and it is the first time Carly sees her as anything but beautiful.

Carly’s thoughts buffer as she struggles to devise an escape plan. How can she get out of this bed without Clem thinking she’s lost it, without destroying this new friendship? When in doubt, answer a question with a question. “Did everything go okay with Ellery and that soccer guy?”

“Are you serious right now?” Clem’s hands frame her sweaty pink cheeks.

Carly tries again. “Why don’t you go to the bathroom and dry your hair and I’ll—”

“You’re in my bed. You’re reading my journal.” In one motion, Clem snatches the diary and rips back the blanket.“And you’re sleeping in my sweater? What the fuck? Where are your pants?”

She takes a step back, repulsed, as if the sight of Carly’s bare white thighs between her fancy flannel sheets is grotesque.

“Ellery might be a selfish bitch who ditched me to go off with a guy she barely knows, but she’s right, you are way too into me.” Clem sways, eyes glassy, her index finger stabbing at the air, pointing toward Carly’s room. “From now on, that door stays closed.”

I slow to a stop in front of Patsy Mason’s house. It’s small, in dire need of a paint job. The mailbox sits crooked on its post. It was probably nicer in its heyday. I’d have expected Molly to spruce it up a bit for her.

Patsy’s little Honda Civic is parked in the driveway. There’s a garbage can at the curb. Lid’s blown off. Do I replace it? Bring it up to the garage for her?

I shouldn’t call attention to myself. But it’s nearly dark. Too cloudy to even find the moon. The only light comes from the television in the front room.

I cut the engine and open the car door. My legs wobble from the wine. I shouldn’t have had it. But Trudy—her questions, her amateur fortune teller bit—got me anxious.

At the base of the short driveway, I pick up the lid and place it on the can, pressing down until it’s really on there. I won’t drag it up to the garage.

On my way back to the car, I straighten the mailbox. To my left, I sense movement and glance toward the house. A curtain flutters though there’s barely a breeze.

I drop into the driver’s seat and rest for a minute, windows down, head spinning, spent from the heat, the drinks, the long day.

Closing my eyes, I try to center myself. All I can focus on is the taste of Trudy’s tuna casserole. I reach into the glovebox, fish out a box of wintergreen Tic Tacs, and pop two into my mouth.

I stare at the garbage can, the mailbox. Look at that, I’ve done something nice for Molly’s mom.

It’s time to go.

I’m about to make a K-turn, head home, when lights in my rearview mirror momentarily blind me. The car doesn’t swerve, turn into a driveway, or pass. What’s this guy doing? I watch and wait, then another beam hits the side of my face. I jump.

“Evening, ma’am, can I see your license, registration, insurance?” It’s a man’s voice. He lowers the flashlight. A wall of navy—his uniformed torso—is all I see as my eyes struggle to adjust

Normally my heart would be vibrating out of my chest but thanks to the wine mixed with my meds, I’m spaced out. “Is something wrong, officer?”

“Got a call about your car.”

“My car?”

“You waiting for someone? Resident says they’ve seen you on the street, sitting, staring at that house.” He nods toward Patsy’s.

“Is it a crime to park on a side street?” I want to ask but the less I talk, the better.

“You were rooting through the trash?”

“My friend’s mom lives there.” I copy his nod. “I like to keep an eye on her.”

He aims the flashlight toward the house and the beam lands on a sad plastic planter of dead geraniums.

“I was replacing the lid on her garbage can for her. She’s frail. I worry. My friend and I—we both do. I—we— wouldn’t want her to know I’m checking up on her.” I lower my voice. “She’s very proud.”

“You’ve been coming around here a lot lately?”

I channel Carly, her confidence in a crisis: When in doubt, answer a question with a question.

“Was it Patsy who called? Did her voice sound off to your dispatcher?”

“I can’t answer that, ma’am. Just, you know, maybe go up to the door next time instead of lurking. Let her know you’re here if she needs anything.”

“I will, sir.”

“Oh, and vandalizing a mailbox is a federal crime, just an FYI.”

“I was only—”

“I’ll wait for you to be on your way now, Ms. Fowler.” He hands me my license, registration, and insurance cards.

I take one last look at the house. I hope Molly comes in July. I’m not sure Patsy Mason is safe here alone.

Chapter 12

Molly

The Saturday morning sun burns bright. I’m savoring crisp, clean air as I hike along the trails behind my house, grateful I can breathe again, mesmerized by the beauty of this setting. I went to bed before ten, awoke at dawn, determined to put Dan and his new pet out of my mind. In the clear light of a new day, my self-doubt quiets and anything feels possible.

When I return, the house is deliciously silent. I brew a pot of coffee and prepare to head to my desk but get held up by a knock at the side door.

In lieu of a wave, Heather lifts her chin, hands full. I nod back and cross the kitchen, dread rising in my chest. She has a tendency to linger. I don’t have time for a lengthy chat.

“Hey! Good morning!” I’m cheerful but not would-you-like-some-coffee?-friendly. I lost last night thanks to Dan and his kitten. I need to guard every minute today.

“Special delivery!” Heather’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. Something’s off. Her shoulders hitch up, tense. Is it from the weight of her pottery or is there more to it? Is she going to tell me she hated my book?

I try to subtly observe her body language. I’m scrambling for new ways to describe how characters gesture when they’re nervous. I feel like a cannibal as I make a note of her rapid blinking.

“Wow!” I set my coffee mug on the counter and take the plates from her. “You were right. They look great in here. You’re sure you want to part with them?”

They’re heavy and lovely, the pale blue-green of sea glass. Pine-colored clusters that resemble sprigs of rosemary dot the edges.

“I’d love to keep them but I’m saving up for a trip.”

This sentence is her verbal invoice, a reminder I owe her for these dishes I don’t need and didn’t ask for. The children eat off plastic plates shaped like animals while I typically hoover leftovers at the sink or in my office. Since Dan and I split, I haven’t hosted a single dinner party. Our couple friends, like the rest of our belongings, were halved into “yours” and “mine.” Diminished by division.

“Gas, food, drinks. It’s crazy how fast it all adds up,” Heather continues, eyes wide with the naiveté of someone who’s enjoyed the luxury of Mom and Dad picking up the tab.

I set the plates on the kitchen table. My purse rests on a barstool beside the island. I dropped it there last night in my rush to gulp down Benadryl. I remove five twenties from my wallet and hand her the crisp bills, hoping it’s enough. I can afford it now and Heather is good to me, babysitting on short notice. The kids adore her. Still, I spent so long cutting corners, counting every dollar, it’s hard to break free of that mindset.

She takes the cash and tucks it in the side pocket of her yoga pants.

“Thank you for supporting the arts!” She does a little curtsy and then tugs at her high ponytail. She’s done that before—when she had to tell me her rent would be late because her parents were on safari and were “struggling with inferior Wi-Fi.” She runs a hand down the length of her thick honey-colored hair that spills from the elastic like a waterfall. I touch my own shoulder-length brown, now highlighted, hair. After two pregnancies and years of stress, it’s much thinner than it once was. I should look into supplements.

Our business finished, I wish she’d leave. If I ask about her plans for the day or her next pottery project, there goes another fifteen minutes.

I will her to turn toward the door, to say something generic like “Have a nice weekend!” but she lingers. I need to respond to Georgia soon—today—preferably with a semi-decent chapter or two.

Heather’s mouth puckers and purses, reminding me of a cat’s behind, the visual fresh in my mind from last night when Dan stuck the kitten’s tail in my face.

“So …” she begins, doing the ponytail thing again.

She’s uncomfortable. I make a mental note to give this tic to a character in an upcoming scene.

Coffee mug raised to my lips, I wait. Is she going to tell me the gravy train has ended—that her parents want her to get a “real job?” Will I need to find a new tenant? Or, could I be bold enough to believe in Birds at Night and the sequel’s success so fervently that I keep her place as my very own writing cottage? But then who will replace my built-in babysitter? Everything comes with a cost. I’ll need her more than ever in the weeks ahead as I continue drafting.

This morning on my walk, a title came to me: The Girl in 512. Not that original, sure, but publishing is notorious for piggybacking off the popularity of other novels. I’ll run it and the tagline I thought of last night, Always the hunter, never the prey, by Georgia once I have those chapters to send.

“So …” Heather repeats, blinking accelerating again. “I was thinking I’d like to write a book.” Her shoulders float up. “Maybe you could give me some guidance? I went to boarding school, so that’s like a gold mine, right? Or we could collaborate? I’d love to help you—if you’re running out of ideas.”

How often have I heard this from people? As soon as I get more time, I’m going to write a bestseller! I always smile and say, “I hope you do!” while thinking Let me know how that goes for you!

But this feels different. Does she know how much I’m struggling or am I paranoid? She’s waiting, eyes unblinking now, for my response. She lives on my property. She watches my children. I need to tread carefully.

“Maybe we can revisit that once I’m on the other side of the sequel?” I suggest.

“Sure, right, no, of course.” She nods but her eyes narrow.

I think of her cute car, her fancy workout-wear, her parents paying her rent. She’s unacquainted with disappointment.

“And with that I should probably get back to—”

“Dan called me this morning,” she blurts.

“My Dan?” I almost say but catch myself. He isn’t “mine” anymore. Thank Christ. I take a sip of coffee to mask the tightness in my jaw. Shit! I didn’t replace the spoiled milk. I couldn’t smell it because I’m still a bit congested. I choke it down and nod for her to go on.

“He asked me if I’d like to have dinner with him this week. He said maybe if he knew me better it would ease his mind about me spending so much time with his kids.”

“Our kids,” I correct and pour my coffee down the drain.

“Right, yes, sorry. Your kids. I guess Ingrid told him we play hide-and-seek and that I taught them Go Fish, and he said it got him thinking that we should hang out.”

Hang out? Oh, Dan, you really are full of surprises.

Color rises in her cheeks, a coy smile turns up the corners of her mouth as she adds, “He said he appreciates how caring and attentive I’ve been with them.”

Those words are a thinly-veiled shot at my parenting. To be a mother is to exist in a state of constant judgement. Put that on a throw pillow.

“And what did you tell him?” My grip tightens around the coffee mug’s handle.

“I said that made sense but that I wanted to run it by you first.”

“And here you are, running it by me.” I’m stalling for time.

“Right. So, he threw out Tuesday. You don’t have a book event or need me for anything else, do you?”

Tuesday. Not a traditional “date night.”

“If you want to go, by all means, but I should warn you …” I pause. I need to soft pedal this. “Just … be careful.”

She makes a face—half-smirk, half-frown—her hands are back to tugging at her hair. “What do you mean?”

Despite my vast vocabulary, built from years of looking up synonyms, I’m failing to find the right words to finesse this situation, so I opt for blunt. “I’m pretty sure he’s doing this—asking you to ‘hang out’—to get to me.” I hear how narcissistic that sounds. “To rattle me, I mean. Get under my skin.”

She nods, her grin broadening. “He said you’d say that.”

I press my lips together. Yes, Dan is definitely upping his game. When he failed to get a reaction out of me with that kitten, he decided to dig a little deeper.

The alarm on my phone buzzes against the island. I set it last night in case I overslept.

“Sorry, that’s a reminder to call my agent.”

“Right, of course, I’ll just be on my way.” She jerks a thumb over her toned shoulder toward the door. All that time molding clay, sitting at the potter’s wheel, has given her arms enviable definition while spending years slumped over my laptop is turning me into a hunchback. “So you’re cool if I tell him yes?” she asks.

“Is that what you want?” Answer a question with a question—my character Carly’s mantra.

She folds those sculpted arms. Defensive. This isn’t playing out how I’d like it to. I need to reel her back to me.

“Dan has a way of twisting things.” I lean closer and warm up my tone, placing a hand on her sinewy forearm. “I’m not saying that as the bitchy ex-wife, more woman to woman so you know who you’re potentially getting involved with.”

She furrows her brow, then rearranges her features. Her fake smile says it all. She thinks I’m jealous that she’s caught the eye of my ex. She’s likely imagining that she and Dan are about to embark on a summer romance. By autumn, she’ll have reinvigorated his acting career while transforming into the ripe and plucky stepmom to my children. As the leaves fall in Central Park, they’ll move into her parents’ Upper East Side building—I can see it all—an indie film playing just behind her bright green eyes. Or, is she doing this to punish me for not wanting to write a book with her? Is she trying to become me? No, that’s ridiculous.

“Thank you for that—for thinking of me, I mean,” she says, head cocked like a spaniel’s. I watch for another ponytail adjustment. She’s not nervous now. She’s skeptical, mistrustful of my motives. Sometimes people refuse to take you at your word. They need to learn things the hard way.

“And thank you for these gorgeous plates!” I collect the stack and turn to place them in the built-in corner cabinet from which they’ll probably never emerge. This is her cue to leave.

“One more thing,” she says. “The sink is still leaking.”

“Right! Sorry, the plumber should be here Tuesday,” I lie. I completely forgot to call.

Once Heather leaves, I move to the window above the sink and watch her walk to the cottage. Before she enters, she pulls her phone from her back pocket. Is she calling or texting him already?

Fucking Dan.

How has my morning, which started with so much promise, gotten so off-course? I pour another cup of coffee and take a sip, black this time. It’s bitter.

I swallow it just the same.

Chapter 13

Anna

Church bells peal in the distance. Most Sunday mornings I make a religion of hanging out in the garage, my sanctuary, sifting through memories, sitting in the flat bed of Daddy’s truck. A light blue Ford F250 is all I’ve got left of him. It was parked in the driveway, waiting for him to come back, the day he died.

How many times did I have to beg Mama not to get rid of it? While other kids had treehouses and those chunky primary-colored play sets, I had this.

As I got older, I’d sit in the cab, scribbling little stories in a journal or reading a book. Sometimes, with the windows down, a breeze would bring Daddy back to me. Serve up his scent. Smoke trapped in the soft velour upholstery. In winter, we’d cover the truck with tarps. Neighbors complained, called it an eyesore. High school boys stopped by to make lowball offers. But there’s no way I’d part with it.

After Mama passed, I sold the house and made sure to rent a place with a garage to prevent the rusty patches from spreading.

“Pretend the truck’s got freckles,” Mama would say whenever I’d get upset about its condition.

Mama still owed plenty on the mortgage, but the sale left me with enough money that I’ve got some time to get things in order and focus on more important matters—like Molly’s visit.

Sitting on a blanket in the truck’s bed, I’m surrounded by boxes. Mama’s stuff, mostly, and a bit of Daddy’s too—their lives shrunk down to however much I was willing to cart over here. Took more than a dozen trips. I couldn’t just chuck everything. But now it’s time. Mama’s been gone nearly six months. I only wish she’d lived to read Birds at Night. Oh, we could talk for hours about that one!

Mama’s the reason I love books. Each day after school and every night before bed, she’d read to me.

“I’ll tell you a story,” she’d whisper, holding out a hand as I hopped into her lap, “then we’ll rest.”

When I got old enough, we’d read separately but together. Mama in her La-Z-Boy, me stretched out on the couch—both of us laughing or gasping as our stories unfolded.

“You’re never alone when you’ve got a good book, darlin’. Remember that,” she’d say.

While my classmates spent Saturdays at the movies, birthday parties, or watching football games, we’d go to the library. Load up for the week. Every spring they’d hold a used book sale. All year long, we’d save for it, throwing our change in a milk jug, counting our quarters and dimes the night before over slabs of Mama’s meatloaf. She’d always hide a hot dog in the middle and I’d pretend to be surprised. Our tradition.

Going through the boxes is part nightmare, part treasure hunt. Each time I open one, I brace for what I might find. I’ve thought about tossing them unopened. Do I need these memories when I have so many in my head? Mama’s voice is with me at all times, clear as those church bells.

Molly’s visit is the motivation I need to clear the garage. My goal is to have everything in tip-top shape before she gets here. I plan to install a sound system with little speakers in the corners of the living room. There’ll be music when she arrives. I’ll queue up the playlist she put together. “Songs that inspired Birds at Night,” she titled it. It includes those mentioned in the novel too: “Move on Up, “Sympathy for the Devil,” and a haunting instrumental piece, Camille Saint-Saëns’s “Danse Macabre,” which translates to “Dance of Death.”

Personally, I’d have called the playlist “Bird Songs” but whatever. Then I’ll switch to the audiobook and we’ll listen to a chapter—unless Molly wants to read it aloud herself.

I climb out of the flatbed and head for the table where my landlord keeps his tools. I hunt around for a boxcutter. He owned a landscaping service before he retired to Florida. Hedge clippers, garden shears, spades in three different sizes hang from the wall. A bit of a mess, but it’s not my place to start rearranging everything.

I find what I need, settle back on my blanket, and slice through packing tape. A familiar face stares at me. It’s Patsy’s wedding announcement, for her marriage to Larry Partridge, the self-proclaimed “Auto King of Ohio.” The newspaper is yellowish-brown, thin as tissue in my hand.

I remember the afternoon Mama spotted it.

“Well, would you look at that. Patsy Mason must think she’s finally landed her cash cow!” Mama had snorted. “Get a load of these two: him smiling like the cat who swallowed the canary and her with that mop of hair pretending she’s a young Priscilla Presley. Second marriage, third engagement, teenage daughter, you’d think she’d skip the white dress and hoopla.”

Grinning at the bride, Mama had asked, “Is this your fairytale ending, Patsy?”

Mama knew the answer. She’d gone to high school with Larry, who earned his reputation as a bit of a drinker and gambler early on. He’d inherited three used car dealerships from his dad, had to sell off two, and was slowly driving the third into the ground, according to Mama and the rumor mill. “You’d think one of his ex-wives might’ve warned Patsy.” Mama shook her head. “Or who knows? Maybe that’s her type.”

I hold the clipping a moment longer. Molly must’ve been about sixteen at the time. According to the announcement, she was Patsy’s maid of honor. Maybe I’ll hang on to this, show it to Molly when—if—she actually visits. I put it face down. It’s hard to see Patsy like that—on the south side of forty, her pretty head probably filled with dreams of better days for herself and her daughter. She must’ve seen Larry as a chance to move on and move up, put their past behind them.

I think back to Friday night when Patsy called the cops on me. I’m sure she didn’t recognize me. We’ve passed each other in the aisles at the market a handful of times. I’ve said hi, given her a little wave. She stares back, confused. She stopped me once. “Excuse me,” she said. I held my breath, waiting for her to say my name. But she didn’t. She simply needed help getting a package of on-sale paper towels down from a high shelf.

Deeper in the box, I find a set of screwdrivers and Daddy’s ashtray collection. I suck in my breath as I sort through them: Daytona, Las Vegas, Phoenix. If he’d never smoked, would he be here now? Or would he have died a different way?

Dust settles in my throat. I need air. I grab my phone, hop down from the open tailgate, and step out into the bright June sunshine.

It’s been two days since I sent that stupid “Yaaaaaaay!!!!” to Molly. Why didn’t I put more thought into it? No. This isn’t on me. I’m not the writer. She is. This is on her. It’s rude that she hasn’t responded. I know she’s there—online. I can see her “liking” comments her fans have left on her daughter’s concert video.

Closer to the house, I check my email. No new messages. I open an app and scroll. There she is. One new post. My heart beats faster. It’s a reel. These are always better than a boring old still photo.

Down the block, kids are shooting baskets and the sound of dribbling, mixed with their whoops and cheers, make it tough to concentrate.

I go inside, pour myself a glass of lemonade. At the kitchen table, I press play and give Molly my full attention.

She’s barefoot, sitting with her legs tucked up beside her in a shiny red Adirondack chair. A hedge of white hydrangeas blooms behind her. A tall wooden fence stands beyond that. I’m guessing this is her backyard. Must be nice. I wish I could be there in person. She’s got lilacs too. Those always make me think of Mama.

She’s wearing a loose white linen blouse and navy linen pants. It’s all very Martha Stewart: the pre-felon years. There’s a book on the edge of the chair set face down.

“What are you up to now, Molly?” I whisper. For a second, my hopes soar. What if it’s an advance copy of the sequel. I’d love to get my hands on that.

“Hi, everyone!” She smiles. Has she had her teeth whitened? “For anyone keeping score at home, this is my twelfth translation!” Molly lifts the book and holds it high like a kid with a trophy.

I pause the video to take it in, pinching the screen to study the cover. This one’s different from the others. A falling down castle meant to be The Carthage, the old hotel that gets converted into a dorm, takes up most of the space. Hats off to the artist. With its gray stone facade and crooked fence around the roof, it’s almost exactly as I pictured it. Silvery-black smoke pours from twin chimneys. A driveway snakes off to the right. The asphalt is cracked down the middle and pocked with small potholes. It’s a nice touch. At the bottom, two figures stand with their backs to one another. Carly and Clem. Instead of your run-of-the-mill font, the letters in the title, Oiseaux La Nuit, take their shape from copper-colored twigs and stretch across the top. The “u” in Nuit forms a bird’s nest.

“I’m not even going to attempt to pronounce this!” Molly laughs and sets the book vertically on the arm of the chair. “Once again, I must thank my amazing agent. Georgia, I adore you! I’m so grateful to my editor who is patiently waiting for the sequel. I’m working on it, Sydney, I swear!” Molly looks directly into the camera and points, “And thank you, my lovely readers. You’ve turned Birds at Night into an international bestseller and in doing so, you’ve made my dreams come true. Merci beaucoup! Bye, loves! Bonjour!” She blows kisses with both hands and the video ends.

That felt more like an Academy Award speech. “Getting a bit full of herself, don’t you think?” I imagine Mama saying.

I watch again and scroll through the comments.

M.J., stop teasing us! Where’s the sequel? I’m dying!

Congratulations on your latest translation, M.J. The cover is gorg!

Birds at Night got me reading again! Thank you! xx

More are in French. I skip those.

Ass-kissers—all of them. What Molly’s pulled off though, it’s quite an achievement. She’s launched herself from nothing to this—worldwide admiration. She’d be nowhere without her fans and yet this is how she treats them? Me? Not responding to my last message? Without readers, what are writers? It’s like that “tree falls in a forest” thing. So what if you wrote it if no one reads it? I own Birds at Night in every format. Sure, that’s a minuscule portion of her sales, but you cannot ignore your fans. Well, you can, but then you won’t have ‘em for long.

“Is that what you want, M.J.?” I sneer at this video version of Molly, her blinding smile frozen on my screen.

Kids’ shouts filter in from down the street. “Shut up!” I roar, sweaty and irritated. I stand too fast and spill my lemonade. I grab my phone before it gets wet then wheel around to close the windows.

Molly’s not going to get away with this. I’ve waited long enough. I open my email, find the messages we’ve traded, and start to type.

I know you’re there, Molly, I saw your video. What a bunch of phony bullshit! Like you actually care about your readers?! If you did, you’d have replied to my message! You wouldn’t keep me waiting! Or do you get invited to so many book clubs that mine means nothing to you?

My heart races. The pulse in my neck tic tic tics. My finger hovers above the send arrow. And then I hear Mama’s voice. “You get more flies with honey than with vinegar, doll.”

I take a beat, close my eyes, exhale, and backspace until all my words disappear. I start again.

Hey Molly!

Happy Sunday! Sorry if my last message (that silly “Yaaaaaaay!!!!”) was vague or confusing. I was rushing to work. (So busy here! I’m guessing you are too!) I’m so excited that you’re interested and willing to come to my book club! I’d love to get a date on the calendar. Let me know what’s best for you. Cannot wait! Heard you on that radio show. Best of luck with the sequel! I can only imagine what a challenge it must be to dream up another epic work!

xx

Anna

I’ll try Mama’s approach.

This time.

Chapter 14

Anna

It’s all I can do not to sprint to my front door. I purposely left my phone at home today. Trudy caught me checking it every ten minutes last evening and wanted to know if her tarot card reading was proving accurate. Had someone from my past gotten in touch?

“Not yet,” I told her.

That was the truth. Molly hasn’t written back to either of my emails. Five days have passed since the “Yaaaaaaay!!!!” I sent Friday morning. It’s been seventy-seven hours since the one I wrote Sunday afternoon. Was it fawning, too icky sweet?

“Desperate doesn’t look good on anybody, darlin,’” Mama told me not long before she passed.

I unlock the front door and dart into the kitchen. I have to pee but I’ll hold it. This is more important.

The phone’s on the counter beside the toaster. I pick it up, blow crumbs off the case, and close my eyes as I open my inbox. If I were the praying type, this would be the moment I’d send up a Hail Mary.

I stare and scroll, my thumb shaking. A bunch of messages load but none from Molly. I switch to social media. She hasn’t posted anything since that French cover reveal. That’s not like her.

A cramp seizes my chest. I cannot come this close to seeing her again only to have her ghost me.

Before I can stop myself, I start another email.

Hi Molly,

Hope you are okay. I haven’t heard back from you and I’d love to share the date with my book club. No rush but the sooner, the better! Can’t wait to see you again!

xx Anna

I hit send.

I bring the phone down hard against the countertop and think about an interview Molly gave. A reporter asked why she changed genres.

“If you’re not getting the desired results, don’t be afraid to get bold or maybe even a little crazy,” she said.

If I don’t hear from her soon, that’s exactly what I’ll do.

Chapter 15

Molly

I’ve only been gone one night but the house is stuffy and stale-smelling. Georgia asked me to fill in on a panel—“When Friendship Turns Fatal”—at a thriller conference in Connecticut after another author bailed at the last minute. We have the same publisher. Georgia insisted this would buy some goodwill with Sydney, my editor, who’s been “more than patient” waiting for new pages from me.

I hated sending the kids to Dan’s again this weekend, but they didn’t seem to mind. In fact, Isaac and Ingrid sprang out of the car yesterday morning like clowns shot from a cannon. And there was Dan, beaming as he ushered them inside. The kitten has worked her magic.

I slide off my sandals and flick on the air conditioning. I don’t remember shutting it off. I have a solid hour before Dan brings the children home. I’m behind on email and laundry. I should call my mother, but I don’t think I can focus on a call. Not when Georgia will write to ask how the panel went and to remind me I need to send her a chapter, pages, anything.

I make an iced coffee and pull my laptop from my bag. I’ll unpack the rest of my things later. I’d hoped to get a little writing done in the hotel last night, but I ended up at the bar with two other authors who bemoaned the amount of marketing that’s expected of us. It made me feel better, like I wasn’t the only one drowning.

In my office, I sit at my desk, sip the cool coffee, cross and uncross my legs. A fly buzzes beside my ear. I bat it away. It smells even worse in here. Sour, rancid. Did Ingrid leave a yogurt container or a wet towel on the floor?

My nose twitches. The fly grazes my ankle. Another buzzes and lands on my laptop. I can’t focus. I stand to search my office for the source of the odor.

When Ingrid was a toddler, she hid empty sippy cups behind the sofa. I nearly smile at the memory. I step toward the couch and scream. On the floor, inches from my bare feet, is a bird. A lifeless crow, its blue-black feathers dull and flattened, its feet curled and hideous.

“Holy shit!” I’m panting. I cover my mouth as the hotel's buffet brunch surges into my mouth.

Where did this thing come from? How did it get in? The windows are shut. I feel dizzy, sick.

“Mommy!” Ingrid’s voice startles me. I didn’t hear the front door open.

“Mom?” Isaac appears.

“Stay back! Stay—stay out!” I hold up the palm that was pressed to my heaving chest.

“What is it?” Dan stands behind the children, scowling. If he’s walked them inside, that means he wants money for their meals and weekend activities. Well, he’s going to have to earn it.

I step into the hall and kiss the kids quickly. “It’s—why don’t you put your stuff upstairs. Then, you can watch TV. I need your dad to help me with something real quick.”

They run to the staircase. Dan waits, hands on hips.

“You know what, forget it. I’ll handle it.”

His curiosity must be piqued. He pushes open the door. I gesture toward the carcass.

“Jesus, how’d that get in here?”

“I don’t know.” How did I not see it when I walked in?

“You want me to take it out?”

No, I want you to put it on toast, I nearly snark.

I could do it. I’ve had to deal with worse. “Yeah, if you could, that’d be great.”

I grab a garbage bag and a snow shovel from the garage. Isaac and Ingrid are parked on the couch, watching one of their favorite shows. Dan claims he can’t afford streaming services.

He takes the shovel. “Did you leave a window open? A door?”

“No.” I shake my head.

“What about the chimney flue?”

“It should be closed.”

“Do you have an attic fan?”

“I do but it wasn’t on. You know I was away.”

He knew I was away.

With a grunt, he flicks the stiff crow into the bag. I survey the room. My books are all on the shelf. The ring light and microphone I use for podcasts sit on the floor beside a silver wastebasket. My laptop, a mug full of highlighters, and the ladybug paperweight Isaac made for Mother’s Day rest on my desk.

Something is missing.

My journal.

I step forward. Dan and I collide. “Sorry, sorry.” I move past him.

“You want another look at this guy?”

“No. I … were you here while I was out?” My heart beats faster.

“Nope. Why?”

The desk has a single drawer. I open it. No journal.

I hurry to the entryway. Did I pack it in a rush yesterday after I got Georgia’s plea to attend the conference?

“No, no, no,” I moan as I dig through my bag, pulling out a bra, the black jumpsuit I wore to the panel, and the t-shirt I slept in.

It’s not there.

“Isaac, Ingrid, did you see my journal? The blue one? The one Uncle Gavin sent me?”

They’re lost in their program, giggling at cartoon dogs.

“Guys!” I shout, raking my hand through my hair. “Answer me!”

“Geez, Molly, calm down,” Dan snaps.

Admittedly, I have a temper. “Everyone has a temper, Molly Jean.” Mom loved to remind me when I was a teenager. “The trick is controlling it.”

“Seriously?” Dan says. “Is this how you talk to them?”

I ignore him.

“Ingrid!” She knows my desk is off-limits.

“What, Mommy?” She turns to face me.

“Have you seen my journal?” My voice is high, breathy.

“Nope.” She shrugs. Her attention, pulled as if by magnetic force, returns to the TV.

I don’t know why but I look at Dan. “All my notes for the sequel are in there.”

My ex-husband cocks his head. Is a smirk forming on his lips? That morning years ago when I fished my novel revisions from the recycling bin flashes back to me. I can hear him say, “You really ought to be more careful about where you leave your stuff, babe.” Will he repeat that now?

He must see the panic in my eyes.

“I’m sure it’s here. Probably on your nightstand.”

Dan hated when I’d shuffle around in bed to jot down an idea by the light of my phone.

My mind spins. Maybe it’s there?

I hurry upstairs and hunt through every room.

The journal, filled with my sequel ideas—some half-formed, some fully developed—is gone.

Chapter 16

Molly

While I fix a chicken stir-fry, a steady throbbing beats in my chest.

Who has a key to this house? Isaac, and therefore, Dan. Heather, for the days she watches the children. Would one of them come over, leave a door open, let in a crow, and take my journal? No, that’s crazy.

I’ve searched the car in case it fell out of my bag. It wasn’t there.

I checked beneath the rock by the side door. The key I hid after I locked myself out last year was exactly where I left it. I brought it inside.

When was the last time I had the journal? Where was that? I cycle through all the questions I ask the children when they misplace a favorite toy, hoodie, or water bottle.

After they’re tucked in, I step outside and pace the patio, wired and anxious. I’ve tried a meditation app Gavin recommended, done some deep breathing exercises. Nothing has helped. I’m out of tricks.

On the way to Connecticut yesterday, I bought an enormous coffee and cigarettes. I slap the pack against the heel of my hand.

Georgia will email any minute. She’ll ask about the panel then segue into “Can you send chapters, please?” The thought leads me back to the missing journal. That nauseous feeling swims through my stomach again.

I steal a glance over my shoulder toward the driveway. Heather’s blue Volkswagen Beetle convertible isn’t in its usual spot beneath the elms. I pull a Camel Light from the pack. The flick of the lighter’s rough little wheel against my thumb makes my mouth water. The first drag sends my head drifting like a helium balloon. I slide into an Adirondack chair, ash into the pot of pink geraniums, and inhale again. My chest tightens; fingers twitch. I don’t know why I think smoking will settle my nerves when it always does the opposite.

“Don’t fire me, Georgia!” I send a plea into the universe as I work up the courage to check my email.

My gaze lands on the name Anna Fox. Damn! I never wrote back to her weird “Yaaaaaaay!!!!” from last week. She’s sent more messages after that one.

I never should’ve agreed to go to her book club. I could back out, sure, but pissing off a reader is a gamble. It’s impossible to know what they’ll do, how they might retaliate. At the start of my divorce, I forgot to invite a couple of Isaac’s classmates’ moms to the small launch party Bonnie held at the bookstore for my second novel, Mistrust Exercises. By the following afternoon, I had several new one-star reviews. I’m sure that wasn’t a coincidence.

I take another drag, open Anna’s latest email, and skim.

I’d love to share the date with my book club. No rush but the sooner the better! Can’t wait to see you again!

xx Anna

More exclamation points.

Fuck me! is my first thought but then I remind myself You’d have loved this attention only a few years ago. I take another long inhale. This will be fine. You can do this. I repeat the mantra I use to get through drafting a challenging chapter.

I have to go to Milltown anyway. I owe Mom a visit. A visit. It’s more than that though I don’t want to admit it. It’s a wellness check. When we were there for Christmas, she burned the gingerbread cookies so badly the smoke alarm went off. Isaac, who’d been helping her, burst into tears. Mom had asked him to set the egg timer but he’d been too shy to ask where she kept it.

Mom called Ingrid by my name at least a dozen times. On the long drive home, I tried to convince myself my mother was probably exhausted from the hectic holiday season and from hosting us. Couldn’t some of her forgetfulness be part of the regular aging process?

That was the last time I saw her in person. There’s no denying our weekly chats have grown more concerning.

Before I commit to Anna’s book club, I should make sure Mom’s available to watch the kids—though I’m not sure how wise that is. I’ll build in a few days beforehand so I can assess how she’s doing. If worst comes to worst, I’ll ask Gavin to stay with Mom and the children. I can almost hear his infectious laughter. “Sure I can do that, Mol, you’ll just owe me for the rest of your life.”

I’ll make it up to him. Maybe we can grab drinks at The Back Alley, a dive bar attached to a bowling alley on the edge of town. We used to drink there for free in high school because the bartender had a crush on my mom, who bowled in a Tuesday night league. That’s where she met Larry, husband number two.

Is The Back Alley still there? Is it a bad sign my first thoughts of returning home involve a pitcher of cold beer along with a side of Gavin’s local gossip and possibly more cigarettes?

No, going back will be good. Even if Mom needs more care and Anna’s book club is a bust, it’ll be great to see Gavin, the lone bright spot in high school. I was the new kid, arriving at the start of junior year—and he was the gay kid. We were all each other had—or needed—at least, that’s what we told ourselves and each other.

I shoot him a quick text.

Catch up soon?

We have a mutual hatred for people who call without checking first. By midlife, every unexpected call is either an emergency or a scam.

Gavin writes back.

Now?

Yes, please!

I press his number and before the first ring, his voice warms my ear. “Molly, my dear, how are you!?” My eyes fill involuntarily, joy spreading through my chest. It’s been a while since anyone sounded truly happy to hear from me or I had time for a call that wasn’t business or kid-related. Plus, I’ve loved him ever since he said “cool kicks” to me in the science wing on my second day at my new high school.

“Gav! It’s so good to hear your voice!”

“Your timing is impeccable. Darren and I are arguing over the proper way to hold a Dustbuster. Save me from this Midwestern hellscape of my own making.”

I laugh. I love Gavin’s husband. Maybe it’s because Bewitched ruined the name, but when Gav first told me he was smitten with a man named Darren, I pictured a big-eared doofus. Gavin’s Darren is the opposite: strong, compact, works in security by day and as a personal trainer on weekends.

“Is that Wheel of Fortune in the background?” I recognize the cheery chimes of a new puzzle.

Gavin sighs. “Darren DVRs it. We watch a weeks’ worth on Sundays while we straighten up the house.”

“That sounds—”

“Weird, pathetic,—”

“Fun, borderline literary!” Darren calls from the background.

“Enough about us,” Gav says. “Go on! Tell me about your life, you famous author, you. Let me live vicariously through your novel adventures!”

“That’s why I’m calling! Guess where I’m headed this summer?”

“Paris?” Gavin gasps. “I saw the video of your fancy French cover. Mol, I’m so fucking happy for you. It’s a stunner. Seriously.”

“Thank you! But, no, not quite Paris—I wish.”

“Okay, Spain? Hawaii? Tell me now or better yet, take me with you!”

“Milltown!” I make the womp-womp sad trombone sound.

He groans. “Why? How? Don’t get me wrong, I mean, yay for me, I’m thrilled we get to see you. Patsy must be ecstatic! She doing okay?”

From the day Gavin came to my house after school so we could help each other memorize the opening of Paradise Lost, Mom insisted he call her by her first name. Gavin thought it made her feel hip, youthful. I suspected it was because she’d realized marrying Larry was a mistake. Each “Mrs. Partridge” made her face pinch, the way it did when new shoes gave her blisters.

“Checking on her is definitely part of it,” I tell Gav, “but I’m also hoping you can solve a little mystery for me.”

“Ooooh,” he purrs. I picture his light blue eyes sparkling mischievously. “Now I’m intrigued.”

“Do you remember an Anna Fox?” No one has a better memory than Gavin. He can go into minute details about what he wore to his eighth birthday party. He knows which song was playing on the car stereo when I picked him up the afternoon I got my driver’s license. (Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up.”) If anyone can recall Anna Fox, it’s Gavin.

“Anna Fox?” He draws out her name and adds, “Hmmm … our year?”

“Honestly,” I cover my face with my free hand, embarrassed, “I don’t know. She sent me an email and said all this nice stuff about Birds at Night—”

“You’ve always been a fool for flattery,” Gavin interrupts. “That’s how I got you. Those banana yellow Chuck Taylors were hideous. Phew.” He exhales. “What a relief it is to finally say that. No offense. I know they were all the rage at the time.”

“No offense taken. I’m pretty sure Patsy nabbed ‘em from a lost-and-found. Anyway,” I force myself to say the next part quickly, “Anna Fox invited me to her book club. I said yes and now we’ve exchanged a few messages and I’m too deep into this to write, ‘Um, by the way, who the hell are you?”

“Huh. But you think you definitely know her?”

“No clue. But she’s acting like we’re old friends.” I put him on speaker and swipe through my email. “Okay, here’s how she ended her message: ‘Can’t wait to see you again!’”

“Anna Fox? Anna Fox?” Gavin clucks his tongue. “Mmm nope, sorry, I’ve got nothing. This is bad, Mol. Yesterday, I spotted a few rogue grays in my stubble, now I can’t remember a classmate! It’s all downhill from here, isn’t it?”

Darren and the studio audience groan in the background as a Wheel of Fortune contestant goes bankrupt.

“I don’t even know if she’s from high school, maybe she’s from a summer job?” I mentally scroll through the list of part-time gigs from back in the day: roller rink, garden center, day camp. “I could’ve babysat her for all I know.”

“I’m seeing my dad this week,” Gavin says. “Cataract surgery.”

“Ouch, sorry.”

“I’ll dig out my yearbooks while I’m at his house. Don’t worry, Mol, I’m on it. This is the moment Charlie’s Angels trained me for. We’ll find her!”

“Thank you!”

“I’m assuming you’ve already exhausted Google.”

“Yup. No matches.”

“Wait!” Darren calls. There’s a rustling as the phone changes hands. “Molly, did I hear this correctly? You agreed to go inside the home of someone you can’t remember? Girl, don’t you watch Dateline or even the trailers for those catfishing documentaries?”

“Thank you for weighing in, Mr. Paranoid,” Gavin takes the phone back. “I’m sure we know her. We just can’t place her at the moment.”

“Well, then sure, it makes perfect sense that you’d want to see her again.” Darren laughs. “She made quite an impression.”

“Stop!” Gavin scolds.

“All kidding aside, Molly, the world is filled with crazies.” Darren’s back. “You don’t want to get chained to a bed. Didn’t you read Misery or see the movie? Kathy Bates deserved that Oscar.”

When Darren says it like that, it does seem pretty ridiculous. I complain about safeguarding my time and now I’m about to drive almost twenty hours to and from Ohio for a book club hosted by someone who might as well be a stranger. What the hell am I thinking? Am I this desperate for praise? On the other hand, what if I remember Anna and I’m actually happy to see her?

“Is she married? What’s her maiden name?”

“I didn’t ask.”

Gavin is too kind to say what he’s thinking, which I’d bet my life is “Molly, ask the right questions and stop being an idiot.”

“Okay, I’ll do some digging. How many Annas can there be? It was a small high school. God knows it felt like the size of a koi pond filled with Japanese fighting fish.”

“Thanks, Gav, I owe you. Bar pies and beers on me.”

“Honey, you’re a bestselling author, I find Anna and it’s caviar and Veuve Clicquot. Now how are things with Dan?”

It’s quiet in the background. Darren must be fast-forwarding through commercials. I light another cigarette. I picture my ex-husband standing in my home hours earlier telling me to calm down. “Not good.” I can’t say I lost the journal Gavin gave me so instead I explain about the kitten.

“Listen,” Gav says, “cats wander off. Or it’ll eat some string, Dan’ll get hit with a whopping vet bill, and bye-bye kitty.”

“Maybe. But wait, there’s more …” I mimic the infomercials we wasted hours of our youth watching. I peer over my shoulder in case my tenant has returned. “He asked out Heather—”

“The squatter potter?”

I lower my voice. “Technically, she’s paying rent—or her parents are. But, yes, that Heather. He’s doing these things because he wants to reduce the amount of support he’s giving me.”

“That’s insane. You’re raising his kids, and doing a damn fine job, I might add. That thank you note Isaac sent is hanging on the fridge and that video of Ingrid and her class singing ‘This Little Light O’ Mine’ nearly broke me.”

“He’s just being a dick, I guess.”

“Perhaps a love interest will soften him? Make him less of a jerk?”

“A gal can dream.”

A series of short beeps sound in the background. “Mol, I have to go, Wheel’s nearly over and Darren needs my help solving the final puzzle.”

“Don’t believe a word he says, Molly!” Darren shouts.

Gavin sighs, but I know he loves it—sharing a life with someone. When I visited last Christmas, we drank too many White Russians and ended up in his backyard making snow angels, staring at the stars until we could no longer feel our faces.

“Imagine if we knew then what we know now, Mol? Me—a high school drama teacher with this perfect partner—and you, with your gorgeous kids and this major two-book deal. It’s all we ever wanted.”

There are moments when you need someone to remind you who you were. Other times you need someone to show you who you’ve become. Gavin is all of that for me.

“Okay, call me Wednesday after your detective work. Good luck to your dad and thank you!”

“No worries, Mol, I’m on it. And, hey, did you hear? Milltown’s getting a new wine bar. I’m sure it’ll serve hunks of Velveeta and close by nine, but it’s something.”

“I’m happy to hang anywhere as long as we’re together.”

“Same. Love you.”

“Love you.”

I stub out my cigarette and stash the pack inside the hood of my gas grill. Gavin will find Anna. Finally, I can cross something off my worry list.

I should head back into the house, shower, go to bed so I can wake up early and resume my search for the journal. But I’m distracted by Darren’s voice replaying inside my head.

Why did I agree to go to Anna’s?

Who knows? There could be twenty people in her book club, each with their own copy—readers who’ll recommend it to friends and family, who’ll buy the sequel and I can keep doing this for a living.

If I’m honest, part of it is my ego. After years of writing alone in the drafty attic, of waking before sunrise with no one—not even my own husband—eager to read my words, it’s amazing to feel wanted. I’m nearly forty yet I’m no more mature than a five-year-old pleading, “Look at this thing I made and tell me it’s good! Give me all the gold stars! Promise me I’m clever!”

I’ll attend Anna’s book club with a bottle of wine and a gracious smile.

“Bookmarks for everyone!” I tell the empty patio.

I reach for my phone to write back. I’ll let Anna know I’m working on firming up a date.

I just hope it’s worth it.

In bed, I try to sleep but I keep thinking about the crow. How did it get in? Birds carry diseases. I’ll call a contractor first thing in the morning, see if he can figure out how it got in, shore up any holes in the siding.

The crow’s eye, a dark, shineless marble, staring blindly, haunts me.

Why is it so familiar?

A chill creeps across my skin as it hits me.

It looked just like the crows on the cover of Birds at Night.

Chapter 17

Anna

Due to major funding cuts last fall, the library’s closed on Sundays, making the weekends feel endless.

I took a long drive. It settled my nerves and helped clear my mind. I stayed away from Patsy’s house.

I’m settled in bed. Maybe Molly will reply to my email tomorrow. Monday is a good time to get back to people. The start of the week and all that. July Fourth is coming up fast. She said July in her message, didn’t she? My meds can make things a little foggy. That’s why I stopped taking them. Even so, I wouldn’t forget what she wrote. I memorized it. Throw out some dates—maybe around July 4th?

Yes. That was it.

I need a distraction. I’m glad I picked up something new to read. I’ll start that tomorrow.

It’s been impossible to focus on anything after Birds at Night. Nothing can compare to the twists, the secrets revealed. Of course, I had suspicions but Molly’s devious mind went beyond anything I anticipated.

I check my email one last time. I’ve kept our back-and-forth at the top of my inbox. I’ve sent her four messages so far. She’s sent a single friendly but vague reply. I pull down the screen, waiting for new messages to load, and there it is in bolded black—an email from M.J. Archer. My heart flip-flops. I feel like I conjured it. Just seeing her name in my inbox sets off a fluttering sensation in my stomach. If she’s writing to say, Sorry, I can’t make it, what then?

Part of me wants to save the message, not open it until morning. If it’s bad, it’ll ruin my sleep. If it’s a firm yes with an actual date, I’ll be up all night, my mind spinning with plans.

I stash my phone beneath my pillow. “Mama? What should I do?” I say it aloud, like she’s right in the next room, the way things used to be back in the day, back in our home, not this rental.

I’ve been clenching my fist tight, squeezing the quilt Mama made. I need to open this. I won’t last until morning. My skin burns like it’s on fire. I click the message. My eyes are wild, like billiard balls rolling over the words, landing on phrases. I sit straighter, adjust my pillows behind me. Then I force myself to take a slow breath and start from the top.

Hi Anna!

Yes, busy, busy! Thanks for following up! Double checking dates with my family. Looking forward to seeing you next month. In the meantime, here are some book club discussion questions in case they’re helpful.

She hyperlinked the word “questions.” It takes me to the “Conversation Starters” section of her website. A dozen discussion prompts load. I see the words “Clem,” “Carly,” “responsible,” “blame,” “ending.” I’ve already read these at least a hundred times. I close the tab. Laughter bubbles up from a deep, dark place at the bottom of my belly.

“Don’t worry, Molly,” I whisper. “I’ve got plenty of questions of my own.”

Chapter 18

Molly

It’s nine a.m. In three hours, Ingrid will graduate from kindergarten. This afternoon, Dan will take the children out for a celebratory lunch then back to his condo to see the kitten. After that, they will be with me continuously until their day camp begins next week. It will be wonderful, of course, but they’ll be filled with summer vacation energy and I won’t get a single word written.

I turned the house upside down last night looking for the journal and stayed up until 2 a.m. typing a new chapter. I sent it to Georgia and told her the conference went well. She hasn’t written back yet.

I’m seated at my desk but as unproductive as the ladybug paperweight Isaac made. The excitement I felt with the first book has been replaced by a looming sense of dread. My deadline is a noose, tightening each day. My journal is missing and I have no more time to waste. When the movie deal was announced, Georgia told me the publisher wanted to tie the sequel’s release to the film’s premiere.

“Which means blockbuster sales, Mol, obvi,” my agent had said.

I’d felt a surge of adrenaline. Excitement and fear in equal measure. It’s an amazing, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity but what if I can’t deliver?

I pull the Post-it that reads “Call Gavin and Mom” off the wall. It was great to hear Gavin’s voice. I wish talking with my mother could be that easy. There’s no sense putting it off any longer. I reach for my phone to call her. By the fourth ring, I’m mentally composing the voicemail I’ll leave. Then, she answers.

“Honey? Where are you? Is everything okay?”

I suddenly realize I forgot our regular Sunday night call.

“Everything’s fine, Mom.” Except I’m completely blocked creatively, I don’t add.

“Oh, okay. Sorry it took me a minute. I couldn’t find the phone.”

She’s out of breath. I imagine her hunting through the house, which, though small, is filled with hazards. The blue patterned runner that covers the steps to her second floor constantly buckles. Dan stapled it down in a few places the last time we were there together. Her washer and dryer are in the dark, cobweb-filled basement, at the bottom of another steep flight of stairs. If she falls, she needs to be able to call for help.

“Have you been keeping your phone in that pouch I sent you? The one on the string that goes around your neck?”

“I misplaced it, but don’t send another. It'll turn up.” A chair creaks and she lets out a long exhale. I picture her at the old wooden table in her outdated kitchen with its faded floral wallpaper curling in the corners. At least once a month, I send Mom emails with links to over-fifty-five communities—well-appointed places with fitness classes, Bingo, transportation to doctors’ offices and supermarkets. Some look more like posh resorts than retirement homes.

“You’d be so happy in one of these,” I’ve tried to convince her. “I know how much you hate to be alone.”

“Oh mercy, Molly Jean, have you seen the prices?”

“I can afford it, Mom. Let me do this for you.”

If I’m honest, I’d be doing it for myself, for peace of mind. I have enough working mother guilt, I can’t add negligent daughter guilt to the mix.

I beg her to look at one or two each time I’m in town, but she always changes the subject like she does now.

“How are the children? I couldn’t open that concert video you sent but I’m going to have Sharon help me this afternoon at chair yoga. Did I tell you Sharon’s granddaughter got engaged?”

“You did,” I say.

While Mom details what Sharon plans to wear to the bridal shower, I scroll around the internet, checking the weather, the news, glancing at my horoscope. Then, without thinking about it, I refresh my email. A reflex. At the top of my inbox is a new message from Anna Fox. I groan internally. She’s relentless but I get it, she needs to give her book club members a date for the next meeting.

“She wants to wear these strappy espadrilles,” Mom explains when I tune back in. “I said, ‘Sharon, you’ll twist an ankle and knock your teeth out.’ I try to tell her, ‘Just be comfortable! No one’s looking at us anymore.’”

This is the spot where she expects me to interrupt, to object, and engage in the game we’ve been playing as long as I can remember. I wish, not for the first time, that she was the one building me up. But these are our roles, so I get in character.

“Stop, Mom. You’re still a knock-out. Remember how I caught Howard Nelson giving you the eye at that little bakery when we took the kids for cocoa in December?”

“Howard just broke a hip. Did I tell you that?”

“You did.” I switch gears. “Hey, do you remember an Anna Fox?”

“Anna Fox?” she repeats.

“She lives in Milltown. On Center Street.”

“Hmmm, I can’t picture her face but the name sounds familiar.”

As a school nurse, Mom floated between schools in our district, sometimes traveling to other towns on a per diem basis. The fact that she can’t recall an Anna Fox concerns me. If I’d asked this question a year ago, would she have fired off a short biography—Anna’s life, childhood through present day. And if Anna’s not a former classmate, how do I know this woman?

I bite the inside of my cheek, annoyed with myself for not asking Anna how we know one another in our initial email exchange instead of letting it get this far.

“She invited me to her book club,” I say. “I thought I’d come in a few weeks. I wanted to make sure it’s okay if the kids and I stay with you. Will you be home? Do you feel up for a visit?”

“Oh sweetheart, where else would I be?” she scoffs. “Of course I’d love to have you but, my goodness, that seems like an awfully long way to go for a book club—even if Mary Higgins Clark were making an appearance!”

My lips press in a tight, thin line. I don’t remind her that her favorite author died. “Anna invited me because they’re reading my book, Mom. Birds at Night."

I didn’t send her a copy. She hadn’t so much as skimmed my others.

“The descriptions sound so bleak,” she’d said. “Where does this darkness come from, Molly Jean? I don’t understand why you don’t write more cheerful things. I tried to give you a nice childhood.”

This is a myth she perpetuates—like if she says it enough, it will be true. But I was there—home at the time my father died of a heart attack days before my seventh birthday. Most of the memories I have of him are based on scenes captured in photo albums—the two of us building a snowman, him attaching training wheels to my new bike as I squat beside him, offering him a screwdriver. Then he disappears and the snapshots feature me alone never knowing what to do with my hands.

“It’s fiction, Mom,” I’d assured her in the past. “If every character lived a carefree, charmed life filled with perfect choices, that’s not much of a story, is it?”

“What about those nice holiday romances I watch on the Hallmark channel? Why don’t you write one of those?” she’d counter.

It’s probably for the best that she hasn’t read Birds at Night. It would only upset her.

After a moment, she puts it together. “Oh, so they’ve chosen your book and you’re the visiting author! Isn’t that something? And Dan’s able to get the time off?”

My annoyance with her shifts back to worry. “Dan and I are divorced, Mom, remember?”

She inhales sharply. “Oh dear, that’s right. I must’ve blocked that out.” She sighs. “It’s not easy being a woman alone, having to take care of yourself and your children.”

“How would you know?” I almost blurt.

Glen, her most recent husband, died almost two years ago following a stroke, and before him there was a string of boyfriends and another husband, Larry, between my father and Glen.

“Patsy must know some tricks in the sack!” Gavin had winked during her wedding to Glen, a dismal affair in the party room of a fire station.

“Gross! Stop!” I’d swatted him with a cocktail napkin and gulped my flat champagne.

Instead of splashing out for a band or a deejay, Glen’s son brought a karaoke machine.

“Your stepbrother seems like a hoot,” Gavin added as we watched Glen Jr. do a poor man’s rendition of “Walk This Way.” “Still, gotta hand it to Patsy, finding a new man after sixty is no easy feat. Face it, Mol, she’s the Liz Taylor of Milltown.”

Gavin wasn’t far off and, selfishly, I liked that someone else was there to keep an eye on her.

At Glen’s funeral, Gavin whispered, “Don’t count Patsy out yet. You could have a new stepdad by Christmas.”

He was trying to lighten the mood but those words made me stiffen. As close as Gav and I are, there are parts of my past I’ve never shared with him.

“It would be a lot easier if she rescued stray dogs instead of men,” I’d said.

Mom’s voice brings me back to the moment. “I hope you and Dan are able to get along for … for …”

I feel her dipping into the dark pools of memory, reaching for the kids’ names.

“… the children,” she eventually says, finding a workaround.

“Yes, everything’s fine,” I lie. Images of the kitten and Heather standing in my kitchen asking for my blessing to date my ex-husband flash through my mind.

“Are you seeing anyone?”

“I don’t really have a lot of free time, Mom.”

“You have to make the time, Molly Jean. You don’t want to be on your own forever.”

“I also don’t want to bring just anyone around my children.” I can’t keep the edge out of my voice.

There’s an awkward pause and I wonder if I’ll really be able to handle four—even three—days together.

“How is everything with you, Mom?”

“Pretty good. Sharon’s granddaughter got engaged.”

“You mentioned that.” I attempt to avoid hearing the details again. “You’re helping her make a sensible shoe choice.”

“Ah, yes, I did tell you that.” She draws another deep breath and a light wheeze follows. “I don’t want to worry you but …”

I straighten in my chair. Is she going to acknowledge that her memory’s failing? Will she say she’s ready to look into an assisted living facility? That I can start booking tours?

“There’s this woman who’s been parking outside the house. She just sits there staring at it. And as you know, there’s not much to see.” She offers a self-deprecating chuckle.

I picture the little Cape Cod-style home, moss discoloring the white siding, the hedges overgrown. When Larry died, despite clinging to that last car dealership, he was drowning in debt. Glen left everything to Glen Jr. Mom’s eye for picking a good provider never quite landed on the right mark.

“Maybe she’s a builder or real estate agent hoping to buy the property and flip it,” I suggest, though I can’t imagine there’s much money to be made by restoring a home in Milltown.

“She’s here quite a bit lately.”

“People pull over to make a call or text.”

“Not this gal. She just sits there staring.”

“Yes, you mentioned.” I think for a second, hoping to put her mind at ease. “Could she be an Uber driver picking up a neighbor?”

“On Friday, she was rooting around in my garbage can and touching my mailbox. I called the police.”

“You did?” I’d been idly completing an online emergency contact form for Isaac and Ingrid’s summer camp. I stop to give Mom my full attention. “What did they say?”

“They told her to move along and she did.”

Is any of this true?

Is paranoia a symptom of dementia? I tap my keyboard as lightly as I can—now I’m paranoid she can see through the phone and read my internet search.

At times like these I’d give anything for a sibling—a sister who could shoulder half the burden and confirm “Yes, we’ve got a situation here, but we're in this together. I’ll make a doctor’s appointment; you keep researching memory care places.” Or a brother who’d allay my fears with a casual “You’re overreacting, Mol. She’s fine. Don’t you forget things?”

But, no, like always, I’ll handle it alone.

“So many people are struggling to make ends meet right now,” I say. “If she shows up when I’m there, I’ll bring her a sandwich and see what we can do to help her.”

“Thank you, dear. I know you’ve got a lot on your plate. If you need some downtime, I can take the kids to the zoo. If it rains, there’s always the children’s museum.” Excitement swells in her voice, serving up a double dose of guilt.

Her eagerness to have a purpose, to be useful, guts me, and her offer reminds me that I desperately need time to write. My stomach craters.

“They’d love that, Mom, thank you.”

Dan wants to take the kids to see July Fourth fireworks. After his antics with the kitten and Heather, it’s best to keep the peace so I suggest the following week.

“July sixth through the twelfth,” Mom says. “I’ll be sure to write this down. Oh, I can’t wait to see you all!”

“Same!” I say as the pit in my stomach widens.

After we hang up, I enter the dates in my online calendar. I should respond to Anna, see which evening works for her and her club. I briefly imagine arriving at her house and still being unable to piece together how we know one another. How awkward will that be?

“At least there’ll be wine and cheese.” I say aloud and laugh at the absurdity of this situation—my very own suspense story.

No. Gavin will find her in the yearbook and send me a pic. Mystery solved.

I start an email to Anna.

Hey! How are Wednesday, July 9th or Thursday, the 10th? Thanks again for inviting me, Anna! Really looking forward to seeing you!

xx

I hit send. It’ll be fine. Then I cringe, recalling a book club I attended for my novel Mistrust Exercises. Eight women shared one copy, which the host borrowed from the library and passed around. Not knowing I was the author, one of the members sidled up to me as I helped myself to a glass of pinot noir.

“What’d you think of the book?” she asked.

Before I could respond, she yawned and whispered, “Total snoozefest, right?”

That was possibly the longest two hours of my life.

Rolling my shoulders down from my ears, I tilt my head side to side, attempting to release the tension in my neck.

“It’ll be fine,” I repeat and refresh my email. Still nothing from Georgia. I’m relieved to see Anna hasn’t written back. She tends to reply with lightning speed. I’ll go to her book club, but I’m not up for a new pen pal.

I open the last chapter I drafted hoping a reread will spark some fresh ideas. I’m midway through the second paragraph when the phone rings. Mom flashes on the screen.

“Hey, everything okay?”

“Hi, dear. Yes, sorry, what are those dates again?”

Chapter 19

Anna

“We have a date, Mama,” I whisper, running my hand over the smooth marble of the headstone, fingers tracing the grooves that carve her name. “Molly’s coming to Milltown soon. You were right. All I had to do was ask. Took a while but it’s settled.”

Sitting cross-legged on a blanket, I unwrap my sandwich—egg salad, our favorite. I take a bite and a sip of cool lemonade. There’s not a bit of shade where Mama’s buried. A pair of ants march across the foot of her gravestone. I find a rock and crush them. I know Mama’s underground and while I can’t help what happens down there, I can control what happens here.

I pull the book from my backpack. I keep it in a plastic freezer bag so the moisture from my drink doesn’t ruin it. I’ve been reading Birds at Night to Mama. We’re not even halfway through. I’ve got a new appreciation for Marla Davis and audiobook narrators in general. It’s not easy doing the different character voices, winding up the suspense but not being hammy about it. I’ve had plenty of practice. Once Mama’s eyesight started failing, I read to her.

I glance over each shoulder, making sure we’re alone. I’m self-conscious about reading aloud in public—especially to a dead person. Lots of people dislike public speaking. The condition has a name: glossophobia. I learned that while working with a high schooler on a presentation. I told her it was common and then we looked up ways to get past it. She rehearsed with me ’til her voice stopped shaking. I felt like one of those therapy dogs little kids read to on Wednesday afternoons in the children’s room. She said it helped.

Apparently, Molly doesn’t enjoy speaking in front of crowds either. Could’ve fooled me. On a podcast she said she’d almost rather write a new book than read aloud in front of an audience.

“How do you get through it,” the host asked?

“Xanax,” Molly blurted.

“That’s really honest and brave of you to share so openly,” the host gushed.

“I think it’s important to be real, to not put up this front like everything is easy, you know?” Molly said. “If there’s something that takes the edge off, why not embrace it, right?”

“Any other secrets?” the host continued.

“Nope. I’m an open book,” Molly said, smug as a house cat.

“Okay, Mama.” I clear my throat and dab my lips with a napkin. “Quick recap: the you-know-what has hit the fan. Clem caught Carly in her room, in her bed, and now Clem’s not speaking to her. Here we go!”

Since Clem banished her, Carly spends more time in her own room. The sheets feel even scratchier after luxuriating in the cloud of Clem’s high-end bedding. Carly imagines it’s the closest thing to sinking into a marshmallow—all softness and sugary scents.

Five-twelve seems colder, darker, without the light from Clem’s room—the light that essentially is Clem. True to her word, Clem has insisted that the door that connects—or separates—their rooms remains closed.

Carly mourns her loss, access denied to that other world. But while the portal may be closed, it’s not sealed shut. She’s seen to that.

Over the weekend, Clem left her door unlocked when she took a study break and went to hang out with the 530s. Through the hall entry, Carly slipped in and unlatched the connecting door, stuffing the strike plate with a wad of chewed Juicy Fruit, the gum’s grey-beige color blending beautifully, its texture almost putty-like, easily malleable.

Carly could thank her mom’s old boyfriend, Travis, for this trick and she might if he weren’t dead.

I stop there to wipe the sweaty little mustache that sprouted while I was reading.

“You know where she’s going with this, Mama?” I pause like she might answer. “Do you see it yet?” Mama could solve Agatha Christie novels quicker than Hercule Poirot. “I didn’t. But the second time I read it, I spotted the breadcrumbs Molly was dropping here and there.” An ant crawls inside my empty sandwich bag. I seal it shut. “Seeds she was planting.”

A hearse glides through the cemetery gates followed by a line of cars, headlights blazing beneath the warm June sun. A green tent stands not far off, a mound of dirt piled beside it. I don’t have much time before mourners spread across the grounds, their outstretched limbs draped in black, moving like giant daddy longlegs.

Spring’s a season of rebirth, but there’ve been lots of deaths lately. Each time I come, there’s another burial. Strangers crying, heads bent, shoulders stooped. They think this is the worst of it—the moments when the loss is fresh, raw. It isn’t. Wait ’til the shock wears off. Grief’s like a chronic illness, you never know when there’ll be a flare, like going to pick up the phone and share good news, “Mama, I work at the library now,” only to remember I can’t.

I pity the ones who think it’s a short-term ailment, who don’t know there’s a whole different type of nostalgia for the memories you’ll never get to make.

Car doors open and shut in the distance, a low murmur rumbles across the grass. I want to finish this chapter.

As Clem continues to ignore her, Carly waits, listens. When Clem leaves 514, Carly exits 512 in the misguided hope that Clem will relent and they can sit together on the shuttle ride to campus.

Carly darts into the hall to press the button and summon the recently repaired elevator. As she pulls back the clanging metal grate and holds the door open, Clem breezes past, disappearing down the stairwell, leaving Carly in the wake of her lavender scent.

At the shuttle stop, Clem inserts her AirPods with the elegance of a queen affixing diamond earrings. When the van arrives, Clem strides to the back and rides with any of the 530s, leaving Carly to sit alone, head knocking against the dirty window.

When Clem is out, Carly practices opening the door between their rooms soundlessly. If she grips the knob, lifts and turns simultaneously, it’s nearly silent. She hasn’t quite perfected it but she’s close.

“Hey there!” The groundskeeper’s gravely voice startles me and I spill lemonade all over my lap.

“Dean!” I mop my shorts with a napkin and set Birds at Night on the blanket, careful to avoid the sticky puddle of lemonade. “You snuck up on me.”

“‘Cause you got your nose buried in that book!” He tugs on the bill of his baseball cap. “Now I’ve seen people come here to read poetry—Emily Dickinson, Dylan Thomas, that type of thing. You’re the first to bring a thriller.” He slaps his leg, arrayed in green coveralls. “But, hey,” he points at the cover, gleaming in the late-morning sun, “it’s a bestseller, right? How you enjoying it? My wife bought a copy for our daughter’s birthday. She read it to make sure it was ‘appropriate.’” Dean makes air quotes with his gloved hands. “Bethenny turned sixteen last Friday, but Carol, my wife, ended up giving it to her early ‘cause she couldn’t wait to talk about the ending with somebody. Carol said it goes off the rails.” Dean slaps his thigh again. “Shoot! I hope I didn’t just spoil it.”

“No, I’ve already finished it, but thanks.” For a second, I consider telling him that I know the author, that she’s coming to see me. But what if he wants to send his wife and daughter over to meet her? It’s at least a forty-minute drive between here and Milltown. Too far for a book club. Plus, a big open house isn’t what I have in mind.

“Carol wanted me to read it,” Dean leans on his rake, “but I told her I spend all day in a graveyard, that’s all the scary I need. But damn, if that book’s not everywhere right now. Did you see they’re making it into a movie?”

“I did.” I nod, wishing he’d return to his landscaping.

Mama hears my unspoken prayer.

“Uh-oh. Looks like you’ve got a little helper.” I point across the sprawling cemetery. A child has darted off from the nearby burial to climb aboard Dean’s tractor. I send up a silent thank you to Mama.

“I better skedaddle.” Dean tips his hat. I muster a small wave. He’s a few yards away when he stops and turns back to me. “Case you didn’t know or there’s nobody around to tell you, you’re a real good daughter.”

“Thanks, Dean.” I smile, wishing it was true. “I’m trying my best.”

Chapter 20

Molly

Isaac and I sit on a picnic blanket waiting for the kindergarten graduation to begin.

Ms. Latham, the music teacher, has already welcomed the growing clumps of parents, grandparents, and siblings scattered across the lawn.

“We’ll be starting in just a few moments,” she said ten minutes ago. Dropping her voice to a stage whisper, she added, “We’ve got a few nervous bladders in the chorus today but, hey, that’s show business!” She made a jazz hands gesture and got a few laughs before returning to her portable synthesizer.

I wave to Ingrid, who is lined up with her class ready to process toward the risers, their silver metal surfaces gleaming like mirrors in the midday sun. Her head, in its paper graduation cap complete with pipe cleaner tassel and fuzzy pompom, swivels as she searches the crowd. When her face brightens, I know without turning that Dan is approaching. Sure enough, when I glance behind me, there he is. I can’t tell if he's frowning at me or merely squinting in the June haze.

My body tenses as Dan approaches.

“Hey pal,” he greets Isaac over the chorus’s squeaky rendition of Pharrell Williams’s “Happy.” “I need to talk to your mom for a sec. Molly, can you …” He jerks his thumb toward the shade of a dogwood tree, its petals spent.

I stand and join him.

“Why are you making that face?” He scowls.

I’ve plastered on my best fake smile as fellow parents steal sideways glances—not that I blame them. Watching a divorced couple argue is far more entertaining than listening to the chorus butcher pop songs. I offer a wave and the gawkers spin their heads toward their offspring. I’m determined to make it appear as if Dan and I are nailing this co-parenting thing.

“What is it?” I ask through clenched teeth, my smile never faltering.

“I can’t bring the kids to my place this afternoon.” He runs a hand through his hair.

When we met, I found this gesture boyish, endearing. Now I know it's a sign that he has something unpleasant to tell me. “Why not?”

I imagine he’s going to launch into some sad tale about a broken air conditioner or how rising gas prices make it impossible for him to shuttle the children back and forth.

“Snowy’s missing.”

Gavin’s words “Listen, cats wander off…” float back to me. I wait for him to continue.

“I must’ve left the screen door open when I took out the recycling.” Sweat beads on his forehead. “If she’s not there—if the kids think I lost her—they’ll be crushed.”

Crushed. For a second I picture that little white fluff ball attempting to cross the busy intersection at Trails End’s entrance.

As “Happy” ends, Ms. Latham segues into a They Might Be Giants song. I can make out Ingrid’s warbling about a birdhouse in her soul.

I sweep my hand toward the ceremony, now underway. “Do we have to do this now?” I ask, face tight from forced grinning.

“I don’t know what to do.” He palms the back of his neck.

During our marriage, Dan’s problems always became my problems. I’m glad we’re done with that. “I have a work thing this afternoon.”

“Of course you do.” He shakes his head. He doesn’t believe me. When you make things up for a living, people often suspect you’re lying, embellishing. But in this case, it’s true.

I’m a guest on Triggered—a popular YouTube channel. When Georgia told me a producer had reached out about booking me, I was hesitant. Tiffany, the host, asks authors to read one of the most unsettling sections of their novels so viewers will know if they can handle the story or if they’ll be too “triggered” to pick it up. Georgia said it’s “super hot” so I agreed. I’d prefer not to have the kids in the house while I read these pages aloud.

“Don’t tell them they’re not going to your place, just surprise them with something else. Take them for lunch and ice cream and then, I don’t know, mini-golf, bowling, pedal boats.”

He nods like even this is more than he can handle. “Can you tell them?” His desperate eyes search my face. “It’ll go better coming from you.”

“Better for you,” I snort, my false cheeriness fading. Disappointing Dan, the nickname Gavin accidentally bestowed on him echoes in my mind.

On the day my first novel, Unhappy Endings, debuted, I foolishly expected my then-husband to come home with a bottle of wine, a small cake with the book’s cover on it, flowers. Maybe I’d seen too many online posts where authors’ families rallied to celebrate and support them on publication day.

Even Denise, my lackluster agent, sent a mug with the book’s cover on one side and my name on the other. Inside was a gift bag of chocolate-covered raisins.

Gavin had a bottle of champagne delivered from our local wine shop with a card that read: “You did it, Mol!” He called after dinner. “Tell me all about your big day!”

I slipped into our old home’s half bathroom with its weird owl wallpaper and said I’d spent the afternoon thanking reviewers in between potty training Ingrid and making snacks for Isaac.

“Nothing special other than your lovely gift. Thank you again. I’m popping that cork as soon as the kids are in bed.” A lie. I wasn’t in a celebratory mood. The whole thing hadn’t lived up to my expectations. I hadn’t debuted with a splash, not even a sprinkle. The book hadn’t made any big lists or gotten national coverage. After we hung up, I was heading straight to bed but I didn’t want him to know how lame I’d become.

“No sitter arriving any minute? No fancy night out on the town?” Gav asked.

“Nope.” I sat on the closed toilet lid and scratched at a yogurt stain on my sweatshirt.

“That’s … disappointing, Dan.” The words seemed to slip out.

Usually when I shared some way my husband had let me down, Gavin was careful not to say anything too judgey or critical. He engaged in the mental gymnastics we all attempt when a friend is in a bad relationship, weighing every word so later we don’t seem like the asshole who insulted their spouse should they choose to stick it out.

From that moment, I began to think of my life partner as “Disappointing Dan,” and here he was again, living up to the name.

“You can never make things easy on me, can you, Molly?”

Where’s the fun in that? I think but don’t say.

The music ends and Ms. Latham taps the mic. “Welcome, everyone! It’s my great pleasure to introduce our graduating class …”

Isaac waves us over as the first notes of “Pomp and Circumstance” bounce off the brick schoolhouse.

“It’s your cat, Dan, you deal with it.” I turn to go and then add, as sincerely as I can, “For the kids’ sake, I hope you find her soon.”

Chapter 21

Anna

“We have a date!” Trudy rocks forward in her platform Mary Janes and clutches my wrists.

A rush of blood thrums in my ears. For a second, I think she’s talking about my date with Molly. That’s impossible. I haven’t told anyone. I only just found out.

“Don’t look so shocked!” She releases my arms. “Yes, he’s a professor and a bit older but this isn’t a Lolita thing if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“No, no, of course not.” My breathing slows to normal as I realize she’s referring to Professor Harkness.

“I thought he liked me! We have so much in common—our love of libraries, lifelong learning. Oh, and we both care about the community.”

“I’m happy for you.” I know what it’s like when you want to see someone. Molly’s message, having her throw out actual dates, sends a giddy thrill through me each time I read it. “What will you guys do?”

“He invited me to a lecture he’s giving on the hidden dangers of reverse mortgages.” She smiles. “He’s polishing it up and hoping he can pitch it to the TEDx folks.”

Is this a date or is he trying to fill seats? I can’t ask her that. Instead, I smile. “Cool.” Maybe Trudy told him her lease is up and he thinks she has a genuine interest in real estate.

“I’m guessing we’ll go for drinks or dinner after, right? Maybe we’ll try that new wine bar. If it turns into a sleepover, would you be up for walking Lou? That diarrhea business is completely behind her. Pun intended.” She winks. “It’d just be once before bed and first thing in the morning. I’ll text you the details.”

I’m not a dog person.

Before I can say that, she squeezes my arm again. “You’re the best.” She whirls toward the shelving cart, humming tunelessly.

The phone rings.

“I got it.” Trudy’s closer to it but I hurry to pick it up in case it’s the woman who misplaced the ring. I left it at home today on the off-chance she came looking for it.

"Milltown Public Library. How can I help you?"

“Good morning!” The voice is familiar, the tone professional yet warm. My heart leaps like it’s going to jump out of my chest, my body making the connection before my brain calls up the name.

“This is Molly Mason.”

I almost drop the phone. My tongue’s gone dry and prickly as a cactus. Is she looking for me? Do I introduce myself? No, that’s too weird.

“Oh, hello,” I croak. Other than the few words I said to Trudy, I haven’t spoken to anyone today. I scan the room. Is Trudy watching? Listening?

“I used to live in the area and I’ve written a new novel, under a pen name, M.J. Archer?” She says it like a question. “Maybe you’ve heard of it? Birds at Night?”

“Hmmm, I’m not sure,” I say, nerves jangling.

Trudy gives me a “Need help?” shrug and I wave her off. She makes a thumbs-up gesture and pushes a trolley filled with picture books in the other direction.

“I’m coming to town this summer and I’d be happy to stop in and host a workshop. Maybe ‘A Day in the Life of a Novelist?’ or ‘Novel Writing for Novices?”

When I say nothing she throws out, “Or maybe just a reading?”

“When would this be?” My jaw tightens.

“I’ll be in town the week of July seventh. I may have something—”

“We tend to plan our events well in advance.” I cut her off. I’m glad Trudy is in the children’s room. Last week she mentioned Judith, our director, is hungry to fill the calendar after I asked why a local man was booked for a forty-five minute show-and-tell with his tortoise, Mabel. “If you give us more notice next time you’re in town, we can try to accommodate you,” I tell Molly.

Silence.

“I’m looking at your website and that week looks pretty clear actually.” Her tone is a mix of fake sweetness masking an underlying hint of “I’m used to getting my way.”

“I’m sorry, Ms … Mason, was it? Our events coordinator had a death in the family and hasn’t updated the site. I can assure you those dates are full.”

“Oh,” she says, deflated, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I’ll pass that along. Have a good day.”

“What was that about?” Trudy slides up behind me, reaching into the drawer for tape to make a quick board book repair. “From the look on your face, I’d guess an obscene phone caller. Are guys still doing that?”

“I—I don’t know.”

I’ll need to keep an eye on the local paper, the bookstore newsletter. Will Molly try to book another event? Who else will know she's here? The Google alert I set for her name will keep me aware of her plans.

Still, something bothers me: Why am I not enough for her?

Chapter 22

Molly

I’m as ready as I’ll ever be for my chat with Tiffany, the host of Triggered. Birds at Night rests on my desk, bookmarked to the place I’ll begin reading. I’ve applied more makeup and adjusted my ring light—not that those have helped. My eyes are puffy. I found myself unexpectedly teary at the end of Ingrid’s graduation ceremony. Ms. Latham changed the lyrics to “Dear Theodosia” from Hamilton and renamed it “Dear New First-Graders.” She kept those last lines about the children growing up and blowing us all away someday. That’s what got me—how fast it’s all going. I reached for Isaac’s hand. It’s lost that delicious baby pudginess. Gone are the fat little fingers I’d pretend to nibble like sausage links while he squealed with delight in his high chair.

The days are slipping by too quickly. I want to focus more on the children. Dan’s long-ago dig about spending more time with fake families rather than my real one forever lurks in the back of my mind.

But isn’t that why I’m doing all this? Running to events, appearing on podcasts and shows like the one that’s about to begin—so we’ll have a nice life and I can do a job with a lot more flexibility than a traditional one?

Or am I trying to justify the fact that I’m frequently distracted? Before I can give it any more thought, the screen flickers and splits. Tiffany appears. Her long brown hair falls in thick waves around her shoulders. Her skin is creamy, flawless, her sculpted eyebrows frame her face. Georgia is right. I should consider a spray tan, Botox, lash extensions, or all of the above.

“Hey M.J.! Great to meet you. Thanks for being here.” Tiffany’s a fast talker. “So you know the drill. I introduce you and your fabulous book. You give us a little set-up and then get right into it. You might hear me react but I won’t interrupt. And if you trip over words or whatever, don’t worry about it,’K? Just keep reading.”

While I still think this is a weird premise for a show, I smile. “Sounds good.” It is good—a good distraction from the fact that Georgia hasn’t responded to my last email with my latest chapter.

“Great! Here we go!”

Tiffany welcomes me and introduces Birds at Night as a “compelling campus novel that shines a spotlight on the lengths young women are forced to go to to protect themselves and one another.”

“Give us a little intro to the book and the scene you’re about to share,” Tiffany urges.

I hate this part. I should have my elevator pitch down by now but I still sound like a babbling fool attempting to straddle the line between intriguing readers and not giving too much away.

“Birds at Night follows two young women, Carly and Clem, both college freshmen. They live next door in this old hotel after their dorm is condemned. They don’t have much in common, but they become friends. Then … well, I don’t want to spoil it … something happens between them—a falling out. Clem isn’t speaking to Carly at this point in the story and the door that connects their rooms is closed.”

“Readers!” Tiffany shouts, startling me. “Are you ready to be thrust into one of the most jarring parts of the story? Hang on tight and tell me in the comments if you’re totally engaged or totally triggered!”

I wait for her to say more.

“That’s your cue, M.J.”

“Got it! Thanks!” I take a sip of water and begin.

Carly is slouched over her desk making flashcards for her bio quiz when she hears the low whir of Clem’s hairdryer. It’s been a week since Clem has spoken to her—or even looked in her direction, really. Carly sets down the blue pen that’s left a permanent stain on her favorite sweatshirt and listens for the click of Clem’s door closing as she heads to the 530 wing for drinks and whatever comes next.

Maybe it’s because Clem didn’t invite her, but this time, Carly imagines herself saying, “Yes, thanks, I’d love to join you.”

That’s no longer an option. Not after last Thursday night.

Now Carly can’t look at a single member of the 530s without her insides churning. What has Clem told them? That the girl in 512 was not only in her room but under her blankets, nearly bottomless, wearing her new sweater, reading her journal? Carly prays Clem would be embarrassed to say all that out loud. It sounds too strange to be true.

With her flashcards complete, Carly reaches into her backpack to grab the dozen packets of saltines she snuck out of the cafeteria. Even with her phone or a book for company, sitting alone in The Carthage dining room, surrounded by groups, is beyond mortifying. As she crunches in bed, a steady spray of crumbs collecting in her sheets, she wonders where Clem has gone, what she’s doing, when she’ll return.

Carly considers slipping back into 514, inside Clem’s cozy lair, but that would be insane. She’ll spend plenty of time there next week when Clem goes home for Thanksgiving. Carly can’t afford a flight and her mom will be in Arizona with her latest boyfriend, who’s taking her to meet his kids from his second marriage.

“This one’s the real deal, CarCar,” her mother had said on their weekly FaceTime.

What must it be like to always believe things will go your way? Carly wonders. She’d felt Clem radiating the same energy the day they met. But now when she thinks of Clem, all she can picture is her horrified face looming above her seven long days ago.

As she tries to fall asleep, that image makes Carly’s chest ache. She rolls onto her side, cracker crumbs working their way under her thermal pajama shirt and sticking to her stomach. She should think of trespassing as her mistake but, really, what she regrets is getting caught. Knowing what she had and what she’s lost, she wishes she could be swallowed alive by her cheap mattress.

To distract herself, she performs complicated math equations—square roots, multiples of seventeen—in her head, the go-to remedy that got her through endless nights during high school.

Hours later, earbuds dead, she’s awakened by noise in the hall—drunks keeping the party going, their voices louder than the clanging of the elevator’s metal gate. As her classmates stumble in, Carly curls into a tight ball.

When she had Clem’s friendship, Carly felt her life opening, spreading before her like the wings of the origami cranes she made after school in her empty house as she microwaved her frozen dinners. Now that dream life is collapsing, folding in on itself. She will be stuck at a school she never wanted to attend, friendless—like high school, the extended play version.

From the other side of the wall, Clem’s laughter filters in, high and bright—that siren song that lured Carly to the threshold on her very first day inside The Carthage.

Then another laugh—deeper, rough.

Clem isn’t alone.

Carly pushes back her comforter. A chill zips through her as her bare feet hit the thin carpet. She tiptoes to the door. Mattress springs creak on the other side.

“Stop!” Clem’s usually bubbly, buoyant tone is replaced by something new, breathy, panicked.

“Aw, don’t be like that.” The man’s voice is a mocking sing-song.

Blood thumps in Carly’s ears. She can’t move. Is she dreaming?

“Stop! You’re hurting me.” Clem’s pleas are followed by another sound—a metallic clink.

Like rats in a maze, Carly’s thoughts skitter, racing back to her childhood living room, to Travis, her stepfather, unfastening his belt, its big, tarnished gold buckle striking the floor. She flinches at the memory of the words “American Made” beside a horse rearing up, hooves in the air, like it couldn’t wait to bolt off his body.

Carly blinks away the image. A thud, then another, call up more echoes of the past—Travis kicking off his work boots, clumps of dirt falling on the rug Carly just vacuumed.

“Stop fighting!” The man’s throaty growl jars Carly back to the present.

Gripping the knob, she silently lifts and twists it the way she’s practiced.

When she steps inside 514, she’s not prepared. The lump of hairy scrotum, wedged between pimply ass cheeks, makes her want to turn and run but she’s frozen and can’t look away.

In silent horror, she watches the man press Clem into the mattress. With his long lean body, and his dark, greasy hair, he looks like an eel as he slithers on top of Clem.

Jeans shoved low, the crotch of Clem’s pink underpants is exposed, poking out like a tongue.

“Get off me,” she whimpers, her words muffled by his cheek.

“You wouldn’t have brought me here if you didn’t want to.”

His large claw of a hand pins Clem’s arms above her head. With his other, he tries to work himself inside her.

Carly can’t see Clem’s eyes. Are they wild and spooked or scrunched tight?

Carly floats back to the past again, to the nights she’d block out the world and imagine herself in the ocean—unmoored, drowning, helpless. But she isn’t that girl anymore.

The stink of stale beer, wet wool, and something wild, primal, acts like smelling salts, waking Carly up to the nightmare unfolding in front of her.

Clem’s cries pull Carly back, a loose tether. She needs an anchor.

Scanning the room, she finds it exactly as it was the last time she was there one week ago. Carly’s gaze lands on the desk lamp, nothing like her crappy plastic clip-on. This is ceramic, a cerulean blue, impossibly heavy as she seizes it. Ripping the cord from the wall, sparks arc and spray across the worn green carpet. A tingling sensation shoots through Carly’s hand then up her arm. A cry rises in her throat, head buzzing as she steps forward.

“What the—“ The eel-like creature stops wriggling and looks her up and down. His eyes—not the color but the cockiness, the conceit—break something inside her.

Carly raises the lamp above her head and brings it down hard and fast, smashing his temple and catching his left eye, a single blow that pitches him forward and knocks him out. A cut from a rough edge on the base sends blood trickling through his unwashed hair, staining Clem’s creamy sheets.

Ringing fills Carly’s ears as she steps back, palms stinging.

“Carly,” Clem whispers. Her name on Clem’s lips sounds magical, as if Carly has been selected for a coveted prize.“Get him off me. Please get him off me.”

Carly doesn’t know where to look so she focuses on the eel’s legs. His pants bunch around his ankles like a pair of rolled down tube socks. Carly grabs at his jacket and yanks him toward the floor. His limp body lands with a thud. She worries he’ll wake up. But if he does, she and Clem can overtake him. They are in this together now.

In the hall, the elevator dings. The metal gate clangs and the familiar hum of drunken chatter follows. Clem cries softly into her trembling hands. Her eyes find Carly’s. “Is—is he dead?”

Carly squats, places her hand near the eel’s open mouth, and squirms as his warm breath meets her fingers. She shakes her head.

“Thank you.” Clem whispers.

Is she thanking Carly or the universe?

Carly doesn’t know but Clem’s voice, weak and hollow, reminds her she needs to take the lead. Act. Now. “I’ll—I’ll deal with this.”

“I have to—” Clem lurches to the bathroom, one hand over her mouth, the other tugging up her jeans. She shuts the door. It fails to block the sound of her dry heaving.

Carly hurries to 512 and peers into the empty hall. Overhead, the exposed lightbulb flickers. The elevator is on its way down. After all the nights this ancient metal beast has kept her awake with its constant rattle and creak, she’s finally grateful for its proximity. Darting forward, she presses the silver call button and slips back into her room.

Before returning to 514, Carly stops, looks around. He will not, cannot, get away with this. From her desk, she grabs a stapler, Sharpie, and an index card.

Clem is out of the bathroom, perched on the edge of her bed, shaking as if the temperature has plummeted.

Carly knows better than to ask something stupid like, “Are you okay?” Plus, she isn’t sure where they stand. Will Clem wonder why the connecting door wasn’t locked? Or will she simply be grateful Carly could and did get in?

As much as Carly wants to find out, it will have to wait. “What’s his name?” She holds the marker to the index card.

“His name?” Clem repeats, face white with shock.

Carly waits.

“Ry—Reilly? I don’t know his last name. I met him at a party. He said—” Her shoulders float higher, her breath ragged. “He said he lived on seven. But I haven’t seen him around. He could be from town. I—I have no idea.”

How could you be so trusting? Carly thinks. But she knows the answer—until tonight no one has taught her not to be.

“Should—should we call someone?” Clem gestures toward the eel then folds her arms tight around her stomach, her lovely face contorting.

“Who?”

“I—I don’t know.” Clem shivers. “Campus security? The police?”

“And say what?”

Carly watches Clem make the calculations. She brought this stranger into her room. She doesn’t even know his last name. People talk. Does she want to be known for the next three-and-a-half years as the girl who was attacked? Who had to be rescued by a classmate who bashed the skull of this stranger she invited in? And what happens to them then?

“No.” She swipes beneath her eyes. “You’re right. Forget it.”

On the index card, Carly writes I’m Reilly. I’m a RAPIST.

“But he didn’t—”

“What?” Carly stops, hovering over the eel’s body. “Finish? He would’ve if …”

Clem weeps silently into her open palms as Carly staples the index card to his shirt, recoiling at the feel of his skin against the back of her hand, relieved by his steady breathing. She doesn’t need any more trouble.

He is still knocked out as she drags him by the ankles toward the door that leads to the hall.

“I—I want to help.” Clem stands, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

“We have to wait.” Carly listens for the elevator’s groaning. Each time she hears it, she pictures a fraying rope and the ancient pulley system that holds the carriage suspended like a magic trick.

The ding makes Carly’s heart pound. “Please be empty,” she silently begs the universe, poking her head through the slim slice of open door.

No one is there.

“Now!” She turns back and tightens her grip around the eel’s ankles.“Hold the door,” she tells Clem with gentle urgency.

Stepping into the hall, an otherworldly calm settles over her. She’s experienced it once before—this surreal sense that comes with doing the unthinkable because there’s no other choice.

Setting his legs on the ground, she eases back the metal gate, and averts her eyes from the lower half of his body where his goosebumped ballsack hangs like a turkey wattle.

For a moment, Carly indulges in a brief fantasy. What if the carriage isn’t there? What if she dropped him down the elevator shaft?

But it’s there. Wrenching him inside, she lets his legs fall, pants still down, everything exposed.

Carly takes a last look at his chest where the index card is front and center. She pushes the button. L for lobby, L for loser, she thinks, then steps out and closes the gate. She is not riding to the ground floor with this motherfucker.

“Going down,” she says before taking Clem by the arm and guiding her back to the safety of their rooms.

I stop. Set the book on the desk.

“Woah. That was intense, M.J. Thank you so much. I love that Carly saves Clem even after, let’s be real, Clem was a bit of a cunt to her in the previous scene.”

I’m not sure how to respond but I don’t need to because Tiffany continues, “And I hate that this is such a common experience that you don’t even need to give us much backstory for us to feel for these characters, to visualize all of it, and know how it could’ve ended so differently—and that it does end differently for so many women.”

“I’m afraid you’re right.” I nod, hoping we’re out of time.

“Were you surprised that this book found such a wide audience? That it’s got a universal appeal?”

“Well, Tiffany, as you said, too many people experience what these characters go through. Unfortunately, I’m not surprised it resonates with adults and younger readers alike—though, of course, I wish we lived in a world where sexual assault wasn’t commonplace.”

She sighs and lets out a soft, “Amen.”

I tense, worried she’s going to ask, “Did you base this on something that happened to you personally?”

Mercifully, she wraps it up. “So, readers, tell us in the comments: Are you totally triggered or totally into it? I love this book, M.J. and I adore Carly.”

I wonder if she’s read through to the end but I’m not going to ask that.

“Thank you so much!”

“No! Thank you for giving us such a fierce main character.” She hoists her massive water bottle. The Triggered logo is emblazoned in spiky, gothic-style black letters on the side that faces the camera. “Here's to badass women. May we know them, may we be them, may we raise them.”

I lift my cup of cold coffee in solidarity. “Cheers to that!”

Chapter 23

Molly

High on Tiffany’s praise and the Triggered episode going as well as it could, I reached out to the Milltown Library and offered to host a workshop or sign books while I’m in town. I was promptly shot down. I didn’t expect it to go that way. The librarian was so awkward and unhelpful. I’ll call another time and ask for the director.

To shake that off, I sat at my desk and watched the positive comments pile up on Tiffany’s channel.

“Buying this book ASAP!”

“May we all be blessed with a friend like Carly. And may we be the Carly when a friend needs one!”

“One of my favorite scenes. Dying to read her next one!”

They inspired me.

Isaac and Ingrid wouldn’t be back for a few hours. I could draft another chapter. As I waited for the manuscript to load, I opened my email—force of habit. A message from Georgia sat at the top of my inbox. Maybe she’d tuned in and was going to assure me Triggered went as well as I thought it had.

Hey—

She didn’t use my name, not even a Hey Mol. I took a deep breath and braced for what followed.

So this chapter is a solid first effort, but let’s punch it up a bit. More tension, please. We want this book to be every bit as strong as the first one. Sydney wants a short list of titles and cover ideas by August 1. They still plan to tie the sequel’s pub date to the film release. No more wiggle room! LMK if you want to chat through any or all of the above. TY

She rarely uses an exclamation point. I didn’t write back. Just stared and reread it a half-dozen times hoping the words would rearrange themselves into something more positive, less cold and formal.

Hard as I try to see it for what it is—honest feedback—Georgia’s message has derailed my afternoon. The pressure to produce something equal or better than the first book makes my chest tighten.

To soothe my bruised ego and take my mind off rewriting that chapter, I bury myself in mindless tasks. As I fold laundry and empty the dishwasher, I tell myself Georgia’s right—especially after reading that scene to Tiffany, maybe my new pages are flat. I can fix them. I’ve done it before.

I’m back in my office sipping a glass of iced tea and contemplating rewrites when the front door bursts open. Kid voices echo through the entryway.

“Mommy!” Ingrid nearly tackles me as I step into the hall. “We didn’t see Snowy but we played mini-golf.” Her cheeks are bright pink and dotted with freckles. I’d bet my life Dan forgot sunscreen.

I brush her hair back from her sweaty face and cup her chin, which is streaked with the sticky antifreeze blue of an Icee. “You had fun?” She nods. “Why don’t you wash up? I’ll start dinner soon.” I corral Isaac and kiss him on the top of his head as he races past me to dart upstairs, no doubt experiencing iPad withdrawal.

Dan stands in the doorway. He looks more irritated than he did at the graduation. I don’t have the time or energy for more of his drama. I step forward to tell him the kids will call him later when Ingrid, overtired from the day’s excitement and crashing from her sugar high, whines, “Wait! Where’s Cricket?”

Cricket is Ingrid’s favorite stuffie at the moment.

“I think you left it in the car this morning.” I fish out the keys from the bowl on the entryway table and listen for the chirp that signals I’ve unlocked the car.

“Daddy!” Ingrid tugs Dan’s hand. “Come with me.”

When they return, Ingrid skips into the house with the plush green toy while Dan glares at me from the porch. I hoped he’d get back in his car.

“Grab a drink of water,” I call over my shoulder and step forward to close the door. Dan doesn’t move. I want him to leave so I try to keep things pleasant. “Looks like mini-golf was a hit. Thanks for taking them. See you Friday.”

Ingrid is halfway toward the kitchen when she spins around. “Friday we’ll see Snowy, Daddy! Promise?”

“You got it!” Dan pokes his face around the door.

I start to shut it, expecting him to back-up. He doesn’t. “Goodbye, Dan.”

“I want to talk to you.” His voice is gruff yet it’s hard for me to take him seriously. His tone reminds me of the time he auditioned for the role of small town detective in an off-Broadway show. The part went to someone else. Surprise.

Pain begins spreading from temple to temple. “What is it now?”

“You know what really bothered me today, Molly? All afternoon actually?”

“I don’t have time for guessing games, Dan. Just tell me. Or better yet, don’t.” I reach for the knob and attempt to close the door again. He sticks out his foot to block it.

“It was your smile. That … that …” he stammers “that shit-eating grin.”

How original. “Now I’m not supposed to smile around you?”

“You weren’t the least bit surprised Snowy’s missing.”

My nose twitches at the mention of the cat. “Dan, I really—”

“I was in the backseat of your car just now. I know, Molly. I saw it.”

What is he talking about? Wrappers, water bottles, maybe some old ATM receipts? If he spotted my account balance, he’ll start his “I’m broke!” sob story again.

Ingrid’s singing songs from the graduation. Her sweet voice floats out from the kitchen, reminding me to stay calm, patient. I exhale. “You saw what, Dan?”

“Where is she?”

“Where is who?”

“Snowy!” He hisses. “My cat!”

“What are you talking about?”

“There’s white fur in your backseat. You have her.”

“Me?” I snort. “Someone who is highly allergic to cats swiped your kitten?” He’s not laughing. “I don’t have a key to your condo, remember?”

His forehead creases. Is he picturing me lurking in his shitty development with a can of tuna and a ball of yarn?

“Isaac has a key. You could’ve used it.”

“You’re being ridiculous, Dan. Do you hear yourself?”

“You couldn’t stand the thought of them wanting to spend time with me—finally!” He points a finger at me, ketchup crusting in his cuticles. “You had to ruin it.”

“I’m not—”

“I know you’ve got her, Molly. I’ll prove it.”

“You’re losing it, Dan.”

“You’re losing it! Why is there white fur in your backseat?”

“It’s probably from one of Ingrid’s stuffies or her fleece jacket.”

“It’s June. Why would Ingrid wear a jacket?”

“It was sixty-two degrees this morning—not that I owe you a weather report.” A sense of déjà vu descends, shuttling me back to the worst days of our marriage, the pair of us squabbling over nonsense like toddlers.

“Or maybe you’re pissed that I’m seeing Heather now.”

“We’re divorced, Dan, see whomever you like.” My grip tightens on the doorknob. “A therapist, maybe? You’re awfully paranoid.”

“I’m going to find her, Molly.”

“I hope you do, Dan. Goodbye.”

I move to shut the door. Again, he refuses to budge.

“I know you, Molly. I remember how you don’t like to lose.”

“I haven’t lost anything, Dan. You’re the one who can’t find his cat.”

“Because you have her!” He runs a hand through his hair, exasperated. Then his eyes narrow, hardening, the way they did when I told him I wanted a divorce. “I’m going to prove you took her and then you’re going to lose everything.”

“Fuck off, Dan.” I jerk the door forward so forcefully the glass panes rattle in their frames. He jumps back, startled. I sneer at him and snap the lock in place.

When I turn away, Isaac is standing on the bottom step, his small face crumpled.

How long has he been there?

How much did he hear?

Chapter 24

Anna

Private caller flashes on my phone screen. It’s the third time today. Probably a scammer.

What if it’s Molly? Maybe she discovered I’m the one who answered the phone at the library and rejected her offer. I could block the number but my curiosity wins out.

“Hello?”

“Hey. It’s me.”

My head swims. My mind must be playing tricks on me. Then he speaks again. “It’s Keith,” he says and I’m convinced this is real.

“Hey.” I try to sound casual, like it’s no big deal even as the sound of his voice sets my heart racing.

“You weren’t answering my calls, so I hid my number. You taught me that, remember?”

I should end this now, but I can’t. Since the day we met, it’s like Keith cast a spell on me. How is it still there? I should hate him after everything that’s happened between us, but I don’t.

“How are you?” he asks. His gentleness, his sincerity, make my limbs go soft. No one other than Trudy has asked that.

“I’m okay.” He knows me well enough that lying would be pointless. “You?”

“Concerned.”

I drop into the couch. It sits on a diagonal across the living room, rug rolled up off to the side. I’ve been rearranging furniture trying to make the space look cozy and inviting, like I entertain all the time. The place is small and not my own but when Molly walks in, I want her to think, “Wow, this is nice!” Or probably something more interesting since words are her thing.

“Worried, I mean, obviously,” he continues.

“Oh?” I play dumb. It’s impossible not to picture Keith—his kind smile and curly brown hair, those large round eyeglass frames that I always teased gave him “wise owl energy.” I think of his long fingers touching mine as he handed me his card the day we met at the book festival.

“I’m still your emergency contact,” he says.

Now I know where he’s going and my heart speeds up a bit more.

“Dr. Merton said you missed your last two appointments. She checked with the pharmacy and you haven’t picked up your prescriptions either.”

“I’m seeing a new doctor.”

“I hope that’s true.” His voice is low, almost a whisper. If I close my eyes, I can imagine he’s here with me, in this room, beside me on the couch, his breath warm on my neck. “I worry about you, Daisy.”

Daisy. How long has it been since he’d called me that? I’d been carrying a copy of The Great Gatsby when I stopped by his table at the book festival. He’d illustrated a graphic YA novel. Not my usual genre but I bought a copy because we’d locked eyes as I browsed bookmarks across the aisle. I almost looked away, then he smiled at me. I’m not the kind of girl people notice.

“You’re smart, darlin’,” Mama would say each time I asked if she thought I’d ever grow taller than five-foot-two or if going to a salon instead of letting her cut my hair might slim down my face. “You’ve got a good, big brain. That’s better than beauty,” she’d insist.

Nobody had ever been attracted to me and my good, big brain … until Keith. Of course, I’d read about love at first sight but I thought it was nothing more than made-up silliness—like unicorns or Santa Claus.

I picked up Keith’s book and asked him and the author to sign it to Nat. “My nephew,” I lied.

I confessed on our second date after we’d each had a margarita—my first ever. Mama didn’t keep liquor in the house on account of Daddy, even after he’d been dead and gone more than a decade.

“Ah, the old imaginary nephew trick.” Keith smiled. He placed his hand over mine and a warmth spread through me, like an all-over heating pad.

“Are you mad?” I’d only known him a few weeks, yet already I couldn’t imagine my life without him.

“Mad? Are you kidding? I’m flattered.” He was in his late thirties with a touch of rosacea that gave him a perpetually bashful look I found endlessly appealing. It seemed like he’d spent a lifetime without anybody noticing him either.

We didn’t need to talk much. We could just be—him with his sketchpad, me with a book.

“I’m doing okay, really.” I need to change the subject. “How’s your new job?”

“Well, it’s not really new anymore,” he corrects.

I'd forgotten he could be like that. Maybe it was the ten-year age difference. Maybe he was just a know-it-all. Either way, I hadn’t missed that part of him.

When he got the offer for a job designing graphics for a startup gaming site in Brooklyn, we’d spent hours online looking at apartments in Queens. We even talked about getting a cat. I didn’t tell Mama right away.

“Too soon,” she said, though Keith and I had been together almost a year by the time I finally worked up the nerve to share our plans. “Where’s the ring? Remember what I taught you, farmer doesn’t buy the cow—”

“I know!” I cut her off.

Other times, like when I made homemade soup or brownies, and brought it to him, Mama would insist he was using me.

“Using me for what?”

“You’re young, naive. You go along with whatever he tells you.”

When Mama got like that it was best to let her rant. Arguing wasn’t worth the trouble. It left me caught in a weird middle place. Keith wasn’t Mama’s biggest fan either.

At first, he thought it was sweet that we were so close, then he started to say, “She infantilizes you.”

Mama did treat me like a child. His assessment wasn’t wrong. Keith had been raised by psychologists. When he told me that, I pictured the pair of them poking around inside people’s heads—brains the same pale pink as the pork shoulder Mama would simmer for hours in her Crock-Pot. I imagined them holding forks while shredding and laughing.

“Your mom calls and texts you an awful lot, doesn’t she?” Keith would point out.

“We’re all each other has,” I told him.

“Not anymore, Daisy. Now you’ve got me.” He’d done that thing where he brushed the tip of his nose against mine, sending tiny sparks flying inside me like fireworks on Fourth of July.

July. Molly’s visit. I want to tell him about that—how I tracked her down, how I invited her, how she’s coming back. But he won’t care or understand why it matters to me.

“So I have this thing coming up in July that I can’t miss, but after that I was thinking I’d visit.”

In the quiet, my lips go numb like I’ve just had Novocain. “Visit you, I—I mean …” I stammer, mouth rubbery.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. New York’s great and you should definitely check it out but …” His pause, the sheer length of it, makes my toes curl and my fist clench, “… but I’m pretty busy.” He sighs. “Plus, you know, I’m with Cheryl now.”

The room tilts like I’ve been transported to a fun house. It’s more than that the couch is sideways and the armchairs are shoved against the wall mid-rearrangement. It’s like he’s a stranger.

I don’t speak. There’s power in silence. I heard Molly say that once on a podcast.

“I mean, you know that.” His voice goes soft again. “I saw you liked the post.”

“What post?”

“The one of us hiking in Maine. Memorial Day weekend?” His tone shifts from kind to annoyed. “Look, don’t make this harder. I just … when I got Dr. Merton’s messages I … I know you’ve been through a rough patch losing your mom—”

“Losing you.” Tears drip down my cheeks. I pat my pockets for a tissue, too dazed to walk to the kitchen for a fresh one.

“You can’t just quit meds like that cold turkey. You’ve got to taper off.” He lets out a long breath. “You know that.”

Keith’s the one who said I should see someone in the first place.

“I don’t know if you’ve ever really dealt with losing your dad and your mom is … a lot,” he’d said.

We’d been working on these little picture books together. I’d write, he’d illustrate. I guess I kept telling the same story—woodland creatures lost in a forest, trying to reunite with their family members. Because I’d have done anything for him, I agreed to set up an appointment with Dr. Merton.

“I just wanted to make sure you’re doing all right,” he says now, attempting to wrap up this call, which he’s made out of a sense of duty, not love or even interest.

I hit mute for a sec to snort up the snot that slides toward my mouth then clear my throat and unmute. “I’m fine, Keith. No need to take up any more of your precious time.”

When I told Mama Keith was moving, that he’d asked me to go with him, she’d bristled.

“Your father left me. You wouldn’t leave me too? After I put my life on hold to raise you? To take care of you? Who will take care of me?”

Sometimes I wondered if Daddy bolted because of me, because a young child is an anchor. Or was it Mama? There were moments when she’d get so close, it was like she wanted to crawl inside your skin and breathe for you. Her endless questions, her constant nuggets of wisdom, that slow steady drumbeat I know best! I know best! like she was an authority on every blessed thing.

After she said that, dropping a lifetime supply of guilt at my feet, I left her sitting in her recliner and went upstairs. She had trouble navigating steps without my help. Maybe it was selfish, but I kept thinking, What about me? What about my life? Keith was a ship sailing off to better, brighter shores. I wanted to join him.

Mama's health had been failing for a while—heart problems, dizzy spells, her vision all but gone. If she died, I’d be free, free to go wherever. It’s not right to think those thoughts about the woman who gave you life but it was too much.

“Well, I hope things work out with that new doctor,” Keith says.

I’m done with doctors.

“And whatever you’ve got going on in July,” he adds.

I hear relief in his voice now. He’s completed a chore and can cross it off his to-do list: Call crazy ex-girlfriend. Done!

“Thanks. I haven’t felt this good in a while actually.”

I’d thought about defying Mama’s wishes, going with Keith to New York, starting a whole new life. Forgetting about everything with Daddy, how he’d left. They were my past. Keith was my future.

Then she got sicker. How could I abandon her? Even when I was the cause.

I think he’s ended the call when I hear his slow intake of breath. My stomach flips. He’s still there.

“Promise me you’ll pick up the prescriptions, just in case,” he says.

I see it more clearly now. Keith was the drug I couldn’t quit. I wanted, needed, more of him, and that made me do bad things.

“I’ll get them.”

That doesn’t mean I’ll take them.

Chapter 25

Molly

The night air is pure and dark, lit only by the moon, the twinkle of fireflies, and the flicker of Heather’s flat screen in the cottage thirty yards away. The kids are tucked in bed. Camp starts tomorrow—a half-day but I’ll take it. I’ve almost made it. I’m celebrating with a glass of white wine on the patio.

This morning, I got up early. Dan’s accusation—that I stole his kitten—sparked an idea. I pulled up the pages I’d sent to Georgia, made them more intense. Then I added a few new scenes and sent them back. When Isaac and Ingrid woke, I took them out for pancakes and we spent the day at the lake.

We rented a kayak. When we got far enough out that it was just the three of us, a pair of geese, and a bullfrog croaking in the distance, we rested our paddles. A leaf drifted toward us from one of the soaring oaks that stood like watchmen surrounding the pond. I stretched my arm to catch it before it hit the water.

“Make a wish,” I told the children. “What do you hope for this summer?”

Isaac shouted, “Make new friends at camp!” Ingrid said she wanted to let her hair grow to the middle of her back and “do lots of art.”

For the first time, they didn’t seem like children, more like interesting people with thoughts and opinions. I saw a path forward, the future. Rather than feeling weepy and sentimental like I did at graduation, hope swelled in my chest. As they become more independent, I’ll have more free time, more focus. I could sense a window opening, air and light streaming through. I liked the view.

On the drive home, we stopped for pizza. As we waited, I peeked at my email. Georgia loved my rewrite. Can’t wait to read more. Her words or maybe stepping away from the house and my laptop invigorated me. My mind started spinning with fresh ideas. I jotted them in my phone’s notes app as the children blew paper straw wrappers at one another and played tic-tac-toe on the paper placemats.

This will be a good—no, a great—summer. I’ll stick to a schedule. If I write one thousand words a day from now on, even if I miss a few here and there, I’ll have a finished draft by late-August. It’s always easier to revise than it is to create something from nothing.

Visiting Mom and Gavin—even Anna—is the right thing to do. Time away and a change of scenery will be good for all of us.

I polish off the last inch of wine and refill the glass. The pack of cigarettes I stashed inside the grill is still there, tempting me. I light one, inhale, and blow out a plume of silvery smoke. It swirls like a ghost in the moonlight.

Maybe it’s the wine and cigarette, spending the day with the kids at the lake, reading Georgia’s encouraging email or the combination of all of it, but I feel lighter, less burdened than I have in months.

I text Gavin to see if he’s up for a call. I’ve been expecting him to reach out to tell me he found Anna Fox. He’s probably been busy with his dad.

The phone vibrates in my hand and my heart leaps in giddy anticipation of what he may have discovered.

“Hey!” I hiccup.

“Molly,” Gavin sounds uncharacteristically tired.

As much as I want to jump right to Anna, I don’t want it to seem so me, me, me.

“How's your dad?”

“Either he’s a terrible patient or I’m a bad nurse. It’s been a day. He keeps trying to sneak out of the house and he’s not supposed to drive yet.”

“Yikes, I’m sorry.” I picture Gav’s dad, tall and trim like Dick Van Dyke with his good posture and thick white mustache. Definitely not one to take orders.

“Where’s he trying to go?”

“Who knows? To get coffee, a newspaper? To get away from me?”

“I wish I were there to help,” I exhale.

“Are you smoking?” He gasps. “Hold it up to the phone! Share!”

“I’ll bring a pack with me, count on it!” I ash into an upturned shell Ingrid found along the shoreline today.

I’m facing the cottage. It’s dark except for the dancing light in the main room where Heather must be watching TV.

“So … I know you’re not calling to hear about my brief tenure as Florence Nightingale, so I’ll cut to the chase. I hate to disappoint you, Mol,” Gav groans, “but I’ve got nothing. Zilch. Zero. Nada on Anna Fox. But not for lack of trying. I braved the basement for you and turns out it’s as barren as a Kroger right before a blizzard.”

“No yearbooks? What? Why?” I try to soften my disappointment. Gav’s got enough going on without me adding more stress.

“There was a flood. My dad said they got wet and he tossed everything.”

“Shit!” The word slips out.

“I vaguely recall him asking me to come take a look at stuff before he chucked it, but that was ages ago and I sort of remember saying I’d rather fight off snakes than revisit high school. So, yup, it’s all gone.”

Guilt needles my heart. How could I have asked him to look through those yearbooks? Senior year, the wrestling team said they wanted to sign it, then wrote horrible things in the margins. I remember threatening to slash the tires of their pick-up trucks and Gav telling me it wasn’t worth it.

“Their mullets are punishment enough,” he’d said, snapping the yearbook shut.

“Sorry, Mol—” Gav says now.

“No, please, I’m sorry I asked you. Thanks for trying.” I take a final drag, scrape the cigarette against the slate stones, and walk toward the lawn. “Maybe they’re available online! At the library! Why didn’t I think of that sooner?”

Gavin laughs. “When has Milltown ever kept pace with the rest of the world?”

“Ugh.” I groan. “Good point.” Still it’s worth a shot. I’ve been meaning to call back to speak with the director about hosting a reading. That odd librarian mustn’t have realized Birds at Night is a bestseller.

“This isn’t over, Molly.” It’s Darren. “We’ll do a little boots-on-the-ground investigating. I’m not letting you walk into a stranger’s home.”

“Say hello to the bossy big brother you never wanted.” Gavin takes the phone back. “Seriously, Darren, the biggest crime occurring in Milltown is that its residents are still wearing Crocs.”

I snort-laugh and wiggle my toes. They’re cool and damp as I wander through the lush green grass. “Good old Millto—” Something catches my eye. A light in Heather’s bedroom. The window shade half-raised.

Gavin is asking when the kids and I will arrive, do we want to have dinner at his and Darren’s place or a new Italian restaurant.

I’m only half-listening, too focused on the cottage window—the bodies, plural, hands removing clothing, revealing bare skin. As I lurch forward, the wine catches up, walloping me with a sudden whoosh that makes the lawn feel dangerously uneven. I stub my toe on the edge of the swing set and whimper-squeal.

“Mol, are you okay? What was that? Are you murdering a squirrel? Ever since finishing Birds at Night, I feel like there’s this other, darker Molly lurking inside you. I kind of dig it. Hey, did you read Nightbitch?”

I ignore his questions. I need to get closer. I squint and walk toward the window of the cottage—my cottage—to confirm what I thought I saw. A tattoo—two lines mid-torso. Unmistakable.

“Molly? Are you there?” Gavin asks.

“Yes, sorry, can I call you right back?”

“How about tomorrow? I’m beat.”

“Yeah, sure, of course. Love you,” I whisper and end the call.

The bottoms of my bare feet are slick with dew and I slip as I climb the ladder into the kids’ wooden play set. Batting away spiderwebs, I squat in the spot designed to mimic a treehouse, and aim the oversized plastic binoculars into Heather’s bedroom. Dead gnats and flecks of pollen dot the plastic lenses. I lick my finger and try to clean them. The view isn’t great. Still, I can see well enough to confirm the words I expected to read: The world is a stage, but the play is badly cast.

Dan had it inked just below his ribs after he lost the role of Stanley Kowalski to a dark-haired, muscle-bound actor from Long Island. He’d shared that as he peeled off his t-shirt the first night I stayed at his apartment. Before I could stop myself, I laughed and said, “Of course you didn’t get it! When has that brutish character ever been portrayed by a lanky guy with carrot-colored hair? And I don’t think Oscar Wilde meant those lines literally.”

We’d been drinking Old Fashioneds at a wrap party, and for a second, I worried that my honesty might’ve offended him. Instead, he pulled me closer and whispered, “Where were you with that advice six months ago?”

A splinter slices through my finger as I lose my balance and put my hand down to steady myself.

“Shit!” I hiss.

I should go inside, not huddle here like a voyeur, yet I can’t move. Dan’s taking this act a bit far.

The shock of seeing him here with Heather mixes with the wine and a jumble of thoughts swirl. His car isn’t in the driveway. Were they out together earlier? Is his interest in her more than an attempt to rankle me? She’s laid back, more than a decade younger. Low-hanging fruit. Maybe it makes him feel like a real actor—an older man pursuing his kids’ nanny. Or is she the driving force? Is she trying to become me? She said she wanted to write a book, I—

My phone vibrates inside my pocket. I reach for it. Mom. Did she dial me accidentally or is that woman back rooting through her trash? Fumbling to silence it, I accidentally drop the phone out the treehouse window.

“No!” I whisper-wail.

Heather, in a pink lace push-up bra, peers into the darkness. The tops of her breasts spill out, pale and rounded like perfect scoops of French vanilla ice cream.

I duck lower, afraid she’s spotted me or my cell phone as it plunged to the ground. I crouch for a minute, mouth dry. When I raise my head, I smack it on the low ceiling and press my lips together to stop from yelping. Heather’s lowered the shade. The bedroom is dark.

I sit back on my heels and rub my scalp. I haven’t been with anyone since the divorce. That one date with cringey Jason Reddy was enough to make me glad to be alone. It’s not a competition, and yet Dan was right about one thing: I don’t like to lose.

Chapter 26

Molly

Heather is perched on my porch steps when I return from dropping the kids at camp. Her head whips up as gravel crunches beneath my tires. It’s too late to put the car in reverse, back out of my long driveway, and pretend I forgot some important errand. I have no choice but to talk with her.

As I exit the car, I keep my sunglasses on. The sky is a glaring gray, harsh and hazy, and my head is screaming from too much wine last night.

Heather inspects the ends of her high ponytail. She’s wearing lilac yoga pants and a matching tank. Her face is flushed. The image of her half-naked in the cottage window flashes behind my eyes and I nearly stumble on the uneven slate walkway.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think her cheeks were pink from sex but unless Dan’s learned some new tricks, he isn’t giving anyone that glow.

My pulse speeds up. Is she here to tell me she spotted me in the kids’ tree house? That will be mildly mortifying but I’ll say Ingrid left a doll up there and refused to sleep without it.

As I approach, Heather stands and holds out a coffee cup. Her refillable one, complete with a pale pink lipstick stain, sits on the step.

“Hey,” she says, “got this for you. Two sugars in the raw, a splash of cream, exactly how you like it.”

I squint behind my sunglasses. As if she can sense my confusion, she adds, “I asked Dan how you take it.”

Dan.

“Thanks,” I muster grudgingly. The last time Heather brought me something—the hand thrown plates that haven’t left the corner cabinet—it cost me one hundred dollars and she told me she wanted to “hang out” with my ex-husband. Can she top that?

I could invite her in, but I don’t. I’ve got four hours before I’m due to pick up Isaac and Ingrid from camp. I can’t waste a second.

“So this is totally awkward …” She leans forward.

“Okay.” I step back. The sharp edges of a holly tree stab my hip and I jump, lukewarm coffee splattering my white t-shirt.

“So, um, we … Dan and I … we saw you … last night …”

“I’m sorry?” I shake my head. Blood rises to my cheeks now as we stare at one another, two red-faced women. I brace for her to finish that sentence with “watching us.”

I’m ready with the cover story about Ingrid’s doll but hold off. “I was outside for a bit. It was such a nice night, I wanted to enjoy it.” I wait for her to respond. When she doesn’t, I add, “It is my backyard, right?”

Instead of agreeing, she says, “We saw you smoking, Molly. We could smell it. I’m sure the kids can too. I know it’s none of my business, but you should stop.” She places a warm hand on my arm. My skin prickles. “It’s terrible for you, not to mention it’s an awful example to set for Isaac and Ingrid.”

“Right.” I nod, my body betraying me. I don’t owe anyone an explanation as to what I do alone on my own property, still the words tumble out. “I’ve had a lot on my plate lately.” What a cliché. I’m more embarrassed by my lack of imagination than getting called out for smoking.

She frowns, still enjoying her chance to play headmistress while I’m the juvenile delinquent she caught beneath the bleachers.

My jaw tightens and I will the lines between her eyes to remain there permanently.

“Have you tried yoga? There’s this studio in town, I …”

“Have you tried being a single parent who’s promoting a novel and writing another on a tight fucking deadline?” I almost say but bite back my words. Instead, I hit her with, “Dan used to smoke too.” My eyes narrow involuntarily. “Did he mention that?”

“Actually, you mentioned it when you told me how you met, remember? I asked him about it and he said he quit when the kids came along but you still … indulge.”

That’s all true. Smoking has been a salvation of sorts for me, but I can’t tell her that. To avoid saying something I might regret, I sip the coffee. It’s cold. It doesn’t matter, I had two cups before driving the children to camp. How long has she been waiting here for me? Is Dan in the cottage, eager for her to report back after this scolding?

“I just mean, is everything okay?” She cocks her head, swivels it slowly.

“Yes, why?”

“We’re neighbors and I get that this might be weird—Dan and me, I mean.”

We’re not neighbors. You’re my tenant and your lease is up in October, I’m itching to tell her. I tilt my head, mimicking her. “Nope, not weird at all.”

“Oh good, it’s just … I like him more than I thought I would,” she bites her lower lip, “and well, he might be around a lot more.”

Why can’t they go to his condo? Is it bad for Heather’s creative energy to surround herself with so much beige?

“I hope you’re okay with that.” Her raised eyebrows and her tone, fake-sweetness masking a challenge, catches me off-guard. I step to the side, accidentally rolling my ankle in the mulch bed. Slivers of bark slide inside my sandal but I stomp my foot, shaking the wood chips loose.

“Of course I’m okay with that. Didn’t Dan tell you I can handle anything? I’m like a cat that way, always landing on my feet.” I smile. “Speaking of … has he found Snowy yet?”

If she was puffed up a moment ago, now she deflates. “Um, no.”

“Is he even looking for her?” I frown. “The children will be so upset if …”

“I—we know.” Her expression shifts. She looks like she’s remembered something important. “Actually, Dan thought maybe you might’ve—”

“Listen,” I interrupt, “I have to get back to work. I’m sure Dan’s mentioned I’m a beast when I’m on a deadline.” I zip up the steps, adrenaline and caffeine coursing through my veins.

“No, of course. Also, just an FYI, I’m heading out of town for that trip I mentioned.” When I say nothing, she continues. “The Finger Lakes. Seeing some high school friends.”

Has she invited Dan? Are things moving that fast?

“Maybe you can finally get that plumber to fix the sink?”

“Right, yes, I’m on it!” I really have to remember that. “Have fun.” I slide the key into the lock.

“Enjoy your coffee,” she calls.

“I will!” From the top of the porch, I’m at least a foot taller than she is. “Oh, and if the smoking bothers you, close the windows.”

I step inside. When I turn back, she’s watching me through the long glass panel. I wave with the flick of my fingertips and stand there until she heads to the driveway and disappears around the hedges toward the cottage.

In the kitchen, I pour the coffee down the sink. Beyond the window, clouds hang low in fat white clusters. A sudden summer rainstorm is sweeping in. Heather picks up the pace, ponytail swishing, hurrying back inside the cottage.

The cottage that will be all mine.

It’s time. Heather needs to go.

Chapter 27

Anna

The cool air inside the library is a welcome relief after a morning of running errands. I picked up my meds after I called Dr. Merton’s office and apologized for missing my appointments. I made a new one—virtual this time. The pill bottle rattles in my backpack. I haven’t taken any. I don’t need them. Not yet. I’m thinking clearly. Like I told Keith, I feel more alive than I have in months. Still, his call shook me up. My world has become so small without Mama, without Keith. If I drop him as my emergency contact, who can I add? There’s no one. Not really. Trudy, maybe?

Her name pops into my mind because she’s the only person other than patrons that I talk to on a regular basis and also because she and Judith, our director, huddle together at the circulation desk as I approach. Their eyes flick to me simultaneously. Their whispering stops. Are they judging me for being late? The clock above the water fountain says it’s a little after noon. But as Trudy pointed out in her kitchen last week, I’m a lowly volunteer. So what if I’m not on time?

I push the low, swinging door to step behind the desk when Judith, in an outdated emerald green power suit complete with chunky shoulder pads, blocks my path.

“I’d like to see you in my office.” Behind her bifocals, her eyes seem to search for my hands, which are shoved deep in the pockets of my favorite sundress. The buttery yellow one with little embroidered flowers down the front and around the neckline. Mama always said I should stick with solids, that I don’t have a face for prints, but I was wearing it the day I met Keith at the book festival, so it feels special. Lucky.

Judith purses her lips as she waits for my answer.

“Sure.” I wonder if she’s going to offer me a full- or even part-time job. I’d be flattered. It would be nice to be recognized for my work—all the hours I’ve put in shelving, retrieving books for patrons, helping students with research. But I don’t know if I want to commit to sticking around. There’s nothing holding me here. Even though Keith threw in that stupid bit about how he’s “with Cheryl now,” the more I think about it, the more obvious it is that he still cares about me. He wouldn’t have called otherwise. I’ll see how things go with Molly. Maybe I’ll visit him after that. I’ll find Cheryl first, explain to her that I’m back now, that Keith and I belong together.

“Let me just—” I start sliding my backpack off my shoulder to stick it in a cubby.

“Bring that with you.” Judith waves for me to follow her.

I try to meet Trudy’s eyes to see if I pick up anything from her expression. She’s designing summer reading certificates and doesn’t look up.

Books stacked into tiny towers clutter Judith’s desk. On the wall, there’s a sketch of Milltown’s historic Main Street done in graphite pencil. She doesn’t invite me to take a seat.

A prickly sweat breaks across my forehead. This isn’t going to be good news. Could Molly have called back, tried again, told Judith that someone didn’t welcome her with open arms?

I keep smiling even as my lower lip trembles. I bite down to stop it.

“This morning a patron came in looking for a ring.” Judith removes her glasses and cleans out the corners of her eyes with a sharp fingernail before replacing them. “She believes she lost it here last week during story time. Trudy …” she tips her head toward the doorway where Trudy now stands, crossing and uncrossing her pale, freckled arms “asked her to describe the piece.”

Judith pauses, probably hoping I’ll confess and spare her the awkwardness of having to ask me outright if I’m a thief.

Instead, Trudy interjects, “It sounded exactly like the one you were wearing at my house, and I kind of blurted that out.” Trudy winces as my heart beats faster. “I know you said that was your mom’s, but this lady had a picture and it was—”

“Do you have it?” Judith’s hands are on her hips. Mama used to do that too when she was out of patience with me. “Do you have the ring?”

I’m standing beneath an air-conditioning vent but my cheeks burn just the same. Tears sting my eyes. I blink them back. I’ll never be like Molly or Carly if I can’t even swipe some ugly ring and get away with it.

I let the tears drip down my cheeks and pull my hands from my pockets. Twisting the ring off my finger, I hold it out to Judith. “It reminded me of my mom. She had one just—”

“We’re very sorry for your loss, but we can’t keep on someone we don’t trust.” Judith plucks the ring from my hand. Sunlight streaming through the window hits the stone, making a little rainbow on the white wall. Judith cups the ring in her palm and covers it with her other hand as if I might snatch it back. “We waived the background check because we were short-handed and you seemed … I can see now that was a mistake.”

I wait, expecting Trudy to defend me but she only puffs out an exhale that lifts her blunt bangs momentarily.

“I guess I’ll …” A pins-and-needles tingle travels from my forehead to my feet as I hoist the backpack onto my shoulder.

“And, please, find another branch from which to borrow.” Judith stands behind her desk, places the ring in a drawer.

I leave her office, averting my eyes so I don’t have to look at Trudy. What the hell just happened? Mama is going to kill me. Then I remember she’s gone and my embarrassment spins into sadness before turning into that familiar guilt that sits heavy as a boulder in the pit of my stomach.

I punch the silver automatic door button, and in my rush to get out of the building, almost trip over a stroller parked by the exit.

“Hey!” Trudy calls behind me. “Wait a sec!”

She catches up and places a hand on my shoulder.

I wheel around, shrugging it off. “What?” I snap.

“I—I didn’t mean to rat you out if that’s what you think. I was surprised because the ring in the picture looked exactly like the one I’d seen on your hand.” She looks down at my bare fingers and frowns. “If you want, I can come over, help you sort through everything in your garage. Maybe we can dig through your mom’s stuff and find hers? Then you can wear that one.”

I say nothing. There’s no ring. Who would’ve given Mama something like that? Not my dad who took off, then promptly died. There was no one else because I was her whole world until I ended it.

“That’s nice of you to offer but no thanks.” I glance over each shoulder for dramatic effect. “She had to pawn it to cover the mortgage.” That’s the kind of pathetic line someone would say in a book. It does the trick. Trudy winces and sways back a bit.

We’re in the crosswalk between the library and the playground, blocking cars. A minivan honks. Trudy startles then reaches out to rub my arm. I pull away.

“Let’s definitely stay in touch, okay?”

The horn blares again. I turn and walk to my car. I parked beneath a tree for shade. Now the hood of my Sentra is covered in bird shit.

Inside, my body goes limp, slumping into the seat. I wipe my nose with a crumpled napkin from a donut shop. Beyond my shit-tattooed windshield, children dart up and down the slides. Others throw wood chips in the air like confetti. They’re sweaty, red-cheeked. Screaming their heads off.

I’m not a dog person. I’m not a kid person either.

Behind them, a woman sits on a bench, book in her hand. I squint to be sure. It’s Birds at Night. Of course it is.

I may have been fired from a volunteer job but I still have Molly’s visit. The now-famous M.J. Archer is coming to my house. Soon.

A toddler wails. The woman doesn’t look up, so engrossed in the plot.

Will Molly have her kids with her? Isaac and Ingrid. How have I not wondered about that before?

Chapter 28

Molly

“Welcome to Dedicated, the podcast where we take a deep dive into the story behind a book’s dedication. Listen in as I talk with bestselling authors to learn more about the people who’ve gotten this very special shout-out and what they did to deserve the honor.

“Today my guest is M.J. Archer, author of the smoking-hot Birds at Night, a thriller that kept me up way past my bedtime. Hey, M.J! Thanks so much for being here today!”

“Thank you for having me …” Damnit! I can’t remember her name. Is it Gigi? Bibi? CeCe?

I’m on autopilot after a rough night. Ingrid appeared beside my bed at 2 a.m. holding her ear and burning up with fever. After dropping Isaac at camp, I raced her to the pediatrician, who diagnosed her with yet another ear infection. We hurried to the pharmacy and then waited thirty minutes for her antibiotics. My phone buzzed with a text from Georgia just as we got home.

Knock ‘em dead on Dedicated. Can’t wait to listen.

I’d forgotten about the podcast and scrambled to find the email with the link and details as I settled Ingrid on the couch, gave her a quick dose of medicine, and bribed her to stay quiet by handing over my iPad.

I’m only half-listening as the host, whose name still hasn’t come to me, says lovely things about the novel. I should be grateful but all this promotion is exhausting. I need time to focus on the actual writing but Georgia swears this is the key to all the b words: building my brand, buzz, and, ultimately, a bigger audience.

“This is epic, Molly. Dedicated is huge!” she’d written when she forwarded the email from the show’s producer months ago, after Birds at Night began appearing on those “Most Anticipated” and “Must Read” lists. “You’re on your way!” she added.

Georgia almost never used exclamation points. This was a big deal. I couldn’t turn it down and yet my novel’s dedication isn’t a topic I care to discuss. And does any of this really sell books?

I take a breath and try to center myself. A year ago, I’d have killed to be on this podcast.

“Let’s get right to it, shall we?” the host chirps. She does an exaggerated throat clearing then clucks her tongue before reading in a low, dramatic tone, “‘To S.D. Thank you for flipping the switch.’ Ooooh,” she purrs. “How intriguing!”

My laughter sounds robotic. I wait for her to continue. This is her show after all.

“Much like the rest of the damn book, you’ve piqued my curiosity here, M.J., so I did a little digging into your family.”

The hair on my forearms bristles.

“And I cannot find anyone with those initials. Did I miss something? Or should I say ‘someone?’”

“Nope, no, you didn't miss a thing!” I’m glad this is audio-only because my teeth are clenched. I don’t want to talk about this, but I’m too tired to concoct some elaborate tale. The irony—that I should be an engaging storyteller yet can barely string two sentences together—isn’t lost on me.

“So, M.J., don’t be shy! Tell us, who is this mysterious S.D., how did he or she flip your switch, and which switch was it exactly?”

“Great questions!” These have become my two favorite words—the ultimate way to stall for time. “I’d been taking a writing workshop. Without that group, my life would’ve devolved into nonstop toddler wrangling and sorting mountains of laundry. I was plotting a third novel, which started off in the same vein as my first two, so fairly quiet, more literary.”

Silence. I expect the host to interrupt and say, “Wait, I thought Birds at Night was your debut?” like so many others have, but she doesn’t. Points for doing her homework. If only I’d done mine, I could call her by her name.

“The workshop was held in the back of a knitting school.” It feels like yesterday and a lifetime ago. “It was a real mixed bag. Anyone who could come up with four hundred and fifty bucks for the ten week-session was welcome.”

Again, I wait. She doesn’t make a peep.

“A couple of us were serious about our projects but we also had a few knitters who didn’t want to go home to their husbands, so they began writing too.”

“No way!” The host must be faking her enthusiasm because this is definitely not that interesting.

“There was a guy in my class—”

“There’s always a guy, right?” she interrupts, laughing.

“Ha, yes. He’s super talented.”

That’s not entirely true. His prose is actually pretty average but his sex scenes are hotter than New Orleans in mid-August. Listening to him read his passages aloud, it was nearly impossible not to fantasize about screwing a stranger in the backseat of a roomy sedan or the shade of a pool cabana, the way his main character, Detective Knox Hardigan, did in every other chapter.

“Let’s hear the deets!” the host urges.

“He writes a really fun and pacy detective series.” I don’t mention that the knitting ladies would blush and gasp as he described Knox’s near-constant erections and his talent with his tongue. Nor do I say that he often gets bogged down in details and loads the pages between his white-hot sexcapades with endless police jargon. Still, he’s got a knack for giving feedback that’s honest and constructive rather than soul-crushing. “He’s a retired cop and an all-around great guy.”

“You still haven’t told us his name,” the host huffs. “What’s the S.D. stand for?”

“Sorry, right! Sonny. Sonny Douglas.”

“Sonny Douglas,” she repeats. “I read that you’re divorced, M.J. Are you and this crime-writing former cop—the man who flipped your switch—in love now? Or is it more of a ‘beta readers with benefits’ situation?”

I laugh again to mask the sound of my fingers furiously typing as I attempt to find her name. JoJo.

“No, no, JoJo!” I protest. “Nothing like that. Just friends …” I don’t mention that I’ve imagined more. “On the final night of that workshop, Sonny suggested the whole class get drinks at this brewery, The Vault, which had just opened in an old bank building down the block from the knitting shop. This was right around the holidays. I remember the band was doing this ska version of ‘White Christmas,’” I continue.

For a second, I stop and let the memory of that night drift back to me, soft and lovely as the snowflakes that fell from the inky blue-black sky.

Sonny and I were discussing the likelihood of Louise, our classmate, finding an agent for her memoir about rescuing stray cats, told from “the feline perspective,” when I slipped on a patch of ice. He reached for me. His strong ringless fingers curled around my arm tight as a blood pressure cuff. A current ran through me.

“Take us there, M.J.,” JoJo implores.

“As soon as you step inside, you’re hit with the scent of woodsmoke from the fireplace mixed with beer and truffle fries. In other words, it’s heaven. Twinkling lights are strung between these massive chandeliers. The furniture’s this cool random assortment of chaise lounges, velvet loveseats, and low mismatched tables, like a funky estate sale.”

“Is this on Instagram?” JoJo asks. “‘Cause I need to see this ASAP!”

“Yes! It’s amazing. By my second pint, I was ready to move in,” I gush.

It wasn’t just the beer or the band. It was Sonny, seated beside me on a curvy couch, his navy Henley straining across his broad chest and bringing out the blue in his eyes, his dark beard flecked with hints of red beneath the soft lights. He had to lean in to be heard above the band. If I close my eyes, I can still feel the warmth of his mouth near my ear, his lips ticklish as feathers.

“And?” JoJo pulls me back to the call.

“Sonny asked me, ‘What do you want to write?’ He said, ‘You ever read that Faulkner quote, ‘If a story is in you, it has to come out?’ I hadn’t. Then he asked me, ‘What’s your story, Molly?’ Now, we’d been sharing our work for nearly three months so I was taken aback, like, ‘Is this guy drunk? Or is he about to mansplain what I should write?’ I was a little offended, and he sensed it. He said, ‘What I mean is you’re a good writer, but when you read aloud you seem bored by your own words.’”

“Ouch!” JoJo squeals.

“Right?”

“Yikes! I mean, what do you say to that?” JoJo asks. “How did you respond?”

Outside my office door, Ingrid coughs and whimpers. Her small feet pad down the hallway, hopefully just to the bathroom then back to the couch and not into my office to let out a desperate Mommy! I have left her too long. I need to wrap this up. Where was I?

“I must’ve looked confused because then Sonny said, ‘Every once in a while, you read this perfect sentence and you glow.’” I pause. “And then he looked me in the eye and asked, ‘Why not write an entire novel that lights you up?’”

“Whoa!” JoJo whispers, all awe and reverence.

“I know, right? I thought, ‘Why not indeed?’ That’s the switch that flipped. I started Birds at Night the next morning.”

I skip telling her that when I got home that night, I drew a bath and pictured Sonny’s thick fingers stroking the side of his pint glass. I imagined him undressing me and doing all the things that his dirty detective did, his deep voice saying “lights you up.”

I knew I wanted two things that Christmas—to start a different story and a divorce.

I soften it a bit. “That was the night I realized I needed to make some serious changes.”

“It’s not every day you run into a former cop quoting Faulkner!” JoJo laughs. “How did he react when you showed him the dedication?”

“He was flattered but he’s really humble so mostly he was like, ‘Ah, kid, you gotta get more friends.’”

“Well, thank you, Sonny Douglas!” JoJo says. “Would you like to give his books a shout-out? Where can our listeners find them?”

“Absolutely. Sonny writes the Hard Knox series featuring Detective Knox Hardigan. I have to warn you and your listeners, JoJo, have a cold drink on standby, they’re spicy.”

“I love it!” She claps and whoops. “This has been amazing, M.J., thank you so much for your time today. Listeners, do yourselves a favor, grab a copy of Birds at Night. M.J., I hope you’ll come back and join me again as soon as the sequel’s out! Can’t wait to hear who gets the nod for that dedication.”

God, I hadn’t even thought about that yet.

“Happily!” I say. “Thanks again for having me.”

“Speaking of the sequel, when can we expect it?” JoJo asks.

From the other side of the door, Ingrid’s soft cries float in and my heart sinks.

“At this rate, never,” I almost blurt. “Sometime next year, hopefully,” I say instead.

Maybe if I put it out in the universe, it’ll come true.

After the call ends, my thoughts shift back to Sonny. When Birds at Night sold, we returned to The Vault for celebratory drinks.

“I knew you had it in you.” He’d raised his pint glass, knocked it against mine.

I showed him the dedication and he placed his big hands over his heart and kissed me on the forehead. I thought about pulling him lower toward my lips. My divorce was final; he was single. I stopped myself. It was a nice moment. I didn’t want to spoil it.

I listen for Ingrid. She must’ve settled back onto the couch. I start an email to Sonny. He has plenty of friends in law enforcement. Surely, one of them can locate Anna Fox for me, provide background details—age, maybe a photo from a driver’s license, find out if she has a history of chaining ego-driven authors to her furnace.

Darren’s warnings about going to a stranger’s home have played on repeat ever since Gavin came up empty. Sonny will side with Darren and mock me mercilessly when I share this story.

No. I’m allowing the constant need for suspense and plot twists in the sequel to cloud my mind. I’m sure Anna is an ordinary woman from Milltown, just like I am. This is purely to satisfy my curiosity, bolster my failing memory, proof to show Darren that his imagination may be even more sinister than my own.

Hey Sonny!

Hope you’re well.

Too dull and corporate. I delete and start again.

Hey Sonny!

I was just chatting you up on a podcast! Hope Knox Hardigan is balls deep in mystery and whichever lucky lady he encounters next!

Okay, that’s worse.

Hey Sonny!

I’ve been thinking of you and hope you can help me. Can you or any of your cop pals do a little digging on an Anna Fox from Milltown, OH for me?

I explain the situation as best I can and picture him shaking his head in disbelief at my stupidity. I include my phone number and end with:

Let’s get together soon! xx Molly

My cheeks are warm with embarrassment. Maybe my message will inspire a new book in Sonny’s series: Knox Hardigan investigates an author’s disappearance after she attends a dangerous stranger’s book club. The idea makes me grin even as a chill passes through me.

I’m getting soft. The Molly I was back in Ohio was fearless.

I need to resurrect her.

Ingrid’s voice, a plaintive, “Mommy?” reminds me I’m not that girl anymore.

That Molly had nothing to lose.

Chapter 29

Anna

I’ve seen the things people do on social media—book club hosts who go all out to recreate the snacks and cocktails mentioned in the novel they’re discussing that month. It could be a good distraction. I have one week until Molly’s here and I’ve got the time now that I’m all but banned from the library.

Food appears in a few chapters of Birds at Night. I’ll focus on the one where Clem brings Carly home with her for Thanksgiving. I queue it up on my phone and let Marla Davis’s velvety voice purr through my earbuds as I tidy up the kitchen.

“I’d love to but I…”

“I’ll pay for your ticket!” Clem blurts. Her offer is shockingly generous. And welcome. Carly can’t bear the thought of spending the holiday weekend inside the emptied out Carthage, waiting and wondering if the eel will return.

She’s never flown before and the chance to see Clem in her natural habitat is endlessly appealing. Maybe some of that California shine will seep in and she’ll return more like Clem and less like herself.

When Carly calls her mom to tell her about this last-minute invitation, she has to practically shout to be heard. The diner is bustling with people placing pie and side dish orders.

Her mom can’t resist barking out a “See! You were worried for nothing! I told you you’d make friends!”

Carly knows it’s not so much that Clem craves her company, it’s more that she’s afraid to be alone. It’s been four days since Carly dumped that asshole in the elevator. There’d been talk, a guy found in the lobby with his pants down and a head wound, murmurs about the note stapled to his chest. But two days later a spate of robberies occurred on campus and focus shifted.

On the plane, Clem sleeps, her head lolling toward Carly’s shoulder, as they float through clouds. How can her friend not want to see this? For all the science Carly has studied, she still marvels at the fact that somehow, they remain aloft.

When they land, Clem’s parents, playing in a holiday tennis tournament, send a driver to collect them. Carly is relieved. She’s not ready to make small talk. Instead, she wants to take it all in—the swaying palm trees, the landscape that looks like a movie set, the golden glow that attaches itself to everything, so welcome after months inside the gloomy Carthage.

When Carly called her mother in a giddy daze following Clem’s invitation, she asked her mom what she should bring.

“What you should bring?” her mom repeated then squawked at a customer, “Settle down, I’ll get your order in just a minute.”

"Like for having me?”

“They won’t expect anything, darlin’. You’re a student. Just bring your good manners and a smile. That’s more than most people can muster these days.”

Why had she even asked? When had her mother ever given her good advice?

Clem’s home is all windows and arched doorways, white walls with dark wood beams traversing tall ceilings. Carly thinks this must be what a fancy hotel looks like. It’s so different from the apartment she and her mother share where unpaid bills, coupons, and her mom’s tubes of lipstick and mascara clutter every surface.

Clem takes her to a guest room with its own bathroom—not just a powder room. There’s a big glass shower with multiple faucets, and something beside the toilet that looks like a second toilet minus the lid. She’s too embarrassed to ask Clem about it. She’ll google it later.

Carly wishes her mom could see this. Her mind travels back to the winter she was nine and their heat was turned off after her mother loaned a boyfriend money and he skipped town. Debbie, a fellow waitress, took Carly and her mom in and let them sleep on her pull-out couch. The skinny mattress dipped in the middle so all night they rolled into one another. Carly couldn’t imagine loathing her mother more in that moment. Later, she’d realize she had a much wider capacity for hate.

Clem’s parents are friendly but not overbearing. They’re preoccupied with hosting a pre-holiday cocktail party. Attractive guests cycle through the vast rooms and filter out to the terrace. They’re nearly interchangeable, everyone tanned and toned, in understated clothing that Carly assumes is far pricier than it appears.

Caterers circle soundlessly, presenting fancy appetizers: figs wrapped in prosciutto with gorgonzola, tomato and manchego tartlets, mushrooms stuffed with garlic and gruyère.

“If this party had a theme it would be ‘Cheeses I’ve Never Heard Of,’” Carly whispers and sips champagne.

“You’re so funny,” Clem says without laughing. To Carly, she looks a bit lost, her shine dimmed despite the golden lights flickering from fire bowls and floating candles. “My mother should just install a revolving door. I wish you had a chance to meet my sister. Evie’s the best.”

“Where is she?” Carly asks, making a connection in her mind—Clem’s journal’s inscription: “For the girl who finds beauty wherever she goes … xo Evie.”

“She’s with her boyfriend’s family in Massachusetts. She’s gonna try to visit if she has time on her way back to Brooklyn.”

On Thanksgiving morning, the family volunteers at a soup kitchen where Clem’s dad’s company makes a sizable donation. “It’s a tradition,” Clem rolls her eyes as she hands Carly an apron, “and a photo op.”

As Carly scoops mashed potatoes onto plastic plates and says,“Happy holidays!” she feels she should be on the other side of the buffet, nodding and thanking the server.

Growing up, she spent Thanksgiving mornings watching the Macy’s parade and opening cans of cranberry sauce, green beans, mushrooms. Her mom rushed around the small kitchen worrying that the turkey wouldn’t defrost in time or that her latest boyfriend would show up drunk. They’d eat on the couch, football announcers providing the only conversation.

Marla’s voice goes silent as a call comes through. Trudy. I remove my earbuds. I’m not answering it. I haven’t picked up her last few calls either. She's left long rambling messages. The first was another apology about what she refers to as “the library incident.”

I’m over it—more time to focus on Molly’s visit.

In her next voicemail, Trudy asked if I wanted to meet her and Louisa May in the dog park.

No, thank you.

The last was to give me an update on how things are “progressing” with Professor Hotness. “Drew,” she calls him now. She said I was the only one she could confide in since Judith frowned on librarian-patron relationships.

That one came after my weird call with Keith. I don’t want to talk to anyone who is in the throes of new love.

The phone dings, announcing her voicemail. I’ll listen later.

Instead of restarting the audio, I pause it to make a short list of hors d’oeuvres served at Clem’s family’s party. I hope I don’t have to drive to multiple places to collect all these cheeses. The Bennetts sip champagne for days. Mrs. Bennett—Pamela—makes a big deal out of serving it in coupe glasses on the terrace overlooking the pool. Mr. Bennett—Patrick—toasts to good health and gratitude. Molly does a clever bit of foreshadowing here. There’s this eerie undercurrent where readers, if they’re paying attention, sense someone’s good fortune is about to come to an end.

I’m not buying champagne. Though it’s cause for celebration—getting Molly here. In the next section, Clem and Carly drink Modelo with limes in the hot tub “beneath a blanket of stars.” That’s more in my budget. Pamela prefers a cabernet sauvignon from Napa. That seems more book club-y. I write cab on my list beneath gruyère.

I’ll find recipes online and finish the list before I go to the store. Maybe I’ll swing by and check on Patsy.

I start the audio again.

Friday morning a yoga instructor comes to the house and they stretch beside the pool. Carly lets her mind empty. During savasana, Clem starts to cry. The instructor sits beside her and insists that the hip opening series they completed stirs a lot of emotions.

“Young women are under so much pressure these days,” Mrs. Bennett clucks without opening her eyes or moving off her mat.

Carly imagines Clem is recalling that night with the eel pressing himself into her. She is probably dreading returning to The Carthage.

Carly wishes they could just stay there in the Bennetts’ safe and comfortable cocoon forever. She appreciates every second of stepping away from her regular life. It reminds her of hiding from her mother in the McDonald’s PlayLand tunnel slide. It isn’t that it’s perfect, but it’s better than going home.

It’s only before they leave Saturday that Clem’s mom nearly ruins everything. Carly, Clem, and Mrs. Bennett are eating Cobb salads on the terrace at the long teak table beneath a red umbrella that gives their cheeks a rosy glow.

“Okay, girls, any love interests? Boyfriends? Crushes?” Mrs. Bennett asks after spearing an avocado wedge. “Casual flings?”

Clem visibly shudders despite the warm breeze. Carly reaches for her hand beneath the table and holds it.

They haven’t talked about what happened that night. After Carly dragged the eel into the elevator, they sat on Clem’s floor, waiting, listening, fearing he’d come back.

“Do you want me to—”

“Can you stay?”

They’d started speaking at the same time, interrupting one another, neither wanting to be alone. And that is how Carly’s bed ended up moving from 512 to 514.

When they return to The Carthage they agreed they will continue sharing Clem’s room and turn Carly’s into their workspace.

The door between their rooms will remain open at all times.

“We’ve had a lot of work—” Clem finally says.

“With midterms and now finals coming up,” Carly jumps in.

“Clementine’s heard this a thousand times.” Mrs. Bennett smiles and glances from her daughter to Carly.“I met her dad at a fraternity mixer. And, Clementine, I know your father wouldn’t want me to say this, but don’t forget to have fun!” She playfully pokes her daughter’s shoulder. Clem’s gaze remains fixed on the hardboiled eggs she’s shunted to the side of her bowl. “You only get to live this time in your life once.”

You can only live any time in your life once, Carly thinks. Her mind spins back to the drive to school, to her mom repeating the phrase“fresh start.”

The memory clobbers Carly with a sudden homesickness, an unexpected longing for her mother who hasn’t returned the “Happy Thanksgiving!” voicemail she left two days earlier.

The chapter ends and I hit pause again. The first time I read that last line about Carly’s mom not calling back, I thought for sure the woman was dead, killed by that new boyfriend. Maybe because Mama was gone and I had so much guilt and sadness about that, that’s where my mind went. I remember I closed the book and cried for Carly.

“You’re not going soft on me, are you?” Mama would’ve said if she’d seen me shedding actual tears for a fictional character.

Of course, that’s before I knew what would happen next—who Carly really was and, worse, what she was capable of, before I understood the whole point of Molly’s twisted tale.

I need to get on with my day. Take a break from the book. I tap Trudy’s voicemail.

“Hey! Good news. That author—the local one with the book, Bird something—is coming to give a talk.”

An ornithologist? That weird guy who sits by the windows wearing binoculars?

“M.J. Archer! Birds at Night—I just looked it up. You read her book, I think. You can attend virtually. Judith is beyond excited obvi …”

I stop listening. A wave of heat travels from my feet to my forehead. Molly must’ve called back. She doesn’t like it when things don’t go her way.

I know how that feels.

Chapter 30

Molly

Itook the car in for an oil change, got air in the tires, and new windshield wipers. We leave for Ohio in the morning. Dan’s had the kids for the long July Fourth weekend. They’ll be back in an hour. I need to wash their stuff then finish packing.

The time alone has been good, productive. While the children were with Dan, I wrote nearly eight thousand words. I’m closing in on completing the first third of the draft. So much more to go, but I need to focus on what I have rather than what I don’t.

There’s no denying that the words aren’t coming as easily as they did last time. Maybe it was difficult then too and I’m not remembering it accurately—like childbirth, only instead of writhing with contractions I’m wrestling with plot points.

I’m also no closer to figuring out how Anna Fox and I know one another than I was the day she first emailed. Sonny hasn’t written back. Gavin is teaching theater camp again, so I can’t expect him to run around Milltown like a modern day Sherlock Holmes.

I can do some digging once we’re there. Maybe she’ll come to my library talk and Mom will remember her too.

I’m standing in the kitchen, staring into the fridge, trying to figure out what to make for dinner when my phone pings. Dan.

Bringing I & I back now. We need to talk.

I stiffen and tuck my phone in my pocket without responding. I’m grinding my teeth. Yes, I definitely need a break from all of this.

I’m in my bedroom folding and packing sundresses, swimsuits, and shorts when I hear Dan’s car in the driveway. I opened the windows to air out the house before it’s closed up for a week. I’ve been smoking in my office since Heather gave me her little lecture though she hasn’t been around much lately.

The contractor who stopped by after I found that dead crow in my office recommended I call a roofer about some missing shingles. They’ll do the work while we’re away.

I toss a swim cover-up into my bag and head downstairs to open the door and greet Isaac and Ingrid, who race up the walkway to throw their arms around me as if we’ve been separated for years rather than a long weekend. My heart melts.

Behind them, Dan strides toward me carrying Ingrid’s bags. When she found out Snowy was missing, she insisted she needed to bring all her stuffies to her dad’s place to fill the void left by the kitten.

“Snowy’s not back yet, Mommy.” She sniffles into my hip.

“I’m sorry, love.” I smooth her tangled hair.

“She’s just exploring. She’ll come back.” Isaac nods vigorously, trying to convince his sister they’ll see Snowy again.

I look at Dan, wondering if he’s adult enough to admit this pet idea backfired spectacularly.

He glares at me. “Can I talk to you in private?”

I want to say something snide like “I’m fine, thanks, Dan, and how are you?” But I save my breath. Instead, I tell the kids to bring their backpacks to the basement laundry room so I can wash everything and repack it for the trip.

“Ohio! Nana!” They squeal and run toward the basement door.

I motion for Dan to sit on the living room couch but he stalks off into the kitchen. I follow with the lightness of someone about to leave for vacation. He’s had the kids for days. He looks exhausted, more tense than usual. As he peers into the backyard, his gaze darts between the cottage and the driveway.

I suppose I can be generous, welcoming. “Want a seltzer or an iced tea?”

He shakes his head. “Where is she, Molly?”

I sigh. “Dan, if this is about Snowy again, I told you—”

“Not Snowy. Heather.”

“I don’t know. Wasn’t she going to visit friends?”

“She was supposed to be back by now. I haven’t heard from her in days.”

A little thrill courses through me. I tamp it down and shrug, then press the oven’s start button. I saw a box of fish sticks in the freezer. The kids can have those while I eat leftovers from my weekend of take-out.

“Before she left, she told me you two had a weird exchange.”

“Well, she told me to—” I lower my voice “—stop smoking on my own property, so, yeah, that was a little weird and inappropriate.”

Dan curls his fingers around the corner of the kitchen island, his knuckles turning pale as parsnips. “She said you seemed hostile. You barely thanked her for the coffee. She thought you got upset when she mentioned the two of us spending more time together.”

“That’s not how I remember our conversation.” I pull a sheet pan from a low cabinet. “I’m busy, Dan. I’m on a deadline. I don’t have a lot of time for chit-chat.”

“I’ve been calling, texting. She’s not responding. It’s really unlike her.” His forehead creases in rows of wavy lines.

“That generation is different about communication, Dan.” Will he get that I’m taking a swipe at their age gap? “What can I tell you?”

“You can tell me where she is!” His voice rises, desperation bleeding through, like he can’t imagine a woman losing interest in him—again.

I laugh. “I’m her landlord, Dan, not her babysitter.”

“I think something happened to her.” He follows me to the freezer.

“Isn’t the boyfriend the most likely suspect in these situations?” I grab the box of fish sticks and step sideways so he can’t back me against the fridge. “But it sounds like maybe you’re not the boyfriend anymore?”

His hands ball into fists at his sides. God, I love winding him up. It’s so easy.

“This isn’t funny, Molly. I’m genuinely concerned.”

I spill the frozen fish onto the pan. “She’s a grown woman. If she doesn’t want to return your calls and texts, Dan, she doesn’t have to. Sorry to break it to you.” I soften my tone for that last part, as if I’m sympathetic.

Beyond the windows, the sky darkens. If it rains, I hope it clears by morning for the drive.

“I read your book,” he lowers his voice but it still contains that same surly edge, “and it’s pretty messed up. You’re messed up!”

Is Dan behind some of my one-star reviews? M.J. is clearly a disturbed individual. Would he have written that? I make a mental note to check the name later.

“I had these crazy images running through my head,” he spews. “What’s that line? Something about how we’re all animals, capable of doing the unthinkable when we’re cornered? What are you capable of, Molly?” His eyes narrow as if he’s trying to read my mind.

I turn away, refusing to let him rattle me. “Well, thank you for supporting my work, Dan, but no one is cornered here.” I toss the empty fish sticks box in the recycling bin.

“She’s missing, Molly! And I think you—”

“Who’s missing?” Ingrid stands at the top of the basement staircase, twisting the doorknob back and forth in her small hand.

Dan’s gaze involuntarily flicks to the window, to the cottage.

“Do you mean Heather?” Isaac asks. “Did she write back after I sent her that video of us at the parade?”

“Oh no!” Ingrid cries. “Snowy and Heather both are missing?”

“Are you happy now, Dan?” I spin around. “You’ve upset them.” The oven beeps and I slide the sheet pan inside. A wall of heat smacks my face. I should close the windows, turn on the air conditioning.

“Give me the key, Molly. I want to look inside the cottage.”

“No, Dan. I’m not violating Heather’s privacy.”

He points his finger at me. “You’re hiding something!”

“Mommy?” Ingrid whimpers. “What are you hiding?”

Through the open windows, the crunch of gravel filters in.

Dan’s eyes go wide as he lurches to the side door, Isaac and Ingrid on his heels.

I recognize the baby blue curved roof of Heather’s Volkswagen as it sails past the house toward the cottage.

Dan darts outside. The children start to follow but I corral them.

“Let’s set the table. Dinner will be ready in a minute.”

They reluctantly retreat to the far side of the island. Isaac grabs their plastic plates while Ingrid folds napkins.

I drift back to the fridge and pretend to look for condiments while listening through the open window.

“Where were you?” Dan’s voice is several octaves higher than it was in the kitchen. “Why didn’t you answer any of my texts?”

“Um, hello to you too.” Heather steps out of the car.

I sneak a peek and see blond hair spilling out of her messy bun. She stretches from side to side as if she’s a trucker at a rest stop who’s been behind the wheel for days.

“Hello.” Dan huffs hurriedly. He wants to fast forward through the pleasantries to get back to himself, to his concerns. “I was worried about you. You didn’t return my calls, you—”

Forks clatter on the other side of the island and Ingrid starts to cry. She’s probably exhausted. She only sleeps well at home.

“It’s okay,” Isaac consoles her. “We don’t need them. We’re only having fish sticks.”

“Oh, yeah,” she says, instantly better.

“I don’t know what you thought—” Heather pops the trunk and I miss a few words as I duck down again. “… went to take a picture and dropped my phone in the lake. It’s really freeing actually—being without one. A forced digital detox, you know?”

I can’t resist. I pop up from my fridge door barricade. I need to see Dan’s bewildered face. He’s rubbing his neck with an open palm.

“I—I thought you’d be back days ago.” Dan paces small circles.

Heather grabs a duffel bag and swings it over her shoulder. She pulls the elastic from her hair and lets her loose curls spill around her tanned shoulders. “I was having a good time. I didn’t feel like cutting it short.” She laughs as she sweeps her hair back up again. “You need to chill, dude. You’re gonna give yourself a stroke.”

“It’s not funny,” Dan snaps, “I thought something happened to you. Like I said, I was worried.”

Neither of them speaks and I’m convinced they’ve caught me. But they’re staring at each other.

“I’m not a child, Dan. I appreciate that you care, but this—” she swirls her hands between them, “this feels like, I don’t know? A lot?”

“What does—” Dan mimics her gesture “this mean?”

“Is dinner ready?” Ingrid sidles up behind me, whining and startling me.

“Here’s some yogurt.” I hand her two containers. “Give one to your brother. You can eat on the couch in front of the TV. Just this once!”

They grab spoons and take off running, probably afraid I’ll change my mind.

The fish sticks are burning but I don’t care. I’m spellbound. If eavesdropping is a writer’s fuel, overhearing a lover’s spat is like tossing a lit match. Everything sparks and catches fire.

“It was so freeing to not be tied to—”

“To what?” Dan asks.

“Demands, expectations.” Heather switches the bag to her other shoulder. “I actually felt pretty relaxed until this driveway inquisition.”

As dusk settles, Heather takes a step back toward the cottage.

“Sorry, I just—I thought … Forget it.” Dan runs a hand through his hair. “What are you doing now?”

Had he really thought something had happened to her? That I was the cause?

“It was a long drive. I just want to chill.”

He steps forward to follow her.

“Alone,” she adds.

The kitchen is hot, the air thick with the scent of burning fish, and yet I can’t help but smile.

Looks like you lost again, Dan.

Chapter 31

Anna

Italk to Mama in my head and in my house all the time, but there’s something different about the cemetery, knowing she’s right there beneath the earth. People would say her spirit’s no longer here, just bones and rotting flesh, but I feel her. It’s a comfort and a curse.

I can’t sit today. Too much rain lately. I’m jumpy anyway. I crouch low, bouncing on my toes, blades of wet grass tickling my bare shins. No sign of Dean. No burials today either. The world’s in a holding pattern.

I’ve been having those looping—Dr. Merton would call them “intrusive”—thoughts again. I can’t stop imagining how everything could’ve been different. Mama said Daddy was coming back to us. If that happened, she would’ve had him. She wouldn’t have needed me. I could’ve had a big shiny future with Keith. But Daddy’s life was cut short and mine got stunted as a result. I saw it so clearly after Keith left without me.

At the same time, I can’t blame Mama for trying to hold on to the people she loved.

“Molly’ll be here soon, Mama.” I clutch the headstone to steady myself. “All of our questions will be answered.”

I want to say more, tell her I’m not sure when I’ll be back, but I’m getting eaten alive by mosquitoes.

When I'd come in from catching fireflies, my skin polka-dotted with bites, Mama would say, “You’re too sweet for your own good.”

Now we both know that’s not true.

I haven’t been sleeping and that’s fine because when I try all I see are Mama’s fixed, vacant eyes staring up at me, her neck twisted at an unnatural angle at the bottom of the staircase.

I’d helped her to the second floor not ten minutes earlier. She told me she could do it herself, but her balance wasn’t good. She was so proud. Some might’ve called her “stubborn.” She preferred “independent.” She’d been short of breath, winded. She wasn’t taking the right pills.

I escorted her as far as the bathroom, then headed downstairs.

Perched on the edge of the couch, I kept the TV low so I could hear her turn off the water. She finished washing her face, brushing her teeth. I knew what she’d do next: put on the nightgown and robe she liked me to set out for her on the top of the hamper. The hinges squeaked as she opened the bathroom door and shuffled into the hall, floorboards creaking.

It was time.

I called to her, told her there was a program she wouldn’t want to miss. A new documentary about Harper Lee, her favorite author. Mama believed To Kill a Mockingbird was the finest work of fiction ever written. She refused to accept that Lee wrote the sequel. Mama bought into theories that claimed relatives or caretakers forced it out with Lee’s name on it. “Elder abuse and greed, that’s what that is!”

The idea of a show about it would lure her.

“Oh, shoot. I was just about to get settled,” she hollered from the top of the staircase.

“Okay, you stay up there. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”

“Now just one second,” she huffed. “I’ll be right down.” She hated to miss anything. I was banking on that.

I stayed on the couch, waiting, squeezing the remote control ’til my fingers cramped. I watched as she fell, her skeletal arms flailing for the banister, her gasps mixing with the thud thud thud of her body tumbling toward the landing. Her head slammed against the wall with a hollow thunk, a bowling ball smashing the kingpin.

I called 911.

Right after I collected the marbles I’d scattered on the steps.

Twenty-five in total. One for every year Mama and I spent alone together.

I set them in the bottom of a vase stuffed with lilacs I’d cut from our little garden. The smell, overpoweringly sweet, made me almost sick to my stomach as I dialed.

“Help! Please! Come as fast as you can! My mom fell. No, she’s not breathing. I’m scared to move her. Hurry! Please!”

Mama always said I was too short, stubby to be an actress. My voice didn’t carry, she insisted. But I put on an Oscar-worthy performance. A one-woman show. Too bad she missed it.

In the endless minutes before the police showed up, I knelt beside her, trying to figure out how I felt.

What had I done?

What choice did I have?

Mama had me cornered there like an animal.

“I feel awful lately. Are you sure you’re giving me the right pills?” she’d asked one gloomy afternoon. I started thinking: what might happen if her meds got messed up?

And with that question, she set me free.

Fall and winter were always hard for her. Daddy took off for good right before Christmas. He was dead by the following Thanksgiving. She replayed it every year—his last days with us, him confessing he’d met someone else. Then, right before he died, she said, he’d called and told her he was coming back.

“He was three sheets to the wind, but fool that I was, I believed him.”

Then, once Keith moved on, she welcomed me into her club. “Looks like he left you just like your father left me.” She’d say it on repeat, like a toy glitching.

I wanted to scream, “Would you just please shut up for once!” It wasn’t the same. Not at all. I could’ve gone with Keith if she hadn’t guilted me into staying. I thought about telling her that too but when you’ve been quiet most of your life, it’s hard to find your voice.

Plus, Mama would’ve twisted it, turned it all around, made me feel small and stupid for thinking there was another life out there for me. But there was and, without her, I was free to pursue it, to do what I wanted.

What I wanted was Keith.

I called him after the police left and the funeral home director collected her body. Keith would fly back from New York, help me with the arrangements, stand beside me as I accepted condolences. Then we’d box up my stuff, find someone to sell the house, and I’d have a whole different future. I’d make peace with the past because it was the only way forward. If Mama truly loved me, and I know she did, she’d have wanted what was best for me.

But Keith didn’t answer. And he didn’t call me back. Not until I hid my number.

When he heard my voice, his went flat, distant in a way that couldn’t be chalked up to the miles between us or a bad connection. He’d been out with a coworker. He said he was really sorry to hear about Mama but he had an “offsite” coming up, some team-building thing in the Adirondacks, and couldn’t come back for the services.

“But, but, you’re my boyfr—”

He cut me off. Months had passed since we’d been in touch, he said.

That wasn’t my fault. I’d left him dozens of messages.

Then his voice got stern and parental. “I’ve moved on, Daisy.”

Moved on? I slid down the kitchen wall, my legs weak and wobbly. How could I tell him what I’d done? What I’d done for him. For us.

Moved on? My face tingled like I’d walked into a hornet’s nest. I ended the call without saying goodbye.

I’d been abandoned. Just like Mama.

My job at an office supply store gave me four days off for bereavement. That wasn’t enough time—not after everything. I was lost. Aimless. What had I done? And for what? I spent days without leaving the house, without talking to anyone.

Finally, after I’d missed a few mortgage payments, I went back to Dr. Merton. She suggested I venture into the world again. Short trips to places that felt comforting.

The library. I was skimming a newspaper when I read that Molly had a new novel coming out. Hometown Author Soars With Birds at Night was the headline. Molly gave a short interview.

When the book was released the following week, I went to one of the few bookstores left in the area. Birds at Night filled half a window display. As the cashier rang it up, I asked, “Any chance the author will give a reading here?”

“Nah,” the girl said without looking up. “Since the pandemic, nobody comes out for those.”

“Makes sense,” I said, though it didn’t. Not at all. There’s nothing like hearing an author read her words in person and answer questions about the characters, plot, and her process.

As soon as I got home, I fixed a cup of tea and opened the novel. I read the dedication first and wondered, who’s S.D.? Who flipped her switch and what did that even mean? I soon forgot all that. Sucked right into the story, I stayed up all night. What I found in those deckled pages rocked me. I needed to sit with it for a while before I decided what to do.

But I’ll say this, that book gave me purpose, direction that I sorely needed during those dark days. If a bookstore wouldn’t bring Molly back to Ohio, I would.

I sold the house, moved to Milltown, started volunteering at the library to fill the lonely hours. To plan my next move.

Now it’s time to move again.

I kneel in the damp earth and touch my fingers to her name.

“I’m sorry, Mama. I’m going to try to set things right.”

On my walk back to the car, I study the headstones. A few months ago, Molly was on a podcast and the host asked how she came up with character names. She hesitated for a second.

“I live near this gorgeous old cemetery,” she said. “I know this probably sounds morbid, but I like to wander through it. Spring’s the best time. The cherry blossoms are bursting and I get lost studying the inscriptions on the headstones. That’s where Verna Kirkendale, the reclusive artist in Unhappy Endings and Eleanor and Ruth Cartwright, the twins sisters in Mistrust Exercises, got their names.”

“Is that also how you arrived at Carleen and Clementine?” the host asked.

“Yes, actually, it is!” Molly did that nervous giggle thing that makes me think she’s lying.

I’d bet my life those names aren’t random. There’s a clue buried in them, something I haven’t figured out yet.

Soon I’ll get the chance to ask her.

Chapter 32

Molly

Whenever we drove to Mom’s as a family, Dan insisted we set out at 5 a.m. to avoid traffic.

“On a nine-hour drive, you’re bound to hit delays somewhere,” I’d argue, hating to wake the kids and pack the car in the dark.

We were zombies by the time we arrived.

Now, on my timeline, we leave at a reasonable 9 a.m. I’ve filled a small cooler with sandwiches, fruit, water bottles, and juice boxes so we can stop and have a picnic along the way. I double-check the bags in the trunk, ask Ingrid about her stuffies, and Isaac if he remembered his headphones for his allotted screen time.

When I told Georgia I’d be away for a few days, she asked if I wanted to meet for lunch near her Manhattan office on my way to or from Ohio. I begged off, using the kids as an excuse but said “definitely another time.”

I couldn’t do it. I pictured myself squirming over a pricey salad as she implored me to write faster. She’d sometimes offer ideas for plot twists or character motivations and backstories. I appreciate her willingness to help but trying to harness someone else’s vision is a bit like wearing another person’s shoes. I can test them out, but they usually don’t feel right.

I told her I’d be in touch with more pages as soon as I returned. She wrote back Not pages, Molly, whole chapters. Please.

With Georgia, I suffered from that old “the thing you initially love about the person will eventually become the thing you hate” scenario. Her fire and her commitment to getting me the best deal drew me to her, but when that same pushiness and persistence boomeranged back at me, I loathed it.

I block it out as we merge onto the highway. Isaac and Ingrid’s giggles fill the backseat as we sail through New York and on to Pennsylvania listening to audiobooks I downloaded, favorites from my childhood—Beezus and Ramona, Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing, Superfudge.

Around noon, I pull off so we can use the bathroom and eat lunch. I’m handing out sandwiches and drinks, making sure the children have an even number of carrots and potato chips, when my phone pings. I expect it’ll be Gavin asking about dinner plans or Mom checking on our ETA. Instead, Heather’s name appears. She’s sent a long text. She must’ve gotten a new phone or used her laptop. Or maybe she lied to Dan about her phone ending up in the lake. If that’s the case, maybe she’s smarter than I initially thought.

Last night’s driveway scene replayed in my mind countless times this morning. Part of me wants to separate myself from this drama but I also can’t resist. I’ve turned it over and over. Can I use any of it? It’s pretty clichéd: jealous guy thinks he’s getting ghosted by his new lover … or: man thinks his potentially “messed up” ex-wife harmed his new girlfriend. Hardly original and there’s no way to weave that into the sequel. Maybe Heather’s text will give me some fresh ideas.

I glance at the kids. Isaac pops the last bite of his PB&J in his mouth while Ingrid squeals and leaps off the picnic bench each time she spots an ant.

Curiosity wins out. I read Heather’s message.

Hey Molly, I owe you an apology.

I stop. Those are words I rarely see.

You warned me about Dan and I didn’t want to hear it … but then I saw it. (No wonder you smoke!) He’s crossed some boundaries and made me super uncomfortable … so … I’m not going to renew my lease in October. My parents have a place in Sag Harbor. I’ll be there for a bit if you need to reach me. Take care and tell Isaac & Ingrid I said have a great summer! Oh, just finished your book. LOVED it!

I set the phone facedown on the picnic table. It’s one of those careful-what-you-wish-for moments. On one hand, I won’t have to see Dan popping up in my backyard like a lovesick groundhog. On the other, I’ve lost my babysitter. As much as Heather grated on my nerves, the kids adored her. Who will help out in the afternoons when they’re home from camp—or in the evenings if I have events? I’ll have to ask around, find someone new. Another adjustment for them.

Still, my body hums with vindication. Did my warning influence Heather’s feelings? Or did Dan ruin things on his own with his perpetual neediness? Disappointing Dan is now Disappointed Dan. Her compliment on the book is just icing on the cake.

Did he really think I would’ve harmed Heather just because characters do sinister things in Birds at Night? It’s common for people to read a book and believe the author is drawing on her real life. In my first novel, Unhappy Endings, the main character, Verna, an artist, rarely spends a day sober. Over time, her drinking ruins her marriage then her friendships. At one book club I attended in support of that story, the hostess offered me sparkling water and asked if “Verna” was getting the help she needed.

In my second novel, Mistrust Exercises, Ruth is constantly overshadowed by her twin sister Eleanor. A smattering of reviews offered variations on “I wonder how this author’s twin feels about her airing their dirty laundry!” I had to laugh.

We pile into the car and by the time we’re outside Pittsburgh, the children are asleep. In the past, plot ideas or dialogue would arrive unbidden, as if the ribbons of road, the endless landscape, opened a channel to all the possibilities. It’s one of the reasons I’d rather drive than fly—that and the fact that traveling through an airport with two young children should be its own Olympic event.

I’m hoping this time away will inspire me, but so far my mind is blank. I switch on a podcast. The cheery host is interviewing a famous memoirist about writer’s block. The author shares her top tips: take a walk, work on something else, just get words down.

“Yeah, right. If you have all the time in the world,” I grumble, mildly comforted that I’m not alone and yet that doesn’t fix the issue.

About sixty miles outside of Milltown, the children wake up red-cheeked and confused. I hope they’re not up all night after this late-day nap.

“Where are we?” Ingrid whines.

“We’re almost there. Just a little longer. Want a snack?”

In the rearview mirror, their heads bob in unison. I fish apples from the cooler and toss them over the seat.

My heart beats faster as we pass the exits for Clayton, where Mom and I lived before we moved to Milltown after she married Larry. I flip down the visor, blocking the sign.

“Will Nana make the mac-and-cheese with the meat again?” Isaac’s voice pulls me away from those darker memories that swim to the surface.

He remembers Mom’s innovative twist on Cincinnati chili. Anytime she received a compliment on the dish, she’d whisper “The secret ingredient is cinnamon. Don’t tell anybody!” That was before the internet, back when people relied on cookbooks and family recipes.

I pull off the highway and wind through the streets, past farmland and vegetable stands. Closer to Milltown’s Main Street, the kids point out the post office, a rundown toy shop, and the movie theater that never reopened after the pandemic, then the old mill that gave the town its name.

I take a deep breath. I don’t know what to expect—how I’ll find Mom. Sure, we call and FaceTime, but seeing someone in person, spending days with them, is different. I bite my thumb nail and ease my foot off the gas pedal as I make the turn onto Sycamore Street. The afternoon Mom and I moved here comes back to me fully formed.

She was driving the Buick Regal Larry had given her as a wedding present with the windows down because the AC didn’t work. It was August, weeks before my junior year of high school would begin. Mom and Larry had just gotten back from their honeymoon in Sarasota, Florida.

While they were away, I stayed alone in the apartment Mom and I shared. Larry thought I should be shipped to my grandmother’s but Mom told him, “Molly can take care of herself.”

That’s the closest we ever got to letting our skeletons out of the closet.

When they returned from Florida, Mom didn’t seem as happy as I’d expected. We hadn’t really been alone until we were on our way to the house with our belongings stuffed into the cardboard boxes and Hefty bags that lined the backseat and trunk.

“What’s wrong?” I asked after she lit one cigarette off the tip of another.

We ambled along, well under the speed limit, like she was in no rush to settle into our new life.

“Larry lost an absolute fortune—at the dog track of all places.”

“That’s awful,” I said, meaning that people would force animals to race in the Florida heat so jerks like Larry could bet on them.

“Tell me about it.” Mom blew a plume of smoke out the window.

As we rolled down Sycamore Street, I prayed Larry’s house was the nicest one on the block, that my bedroom would be far from theirs. He always acted like he was such a big shot, handing out his Auto King of Ohio pens and magnets. Maybe there’d be a pool or even a basketball hoop in the driveway. But, no, it was a small white house, crab grass and weeds camouflaging a lawn jockey stationed beside the front steps. A tire swing, the most interesting feature, dangled from a skinny tree limb.

Mom barreled over the curb as she pulled into the driveway, the Buick bucking as she threw it into park. After glancing in the rearview mirror to check her lipstick, she turned to me. “Here we go, Molly Jean,” she said. “Our fresh start.”

“Nana’s house!” Isaac perks up. “I see it!”

The home looks even smaller, dingier than I remembered it, so close to the street. Dead geraniums fill the hanging planter. The lawn has more dandelions than grass.

Now I’m driving like someone in no rush to arrive. Not even five hundred miles could prepare me.

“I have to pee!” Ingrid shouts.

I pull into the crumbling driveway slowly, as if I were bringing a newborn home from the hospital.

How will the rest of this week unfold?

I put the car in park and cut the engine. There’s only one way to find out.

Chapter 33

Anna

It’s dusk when I see the blue and gold license plate pass. New York. I bolt upright, unsticking myself from the cheap vinyl upholstery. I’ve been camped out on Sycamore Street for the past two days on and off. I’m smart enough to park close to the corner in case Patsy decides to call the cops again. Molly didn’t say when she’d come to town but I figured she’d give herself a day or two to settle in.

The turn signal winks at me. The car, an average midsize SUV, lurches into Patsy’s driveway. I guessed Molly would either have one of those giant black Suburbans like she’s part of the president’s motorcade or a cute little Mini Cooper.

The engine’s sputtering would draw attention so I knock the gear shift into neutral and let the street’s incline roll me forward before putting it back into park. I can’t miss this—the family reunion. I want to see the children. The kids jump out first. They’re bigger than they look in her videos.

And then she’s there. Molly.

She’s so close.

In a split second my fingers curl around the door handle. I’m about to open it and leap out but I stop myself. I’ve waited this long, I can hold out a few more days. I won’t get her full attention with her kids and mom there.

She lifts the trunk and digs out bags and backpacks. I pictured her in sunglasses and a straw hat like a celebrity touring Tuscany, but she’s dressed like a regular mom in white Capri pants and an orange halter top, hair in a messy little bun. She’s tinier than she looks in her posts. That’s good.

Patsy opens the screen door and steps out onto the concrete front steps.

“Nana!” the boy cheers while the girl clings to Molly’s leg.

Patsy throws her arms wide and the boy rushes to her.

“Easy now.” She laughs as she sways and reaches for the rusted iron railing.

“Mom!” Molly slams the trunk and moves toward the house, careful not to walk across Patsy’s weedy front lawn.

The four of them stand in a huddle, an awkward group hug, before moving indoors.

I crane my neck as if that’ll allow me to see inside the house. I accidentally lean on the horn. I jump and start the car before Patsy’s out on the steps ready to report me to the cops again.

I drive in circles, too amped up to go home. Nothing to do there anyway. The house and garage are clean, ready. Food and drinks are in the fridge. I prepped the appetizers. I didn’t have a chance to install the speakers in the living room but I found a decent workaround.

I’ve settled on the section of Birds at Night I’ll play for Molly. It’s maybe two-thirds into the book.

Carly and Clem’s friendship stays pretty solid after the Thanksgiving trip. But when Clem returns from Christmas break, she’s got a new boyfriend. Jackson Pierce. Everyone calls him “J.P.”

They met at the airport when their flights got delayed. He was heading back to California too. They spent New Year’s Eve together. He’s a junior with a Land Rover. The 530s carry on like Clem won the lottery. She tells Carly when she first saw him, she got goosebumps same as when her sister brought her to the Diane Arbus exhibit at The Met the summer she was nine and the Bennetts flew east to look at colleges for Evie.

I had to google Diane Arbus and that took me to some strange places.

“He does something to me on a cellular level,” Clem told Carly.

It sounded super cheesy to Carly, but I know what Clem means. I felt that with Keith.

There’s a McDonald’s up ahead. I pull in and order fries and a McFlurry for dinner.

One frosty February night, Carly gets in late from a chem lab. She enters 514 and it’s as if she’s stepped inside the wrong room. Her bed is gone. Clem’s casual about it. J.P. is going to stay over. His housemates are loud and gross, Clem complains. The bathrooms would make port-o-potties look glamorous, she says.

“It’s time, right?” Clem wrinkles her nose.

Carly agrees though she thinks it’s all wrong. Gutted, she wanders back to cold and lonely 512. She doesn’t ask if the door between their rooms will stay open. She’s too afraid of the answer.

That’s all fine but the part I’ll play for Molly comes in March. Carly’s birthday. My car’s so old it has a CD player. I’ve got the right disc in, paused at the track—Chapter Thirteen. Did Molly plan it that way? Thirteen, with all its ominous implications? There’s a word for a fear of the number thirteen: triskaidekaphobia. Stephen King has it.

I listen again to be sure that’s where I want to begin.

“Happy birthday, Carly.” J.P. glances up from his phone. He’s sitting on Clem’s bed when they come back from dinner. “Got you a little something.”

Beside him on Clem’s nightstand are two bunches of flowers. He rises and holds out a full bouquet of pink peonies, their heads large and lush. They’re for Clem, who rushes to him. On tiptoes, she kisses him like they’ve been separated for years by war.

“Hey!” she says when she floats down to Earth. “I didn’t expect you to be here.”

As she admires the blossoms, J.P. offers a meager bunch of white carnations to Carly. “I can’t believe it’s your nineteenth birthday and you’re not doing anything.”

He’s smiling, showing all his perfect white teeth. The words “loser,” “nerd,” and every other terrible taunt she heard in high school flash from behind his ice blue eyes. The flowers are an empty gesture. If Carly were to complain to Clem that her boyfriend is rude and doesn’t like her, Clem could point to the spray of scentless carnations and say, “That’s not true! Look!”

“So what’s the plan? Sit around playing Scrabble?”

As weeks have passed, Carly and J.P.’s contempt for one another has grown less veiled.

Carly wants to say, “No one invited you.” Instead, she smiles back. “Clem treated me to dinner.” Sushi. Carly hadn’t told Clem she’d never had it before, but popping a grape-sized piece of wasabi in her mouth was a dead giveaway. “And we’re going to watch a show.”

Their post-dinner plans—pajamas, popcorn, and the newest season of Black Mirror on Clem’s laptop—were what Carly was looking forward to most.

“Lame,” J.P. says. “Let’s go out.” Carly smells beer on his breath from several feet away, making her stomach lurch.“Rooney’s? Ace’s? Liquid Lounge?”

“Carly doesn’t have a fake ID.” The corners of Clem’s mouth turn down.

“What?” J.P. shakes his head and pulls out his phone.“If we’re stuck hanging here, let’s at least make it a party.”

He knows Carly doesn’t drink. She’s never tried drugs other than Advil for cramps and antibiotics she’d take to get rid of those UTIs.

A devilish glint twinkles in J.P.’s eyes as he sends a text and announces, “Party on the way.”

He’s daring Carly to out herself as a goody-goody.

“Sounds fun,” she says because Clem is beaming at her and then J.P. as if a genuine friendship is blooming between them.

“Babe, you’re the best,” Clem hasn’t had a sip of anything beyond pomegranate seltzer at dinner but J.P.’s presence is enough to intoxicate her.

“Babe, did you know you can go up on the roof?”

This “babe” phase is new. Carly isn’t a fan.

Clem’s eyes widen and shine with pride, like J.P.'s her very own Magellan, discovering new worlds. “No way!”

“Way,” he says. “I checked it out while I was waiting for you. There’s this big-ass nest in a tree. Grab your camera.”

If he’d said, “Fly off the roof!” Clem would attempt it, Carly thinks, as her friend grabs her Ricoh GR III camera, beloved for its “retro vibes” from her closet.

“Let’s go.” J.P. heads to the door.

Carly follows.

“Oh? You’re coming too?” J.P. frowns.

Carly stops, face reddening.

“Of course she’s coming!” Clem reaches out for Carly’s hand.

“I don’t know.” Carly pulls away. “I don’t love heights.”

“It’s that or wait here for my weed guy. You got the cash to cover it?”

He knows she doesn’t. He wants to see me squirm, Carly thinks.

“Stop teasing her,” Clem says then turns to Carly. “J.P. Venmo’d him like he always does. My boyfriend has his very own weed guy,” Clem mocks. “How did I get so lucky?”

“What can I say? I’m well-connected.” J.P. pushes a lock of chestnut hair off his forehead. “And I told him to add a little something extra seeing as it’s a special occasion.”

They board the rickety elevator. Its groaning and grinding continue all the way to the twelfth floor but Carly prefers those noises to the wet, slurping sound J.P. makes as he kisses Clem’s neck.

When he comes up for air, J.P. says, “Babe, I’m so glad you’re not staying in this shithole next year.”

Suddenly protective of the old hotel, Carly wouldn’t mind living there again. She’s applied to be a resident advisor but hasn’t heard if she got the job or to which dorm she’ll be assigned. What she does know is that she can’t afford to follow Clem to the pricey off-campus apartment she’s renting with a few of the 530s. Being broke spares her the embarrassment of asking Clem if there’s room for her, if she could possibly tag along.

Poverty for the win.

The view from the rooftop is transcendent. City lights flicker through the bare branches of the treetops. To the east, down the sloping hill toward campus, Carly admires the church steeple, a bell tower, the nicer dorms, and older homes with their turrets.

It’s dark and cool. The wind lifts their hair. Beneath their feet, the tar is thick, wavy.

J.P. leads them to the edge. Carly, shaky from the elevator ride, hangs back, waiting for the feeling of vertigo to disappear.

“Look!” J.P. aims his phone’s flashlight toward a tree. The beam lands on a nest, a large tangle of sticks and straw. “Anybody home?” He stretches his long arm over the black iron railing and tugs a branch. “I’ll wake 'em up.”

“Don’t!” Clem cries. “If you upset the mother, she’ll abandon the eggs.”

“Asshole!” Carly hisses but the word is lost amid the screech of the bird, its head raised, wings spread, feathers ruffled.

“Jesus Christ, what is that?”

“C’mon, get away from the edge, the railing’s loose.” Clem pulls at his hand.

“I’ll hold on to Carly. She’s sturdy.”

“Stop!” Clem swats him. “It’s too dark anyway. We’ll come back in the light.”

“Golden hour, right, babe?” J.P. stretches the words and licks his lips.

In the limited amount of time Carly has spent with J.P., she’s realized he has the ability to make anything sound pornographic.

Away from them, Carly steps closer to the edge. Her stomach plunges as she studies the rocks below, jagged and craggy. She’d never describe herself as the outdoor type, but she has to admit there’s something so cool about nature. The wildness of it. The way it does whatever it feels like, unapologetic. As the wind picks up, she clutches the black railing. It wobbles, and she steps back, bumping into J.P., who pushes her forward.

“Enjoy the view, birthday girl.” His voice, so close to her ear, makes her breath catch. The pressure of his fingertips is too much. The slightest shove would send her right over. Without hesitating, she elbows him in the stomach.

“What the hell?” J.P. shouts as he doubles over, feigning injury.

The bird screeches again.

“Great,” Clem huffs. “She’s calling her friends and they’re going to come and peck your eyes out!”

Carly wishes that were true.

“I think I could fight off a bunch of birds.” J.P. laughs and reads a text, grin broadening. “Okay, ladies, let’s go. Our party awaits.”

Outside the door to 514, a generic-looking guy in baggy jeans, a t-shirt with a flannel over it, slumps against the wall. Carly recognizes him. He’s in her philosophy class. He sits in the back and keeps his head on his desk. He’s the weed guy? Everyone has a secret life, she thinks not for the first time.

“Hey, man!” J.P. attempts a bro-y handshake and the weed guy fumbles through it.“C’mon in.”

Carly doesn’t want to get high—especially not with J.P. and some random guy. This isn’t how her birthday was supposed to go.

Inside Clem’s room, J.P. waves a hand toward the guy who’s taken out a small bag and a lighter. “This is Rhys, by the way.” He points. “This is Clem. She’s mine. And that’s Carly.”

“Nice to meet ya,” Rhys says and flicks the lighter. The small flame dances then disappears.

“What about the smoke alarms?” Carly asks, a last-ditch attempt to change the evening’s direction.

“Ever have a fire drill in this dump?” J.P. scoffs.

Clem shakes her head.

“Didn’t think so,” J.P. says. “If you’re so worried, open the windows.”

Carly slides the thick drapes to the side and turns the crank until the old window creaks open. Cool night air rushes in, sending papers on Clem’s desk swirling. Carly gathers them while the others sit in a semi-circle on the floor.

“He’s staying?” Carly whispers to Clem while nodding toward the guy who is sprinkling what looks like oregano onto white paper.

“Cost of doing business, ladies,” Rhys says.“I like to make sure my customers are satisfied.”

J.P. scowls. “This is your gift. Don’t be ungrateful.” He reaches out and gives Carly a condescending flick under her chin.

He is gross. How does Clem not see it?

“Hey, I know you.” Rhys’s dull brown eyes focus on her as he licks the edge of the white paper, sealing the joint. “You’re in one of my classes. You eat crackers. Shove ‘em whole into your mouth. You think you’re being sneaky but you’re not. I see you.” He does that thing, aiming two fingers at her eyes then his own.

Even though Carly doesn’t care about this philosophy-student-slash-drug dealer’s opinion of her, she feels her face flame.

He lights the joint and they pass it around the circle. Carly watches the others and does her best not to choke on her first inhale.

When it comes her way again, the end is wet, soggy. The thought of placing it in her mouth almost makes her gag. She tries not to think about the germs or clouds of carcinogens corrupting her lungs. She focuses solely on putting her lips where Clem’s were and takes another puff.

Clem puts on music. Maggie Rogers. Evie took her to a show at the Hollywood Bowl and she’s been obsessed ever since.

J.P. reaches for Clem’s phone, switches to rap, and jacks up the volume. The unsettling beat makes Carly’s chest throb.

“Whoever buys the weed controls the tunes.” J.P. holds up his hands. “Sorry. I don’t make the rules.”

What a dick. I poke at the bottom of my McFlurry cup. I’m down to my last broken Oreo. What were Molly and her kids doing for dinner? Patsy was never much of a cook, at least according to Mama.

I should go home. I’ve been sitting in the parking lot watching moths circle beneath a streetlight for at least ten minutes. I’ve kept the engine running so I don’t melt into a puddle. The little orange low fuel warning is on. I need to get gas anyway, fill the red can that’s been knocking around the trunk for the last week.

I put the car in reverse and turn up the volume. I’m not at the right spot yet but I don’t mind. Marla’s good company even if she’s telling me a story I already know.

In a circle on the floor, Carly’s there and not there. Nothing matters. She’s untroubled by the lab reports she needs to complete, the summer internship she hasn’t found, the steadily rising awareness that in time J.P will turn Clem against her.

Her only thought is “I’m so hungry.” The sushi—even with the hunk of wasabi and the prawn crackers— wasn’t enough. Her mother was right. Too much money for too little food. Her mother. The last time they talked, her mom said her “new fella” was moving in. Carly bit down hard on her lower lip to stop from screaming. That all feels far away and fine now. This is why people get hooked on drugs, she thinks and giggle-hiccups.

J.P. pulls Clem close and nuzzles her hair. Carly stares at the carpet. If she lets her gaze go blurry she can pretend the rug is Spanish moss and they’re in a park—maybe in the South, somewhere warm. The breeze from Clem’s window is arctic, so cold Carly’s feet are ice blocks but she can’t move to shut the window.

Outside, birds squawk in the distance.

“It’s so weird to hear birds at night.” Clem’s voice is light, ethereal, barely audible above the rap music. “It’s cool but sort of haunting, right?”

Rhys sprawls on his back, half-moaning, half-laughing.

“This is some strong-ass shit,” J.P. says. He shoves Rhys’s shoulder. “Time to go, man.”

Rhys groans.“Nah-ha, dude, too far. I’ll walk it in the morning.” His eyelids close. “First light. Promise. Gotta rest. Just got back from two nights at the …”

He mumbles the name of a band and a stadium Carly’s never heard of.

“Made a fucking killing. Good thing you got me when you did, I was about to crash.” He starts to crawl into Clem’s bed.

“Not there, dude, c’mon,” J.P. says.

Rhys staggers to the bathroom. Carly hears him kick off his boots, chills racing through her. Is he going to sleep in the clawfoot tub?

“Okay, birthday girl, you too. Time to go.” J.P. waves toward the doorway leading to 512.

Clem points to the clock on her desk. Carly follows her finger, noticing not the time but the absence of the lamp. “No!” Clem says. “It’s not even ten o’clock. Let’s play a game.”

Carly’s head feels light and loose like a helium balloon that might lift off her shoulders and float away at any moment. But she doesn’t hate this idea. She’s good at games. When their cable would get shut off, she and her mother would play Yahtzee, Boggle, gin rummy.

“You up for that?” J.P.’s eyebrows arch.

Carly shrugs. Let him think maybe he can beat her at something. He’s at this prestigious school because he’s a legacy admission—his father and grandfather both attended. He’s not nearly as smart as she is. Maybe she can hustle some money out of him like her Uncle Jimmy would do at pool halls in Cincinnati and Louisville—until folks wised up and he got his ass beat.

“I’m thinking Truth or Dare.” J.P. stares at Carly, his eyes narrow, lips puckered. “What do you say?”

Carly knows without looking that Clem is nodding.

“Cool, whatever.” Carly’s voice sounds like it’s coming from another person.

“You’ll go first, since it’s your birthday.” J.P. smirks.

“Yeah, Carly, you go.” Clem agrees, eyes half-shut.

“Cool.” Carly nods.

“What’ll it be?” J.P. holds up his palms.

If Carly couldn’t feel his sinister energy simmering just beneath the surface, she might find him handsome.

“Truth or dare?”

Dare is too dangerous. Carly learned that in high school.

She sits straighter, a jittery-electric charge surges through her, fighting its way through the THC-induced haze.

“Truth,” she says not knowing that this one-syllable word will crack her world apart like one of her Uncle Jimmy’s fake bad breaks at the pool hall, balls spinning everywhere, handing her opponent a significant advantage.

In my driveway, I stop the CD. It’s the next section that I’ll play for Molly.

Forty-eight hours ’til she’s here.

How will it go? Will I get my questions answered?

Will I end up like Carly or Clem?

Chapter 34

Molly

I’m sweating as I stand over Mom’s cast iron skillet making grilled cheeses for dinner. The house isn’t air conditioned. When Larry was alive, and then later Glen, they’d stick units in the windows. But since they passed, Mom’s been doing without. Because we only visited at Christmas or Mother’s Day, I had no idea.

“We’ll get a handyman to put them in. I’ll call around tomorrow,” I said after we arrived and Ingrid complained that her fever was back.

“That’ll cost an arm and a leg, Molly Jean. Besides, summer’s almost over.” I’d forgotten Mom viewed July Fourth as the official start to summer’s end.

Her fear of spending money is the reason we’re eating in her tiny kitchen. Yesterday, we took the kids to the aquarium. After hours of oohing and ahhing at the adorable baby penguins waddling around their ice floes and the kids trying to communicate with sea lions, I suggested we have dinner at The Captain’s Table, an upscale restaurant at the heart of the building. We were seated beside enormous windows where we could watch sharks and a rainbow of tropical fish swim by.

“These prices are outrageous,” Mom gasped after skimming the specials.

“This is such a fun setting though, look!” I pointed to Isaac, who was using my phone to take pictures of a hammerhead shark gliding past us. “We don’t get to see you that often. It’s a special treat.”

Mom snapped the menu shut. “Just because Dan’s making good money now, Molly Jean, that doesn’t mean you should be wasteful.”

“It’s my money, Mom. My book’s doing really well,” I said, gentle yet firm. I want my children to know that I’m able to provide for them and for myself.

“Didn’t I see Dan on that show? The one with the doctor?”

“Daddy’s on TV?” Ingrid asked, eyes wide as a puffer fish’s.

I shook my head and made my “we’ll talk about this later” face.

When the waiter returned, Mom grilled him. “Are fries included? What about free refills? No? Water for me then.”

It went downhill from there.

“Is something burning?” Mom sniffs, pulling me back to the kitchen and the grilled cheeses. “I hope you didn’t overdo it with the butter.”

“Nope, just a smidge.” I’m officially counting down the hours until my dinner tomorrow night with Gavin and Darren.

As I serve the sandwiches, my phone pings. I hope it’s Gav telling me he can make it to my library event tonight. His theater camp is performing songs from the musical “Six” in the old movie theater. I wish I could be there instead. He’s so supportive of me, I want to return the favor. I never should’ve called the library back. Again, I blame my ego. But it’s not Gav. It’s Jason Reddy, the divorced dad from my one disastrous date.

Hey! Just started your book. Loving it so far.

Ah, the "so far” people. They mean well but every time someone uses that phrase, it feels like they’re saying “I expect it’ll fall apart any second now!” Still, it’s nice that he grabbed a copy.

Let’s catch up when you’re back. You owe me a drink.

“I don’t owe you anything,” I mutter into the fridge as I fetch juice boxes. Handing them to the kids, I frown at the message, at the winking face he added after beer and wine emojis. Let’s catch up when you’re back.

How does he know I’m out of town? Then I remember last night when I couldn’t sleep because the second floor bedrooms are hotter than most saunas, I posted a few of the photos Isaac took and added some silly caption like “having a whale of a time.” I tagged the aquarium. Sometimes I forget how exposed you make yourself on social media.

I should thank Jason for that reminder. Instead, I stick my phone in my pocket without replying.

“Hurry up, guys!” I tell the kids, who are pulling the sandwiches apart, prying off the crusts. “It’s almost time to go to the library!”

I wish I’d never scheduled this talk but I’m sure it’ll go well. They all have so far.

Chapter 35

Anna

From the gazebo I watch them, middle-aged women in their sundresses and cute sandals, books in hand. I can smell their perfume traveling on the breeze. I haven’t seen Molly or her children yet. The library is too far for Patsy to walk. Maybe they parked out front.

Church bells ring a few blocks over. It’s 7 p.m. Despite Judith strutting around like a bossy hen, these things never start on time.

Trudy steps out the back entrance. I scoot to the left, trying to line up with one of the gazebo’s columns for cover. She checks the dropbox to make sure returned books and DVDs aren’t stuck.

I figured she wouldn’t hang around since she hadn’t enjoyed Molly’s book. For less popular authors and presenters, Judith would encourage us to stay so the crowd looked bigger but M.J. is packing the place tonight. Trudy turns toward her home, a pep in her step. Is it her romance with the professor? Or is she just eager to see the dog she treats like a spoiled toddler? She’s reached out a bunch. I let the calls go to voicemail. She’s a good person, a rare one who really cares. I was like that once.

When she’s out of sight, I leave the gazebo and head toward the library, keeping my head down. I step into the crosswalk. A horn wails. I startle and fight the urge to flip off the driver.

I’m too focused on seeing Molly.

Molly and her family.

Chapter 36

Molly

Milltown’s library is smaller, shabbier than the one near our home in New York with its bright flower beds and tendrils of ivy draped like ribbons around the side of the turret, making it look like something straight from a storybook.

Inside, the air is humid, musty.

“Can we see if there’s any toys?” Ingrid tugs my hand.

“Yeah, where’s the kids’ section?” Isaac’s head swivels, searching the outdated space.

“I can show them, dear, while you do your … thing,” Mom offers.

It’s dumb but her words strike a blow. She has no interest in my work. I struggled to choose a passage I could share that would be appropriate with her and the kids in the audience. I decided to switch gears. Instead, I’ll read an essay about how to retain your creative spark in an increasingly dark world. Then, if people have questions about Birds at Night, I’ll answer them at the end. I can always use the kids’ bedtime as an excuse to leave early if it’s going badly.

A woman stands behind the circulation desk in a brown plaid suit with boxy shoulders. Was she here when I was in high school? I swear I can remember her shushing Gavin and me as we skimmed the racier parts of Flowers in the Attic and giggled in the stacks.

“You must be the famous M.J.!” she says, thrusting out a hand. “I’m Judith. Thank you so much for doing this. Our patrons have been looking forward to your talk for weeks.”

“I’m happy to be here.”

She sizes up Mom and leads us to the elevator.

“Don’t worry,” she grins, holding the door open for my dawdling children, “this is nothing like the one in The Carthage. I enjoyed your book, by the way. I read you’re working on a sequel. How’s that coming along?”

“Thanks for reading it!” I flip into autopilot. “The new one’s a true work-in-progress. Fingers crossed it’ll be done soon!”

Like if a miracle occurs or I hire a ghostwriter, I want to add.

As we exit the elevator, we’re met with a hum. It’s a standing-room-only crowd. In the front row, four seats are marked “reserved” —for Mom, the kids, and Judith. When we walk in, heads lift while voices drop.

Mom leans forward and in a stage whisper, marvels, “These people aren’t all here to see you, are they, dear?”

I ignore her question. The crowd settles as Judith introduces me. I thank everyone for coming, tell them it’s a rare treat to talk to hometown readers and have my mom and kids in the audience. That garners a few “aw”s.

I’m seated in a wooden rocking chair at the front of the room with a cordless mic. Georgia suggested sitting when speaking at smaller venues because it makes you seem more approachable, like you’re not trying to act superior, an artist with a capital A.

The talk is going well. Isaac smiles and gives me a thumbs-up every once in a while. I promised him ten extra minutes of screen time if he sat nicely. Mom’s head dips toward her chest as she fights to stay awake. I begin the Q&A portion and notice Ingrid fidgeting. She probably needs the bathroom. I hold up a finger, meaning “One minute.” She shakes her head and darts out of her seat. Mom is dozing and Isaac, determined to get every promised second of screen time, remains glued to his chair.

I wrap up my talk to ample applause and Judith escorts me to a table where I can meet readers and sign books. Mom, awakened by the clapping, chats with a few neighbors while Isaac plays a game on a computer in the back of the room.

People tell me about the short stories, novels, memoirs they’re working on. They ask if they can send me their drafts, or if I’ll give them my agent’s name and email address. I smile and nod, only half-listening. My mind keeps spinning to Ingrid, who hasn’t returned. Maybe she went in search of the children’s room. I imagine her touching sticky toys and germ-ridden stuffies. My anxiety skyrockets.

And even though it’s Milltown, a small, safe community, you never know who’s lurking, waiting to bother a girl.

Chapter 37

Anna

With the stairwell door propped open, I strain to make out Molly’s words. It’s not easy over the laughter and clapping. I want to go in and watch her in action but can’t since Judith basically banned me.

I’m gnawing at a cuticle when there’s a flash of movement in the hallway. I peek out and see a child. Molly’s child.

“Ingrid?” I whisper.

She spins around. She’s a homely thing. Too much of her father in her face and hair the color of mashed sweet potatoes.

“Hi!” She gives me a small wave.

“I know your mom.” I smile, showing all my teeth. “We grew up together—sort of. Hey, do you want to see something cool?”

She nods.

I hold out a hand, wishing I didn’t bite my nails down to nothing. “Come with me.”

“Where?” She shrugs.

“I’ll show you.”

A few minutes after the presentation began, I went to Judith’s office and switched off the security cameras. It was easy with everyone so swept up in M.J. Archer’s visit.

I’m picturing the screens blank and dark as I lead Ingrid away from the library.

“I know your mom,” I repeat.

When she says nothing, it makes my chest tighten with anger.

“She’s not a good person,” I blurt.

Ingrid stops, a flicker brightens her dull hazel eyes. “Do you mean like naughty?”

“Very naughty.” I nod.

“Where are we going?” She sticks a hand inside her shorts and wriggles. “I have to pee.”

“Hold it.” I guide her to a jungle gym beneath a tree.

It should’ve been removed by now. In May, a boy got to the top of the play structure and then climbed the limbs of the mighty elm.

“Scrambled up it like a little monkey,” a witness told the local paper.

The child’s father was nearby but not paying attention. Probably on his phone, I’m guessing. When the boy tried to get down, he fell and broke his neck. A neighbor recently started a GoFundMe for the wheelchair, the ramp, all the related expenses.

“You’re going to climb that tree! Start here,” I point, “then go as high as you can.”

“Like a squirrel?” She giggles.

Maybe she’s not so bad. Still, I’m rooting for a terrible “accident” to happen here. I want to hurt Molly now. I could wait. She’ll be at my house in two days. Dr. Merton said I have “impulse control issues.” Call it whatever you like, that doesn’t cure it.

“Exactly like a squirrel.” I smile. “And if anyone comes looking for you, stay quiet, okay?”

“Okay!” She agrees, running up the slide.

It’s after eight o’clock, the sun is setting, the wind picking up.

She glances over her shoulder for encouragement as she takes a few steps toward the next level.

“Go! Scoot!” I urge, “and remember—shhh!”

Chapter 38

Molly

Judith rings a bell at the back of the room and the crowd quiets.

“The library will be closing in ten minutes. Thank you, everyone, for coming and thank you again, M.J., for joining us for a most enjoyable evening,” she says.

“Thank you!” I smile but my insides are in knots. I haven’t seen Ingrid in at least twenty minutes. I’m sure she’s in the children’s room but each time I tried to get Isaac or Mom’s attention to ask them to go find her, someone asked me a question or told me what my book meant to them.

Judith’s announcement gives me an out. I dash over to Isaac. “Where’s Ingrid?”

“I dunno. Bathroom?”

“Help me look for her, okay?”

“Should we get Nana?” Isaac asks.

“We’ll come back for her.”

With a flurry of “excuse me”s, I push past attendees and hurry to the ladies’ room. She’s not there.

The men’s room? My stomach lurches as I knock then enter, calling, “Ingrid! Baby?” An older gentleman stands at the urinal and shakes his head.

The janitor’s closet is empty. I punch the elevator button but don’t have the patience to wait. I take the stairs in giant strides. The children’s room is dark, empty. My head pounds. This cannot be happening. Ingrid never wanders. If anything, she’s clingy.

Isaac follows me, his cheeks flushed as each way we turn, she’s not there. In our panicked search, we become Pied Pipers, people trailing us, calling her name.

I’m terrified. I hear Dan’s voice in my head again, “You care more about your fake families than your own!” Is he right?

My pulse throbs in my ears.

Judith, who was shutting off the lights, now stops and switches them all on again. Still, Ingrid’s nowhere.

“The playground?” someone yells. “Would she go to the playground?”

I charge out the back door, screaming for my daughter, turning my ankle in my heels, catching myself before I hit the ground. Isaac shouts his sister’s name, his small voice lost in the great expanse of night.

“Ingrid!” I bellow toward the sky. A hawk circles overhead. I think I’m going to be sick. Behind me and on each side is a chorus: “Ingrid! Ingrid! Ingrid!”

Then I hear it.

“Mommy?”

It’s coming from above.

I can’t see her.

“Ingrid? Ingrid?”

“I wet my pants,” she cries.

I rush to the sound of her voice and stand at the base of the tree, staring into a sea of emerald leaves. Behind me, women shine phone flashlights into the branches. When I finally spot her, I gasp. How did she get so high? I race up the stairs of the jungle gym and hear a rumble of murmurs behind me. Climbing to try to get to my little girl would be insane in the dark.

“Stay where you are, Ingrid,” Judith commands. “We can’t have another …” Her voice trails off as tears slide down my cheeks and I clutch Isaac’s hand like it’s a lifeline.

Twenty minutes later, firefighters have my daughter on the ground unharmed. I smother her with kisses. My arms and legs go weak with relief.

“What were you doing out here all alone, love?”

“I wasn’t—”

“Don’t blame the child, Molly,” Mom scolds. “You should’ve been watching her.”

“When did you ever watch out for me?” I rail at her. She shrinks back, a wounded animal. I’m suddenly aware I’m making a spectacle of us—more of a spectacle of us. What a nightmare this has been.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry. Let’s just go.”

“Thank you,” I call to the crowd on the lawn. They stare back, their faces variations on Edvard Munch’s The Scream.

Chapter 39

Anna

Isip my coffee and scan local Facebook forums, the hair on my arms rising. I’m waiting to read about a “local tragedy,” or at least “child of local author missing.” Did Ingrid stay quiet like I told her?

Instead of a post asking for “thoughts and prayers,” there’s one thanking firefighters. It includes photos of a ladder pressed to a tree trunk and Ingrid wrapped around Molly’s legs. Their faces are obscured. I want to see Molly wrecked, crying.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I hiss as I read the caption Milltown Miracle!

Molly’s been incredibly lucky, but it won’t hold out forever.

Chapter 40

Molly

Mom and I spend the early afternoon gardening while the kids run through the sprinkler I bought at the nursery along with hedge clippers, mulch, and new geraniums. Mom treated us to ice cream after we finished the yard work. We’re all trying to put last night’s library incident behind us.

By six o’clock, everyone’s exhausted from the fresh air, sun, and relentless heat. On the heels of the pizza delivery guy, Gavin arrives. Seeing him pull up gives me that same giddy rush I’d get as a teen when we’d have a snow day and we’d spend the afternoon watching bad TV and drinking hot chocolate. I dash out the front door to greet him. We hug for at least twenty seconds, my body flooding with love and memories. How long has it been since I’ve held anyone other than my children? He’s tan and fit. Darren must be dragging him to the gym.

“It is so good to see you,” I say when we untangle. “Where’s Dar—”

“Stuck at work, he’ll meet us there. One sec!” Gav runs to his Jeep and grabs flowers and gift bags from the passenger seat.

“You are so damn thoughtful,” I groan. “This visit is only going to make me miss you more than I already do.”

“That’s my master plan—lure you back to Milltown!”

Inside, Mom waits in the front hall. She blushes as Gav hands her the lush bouquet of pink peonies. She buries her nose in the soft petals and smiles. “These are gorgeous! But they’re not in season. They must’ve cost a fortune.”

“You’re worth every penny, Patsy. Now speaking of gorgeous, you’re aging backwards. Tell me your secrets!” Gav kisses her rosy cheek.

“And you are even more handsome and charming than you were in high school.”

“Stop or I’ll move into Molly’s old bedroom!”

“You’re welcome to it. It’s awful quiet here these days. Except, did Molly tell you?” Mom leans forward and cuffs his wrist with her hand. “There’s a woman coming around at night and peeking in my mailbox and garbage can!”

Gav shoots me a look like “Really?”

I shrug as Isaac and Ingrid hurry out of the kitchen to see “Uncle Gavin.” Their chins are shiny with pizza grease and I nab them before they use his pale blue linen shirt as a napkin. He holds out gifts for them.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I say, wishing I’d thought to pick up something for him and Darren. They’re thinking of adopting a dog. I could’ve at least gotten a book on different breeds.

“Can you juggle oranges again, Uncle Gavin?”

“What time is our reservation?” I’m giving him an out in case he doesn’t feel like performing after teaching theater camp all day.

“Really, Mol? You think I’m going to miss a chance to dazzle my adoring fans?”

Before I came to town, Gavin had one other friend. Nelson Lynn, a self-proclaimed amateur magician and part-time wizard, who, breaking code, taught Gav all his tricks.

The children squeal as Gav pulls quarters from behind their ears. While everyone’s distracted, I run to the kitchen to make sure the oven is off. Mom insisted on making cookies for dessert, as if the house wasn’t already approaching inferno levels.

As Gavin finishes his juggling act with a twirl, catching an apple behind his back, the kids clap and I kiss the tops of their heads.

“I won’t be too late. Isaac, my number’s in Nana’s phone if you need me, okay? Ingrid, stay in the house!”

They nod.

“Have fun,” Mom says.

“Thanks! We will!” I call, wishing I felt better about leaving them.

The Back Alley is deliciously dark and divey, exactly as I remembered it. We slide into a faded red banquette, the leather cool against my legs. From the jukebox in the corner, Stevie Ray Vaughan mixes with the sound of bowling pins flying on the other side of the wall.

“I love this place. Can we just stay in this booth forever?” I ask as Darren approaches, carrying a pitcher of beer and three frosted glasses.

I hop out to hug and help him.

“The infamous Molly Mason. Great to see you.” He kisses the top of my head then slides next to Gav and pours from the plastic pitcher.

“You guys, this is so nice. You have no idea how much I needed this.” I raise my glass to theirs.

They generously don’t mention last night’s library nightmare. On the drive over, Gav said he was so glad Ingrid’s okay and asked if I wanted to talk about it. I don’t, especially because it’s all over Facebook. I’ve made a generous donation to the volunteer fire department. I’m expecting Dan to call and demand an explanation or insist I bring the children home immediately, which, honestly, I wouldn’t mind.

I block that out and focus on Gavin, who says his dad is refusing to go through with his scheduled cataract surgery for his other eye. I tell them about Mom’s behavior at the aquarium, doing my best Patsy “Are lettuce and tomato extra?” impersonation.

Gavin and I are laughing when Darren lifts his strong hands. “Hold up! We never asked—did you find her?”

“Who?” I search my memory but come up empty. Maybe I spent too long in the sun after getting only a few hours of sleep. Or maybe it’s the beer that tastes like heaven in a pint glass. Does he mean Heather? Yes. Snowy? No.

I must look confused because Darren shouts, “Anna Fox!”

I cover my mouth with my hands. “No! I haven’t, I totally forgot. Shit! That’s tomorrow, isn’t it? It’s been so hectic with Mom and the kids, I haven’t had a chance to look her up or drive by her house.”

“You’re not still going, are you?” Darren’s mouth hangs open as he looks from me to Gav and back again.

“Dar, stop, please,” Gavin says. “How long have you lived here? The worst that’ll happen is she’ll be served wine from a box, which actually isn’t as bad as it used to be. I can’t believe I’m saying that.”

“Boxed wine, maybe some Cheetos …” I nod. “A gal could do a lot worse.”

“Mol drops a few hints about the sequel and then gets the heck out of there.” Gavin hoists his glass in an “I’ll drink to that” gesture.

When I don’t lift mine to meet his, he frowns. “What? What’s that face?”

“I’m starting to develop a twitch whenever someone says the word ‘sequel.”

Gavin winces. “How’s it going?”

“It’s not. Next question.”

“I’m trying to be so good and not ask you about it, but I’m dying to know what happens to—”

“Enough! I’m taking matters into my own hands!" Darren snatches my phone and holds it up to my face. I recently changed the lock screen photo to a picture of Isaac and Ingrid in the kayak from a few weeks ago—their sweet profiles looking in opposite directions, the lake sparkling beneath the afternoon sun. “I will be tracking your location for the duration of this trip.”

“I feel like we failed you, Mol. With Anna, I mean,” Gavin says, ignoring Darren.

“Don’t be silly.” I dip a fry in the puddle of cheese. “I feel like—”

“There’s an essay here?” Gav winks.

He knows that I’m always trying to turn real life experiences into essays or articles to keep pushing my byline: M.J. Archer, author of Birds at Night.

“When I get some breathing room, yes, maybe this could be an essay. I mean, I guess I’ll have to tell Anna I had no idea who she was and make sure she thinks it’s as funny as we do, right?”

With a few swipes and thumb taps, Darren has added me to his Find My Friends app.

“This is only temporary, Molly.” Darren hands the phone back to me. “Feel free to turn off tracking when you are safely back in your Hudson Valley hamlet.”

“Oh, so you’ll watch me go to a stranger’s book club but you don’t want to follow along as I drop the kids at camp, grocery shop, or run to Target for a last-minute birthday party gift?” I laugh and stick the phone in my back pocket. “Or observe as I sit in my home office for days at a time staring into space, pretending to write?”

“Ah, yes, an exciting behind-the-scenes look at a day in the life of the fabulous M.J. Archer!” Gavin exclaims.

“Yeah, right.” I finish what’s left in my glass and pour another.

“Laugh all you want.” Darren points a buffalo wing at me. “I’m doing this out of love.”

“Thank you,” I say. “Seriously. It’s a nice change to have someone looking out for me.”

I stumble into the house just after midnight, forgetting that it’s hotter than the portal to hell. I creep up the steps and into the bathroom to pee and brush my teeth. I look in on the kids, who are sleeping soundly on air mattresses in the third bedroom Mom uses for her sewing projects.

In my old room, I slip on a loose tank top. The sheets aren’t even cool but they’re soft and the beer is enough to knock me out.

“Mommy?”

I startle, disoriented, no clue if I’ve slept for minutes or hours but I’m drooling.

“Mommy?” Ingrid’s voice comes again, high and weepy.

Where am I? Why am I in this tiny bed with a furry tongue?

“Mommy!” She’s more insistent now. I’m scared to touch her in case she’s burning up with fever again.

“Yes, love, what is it?” I lift my heavy head.

“I heard something! Outside my window! I’m scared.”

The streetlight filters through the sheer curtains allowing me to see her face crumpling. She’s seconds away from bursting into loud, hysterical tears.

“Shh! Shh! It’s okay. It’s probably a squirrel or a raccoon. Go back to sleep.”

“No!” she whines, taking my hand and yanking it.

My head throbs from one too many pints of beer and not enough water.

“How about you stay in here with me?” I inch toward the wall. If she’ll settle down, I’ll sleep on the floor if I have to.

She shakes her head. “I want to go home,” she whimpers.

My head drops to the pillow. Then I hear it. Rustling beneath the window, followed by a soft cry. An animal? A person?

Tears trickle down Ingrid’s cheeks, her shoulders heaving. “What is that? What if it comes inside?”

I don’t want to go out there but I know she won’t stop until I get up and investigate. I’ll check on Isaac and Mom on my way.

“Okay, c’mon.” Taking Ingrid’s hand, we move into the hall. Isaac is curled on his side, exactly as he was when I got home.

Mom’s door is half-shut. I push it softly. Her bed is empty. Across the hall, the bathroom door is open. In the lemony glow of the nightlight, I can see she’s not in there. A cold shiver travels up my spine. Ingrid clings to me as we head downstairs.

We’re almost to the bottom when I notice the front door is wide open. Did I leave it unlocked?

My heart beats faster, thoughts turning in a million directions. The sky is dark. It’s still night. Is my mother missing?

I’m in underpants and a tank top but I can’t waste time running back upstairs for a robe or shorts.

“Stay here,” I tell my daughter, who, of course, doesn’t listen.

We’re out the door, stalking across the lawn. The grass is cold and slick beneath my feet.

“What if there’s snakes, Mommy? Carry me!” Ingrid yelps, hopping up and down.

I scoop her into my arms and wind around the house, spurred by a clucking sound. I should’ve brought my phone, used its flashlight. There’s only the moon and a neighbor’s dim lamppost.

More rustling and snapping sounds come from the side of the house, someone trampling the dead bushes I ran out of time to uproot.

What am I doing out here with my child? Should I have grabbed a weapon? What does Mom even have other than her cast iron skillet and fabric scissors?

“Mom?” I call, desperate. “Mom!”

Ingrid and I are almost to the backyard when a half-bent figure emerges from the shrubs.

“Mom?” I clutch Ingrid tighter. “What are you doing?”

“I saw something in the bushes. I thought it was a cat. That little girl told me her kitten is missing. I’m going to find it for her.”

Up close, her eyes are filmy, trancelike. Is she dreaming?

“Nana! Snowy’s in New York!” Ingrid giggles. “This is Ohio.”

I set her down on one of the flagstones that leads to the backyard and try to steady myself.

“You must’ve dreamt it, Mom.” I try to keep the fear and concern out of my voice. “Let’s go back inside."

“I don’t think so.” Mom shakes her head. “It was here a minute ago. It must’ve run off.”

“Maybe it’s another kitten!” Ingrid claps. “If Nana catches it, can we keep it?”

“Let’s get you back in the house, Mom. We can look again in the morning.” I reach for her arm. Her skin is loose, soft as flour. She pulls away.

“I’m not going anywhere until I find this cat!” she says as if this is perfectly reasonable.

“I’m not going in either.” Ingrid stomps a foot, making a slapping sound against the flagstone.

“And where are your pants?” Mom points at my bare legs.

I’m so exhausted, part of me wants to leave them on the lawn and go back to bed. I rub my eyes and take a deep breath.

“You know what? The front door was open. I bet the kitten ran inside. Let’s go see.”

Ingrid darts ahead while Mom reluctantly follows.

I take a sweeping glance around the yard. A chill creeps over me. I feel exposed. It’s not just the fact that I’m wearing almost nothing. It’s more like the sudden sensation of being watched.

Chapter 41

Molly

After ninety minutes at the children’s museum, we’re all tired and cranky so we head to the car. On the drive back to the house, images from the middle of the night flash through my mind. The front door—did I not lock it? Ingrid—beside my bed, blubbering. Mom—her eyes wild and watery as she trampled through the hedges searching for an imaginary cat. This morning, she swore some of the peonies Gavin gave her were missing.

“Isaac and Ingrid! Did you touch my flowers?” Her tone was so harsh, it caught me off-guard.

“No! No!” they insisted, their cheeks reddening.

“That vase was much fuller last night.”

“Mom, they wouldn’t take your flowers, and besides, they’re on the mantle. They can’t reach them.”

“They could’ve pulled over a chair. Look at how the girl climbed that tree the other night! They’re very clever, your children.” Her eyes narrowed. “They know how to get what they want. They must get that from you.”

Isaac, unblinking, scanned my face, attempting to gauge my reaction as Ingrid ran to hide behind my legs.

“Maybe it looks like you have less because they’re wilting from this unbearable heat,” I said with an edge to my voice.

The conversation ended with a short unpleasant staring contest. I don’t know what Mom was thinking, but I was quickly coming to the sad realization that things are far worse than I thought.

There’s no way I can leave the children alone with her tonight—even for a few hours—to go to the book club. I could cancel, say someone is ill, but I just confirmed with Anna this morning over email.

She sent a Can’t believe the day is here! See you at 7! email.

On autopilot and groggy from lack of sleep I wrote: Can’t wait! See you soon!

Back home after the museum, Mom goes up for a nap. The children push each other on the tire swing that somehow still dangles from the tree. I place a Hail Mary call to Gavin.

He answers on the second ring. “No text first? This must be a true emergency.” He takes a sharp inhale. “Tell me you remembered Anna Fox!”

“I wish.” I ease onto the weathered picnic table bench pulling my shorts low to avoid getting splinters in my thighs. “Listen, long story short, my mom isn’t in a great place and I was wondering if you could stay with her and the kids tonight? I’ll owe you forever.”

“Did Isaac and Ingrid put you up to this because they can’t get enough of my juggling?”

“If only.” I groan. “I may have to extend this trip, Gav, and figure out the safest place for my mom. I found her outside in the middle of the night looking for a cat.” I pause, trying to dig yet another dandelion out of the lawn with the tip of my sneaker. “This is crazy, but I’m wondering if I should take her back with me?”

“Yikes. I’m so sorry, Mol. I’ll be there. Text me the time. I want to hear more but I’m sorry, I have to go. I’m about to watch some tweens murder West Side Story.”

“Thank you, Gav. What would I do without you?”

“If I had a nickel for every time you said that, I could build my own theater.”

I half-laugh-half-whimper and then he is gone.

Chapter 42

Anna

I’m almost done cleaning the bathroom when my phone beeps against the lip of the tub. I back away from it. If this is Molly cancelling, what then?

I sat in her car last night. Does she leave it unlocked at home too or does she feel safer in Ohio? It smelled like rotting fruit. Apple cores and half-drunk water bottles littered the backseat. Brochures and receipts everywhere. I’ve never taken a road trip with children. Maybe that’s just what happens.

The phone beeps again. I can’t look. If she’s not coming, I need a new plan. How long is she in town?

“What should I do, Mama?” I whisper.

“Read the message darlin’, you’ve come this far.” I hear her as if she’s in the room with me. I can feel her phantom hand pushing my hair off my sweaty forehead.

“Yes, Mama.” The phone sits face down on the edge of the tub. My hand shakes as I reach for it. I drop to the bathmat in case it’s bad news.

Turning it over, I read the name: Trudy.

I gulp at the air like I’m breaking the surface of a lake after holding my breath too long.

I set the phone down and rest my cheek against the cool tile floor.

I don’t care about whatever Trudy has to say.

Molly is coming.

That’s all I think about.

Chapter 43

Molly

Ipull up to a squat house with a garage set off to the side at the top of a short driveway. Even as dusk settles, it’s obvious the property is in a sad state of disrepair.

Frazzled from these past few days with Mom and the children, I reach into my purse for Xanax. Normally, I take half, but tonight I need the whole pill. I wash it down with warm water from a bottle on the floor of the backseat. The kids left apple cores in the cupholders. No wonder I’ve been batting at fruit flies the whole drive over. I think of the dead crow I found in my office the last time I left town. I hope the roofers have sealed everything. I wonder how much that will set me back. Whatever it costs, it’s worth it.

I grab a crumpled brown bag and toss all our trash inside. I’m stalling. I don’t want to leave the cool comfort of my air-conditioned cocoon even if it smells like rotting fruit.

I take a minute to apply a bit more lipstick.

It’s showtime.

Or is it? There’s only one other car parked on the street—far down and on the other side. Maybe it’s a neighborhood book club and everyone walks. Spares any arguments about who’ll volunteer to be the designated driver, I guess. Could I have gotten the time wrong? I check my phone. Nope. Anna said come at seven. Two texts from Gavin await:

Have fun!

And:

P.S. Darren says don’t get murdered!

He added an emoji with Xs for eyes. My thumb hovers over the screen as I consider what to write back. Before I can, I notice movement. A curtain flutters in the window.

As I look up it falls back into place and the figure—Anna? One of her friends?—disappears.

“Crap!” I murmur without moving my lips. I can’t put it off much longer. They know I’m here.

I debate sticking my phone in the glovebox. If it’s painful in there, I’ll pull the same trick I used on Jason Reddy. Pat my pockets and say, “Oh shoot! I left my phone in the car. Better check that the kids are okay.”

Then I’ll make a run for it, pick up a bottle of wine, and have a glass or two with Gav after the children are tucked in.

No, this will be fine. I can leave whenever I want. I slide my phone into my purse. The front door is open. Evening sun casts a glare so I can’t make out the face but there’s a figure there. A low light switches on above the house number. I glance around the quiet street. No one else is in sight.

I have no choice but to get out and go in.

Chapter 44

Anna

Why is she just sitting there? Is she having second thoughts? Is this some pre-book club ritual authors do? Try to remember all the things they want to say: “Don’t forget to leave a review! Sign up for my newsletter! Follow me on Instagram!”

Is she nervous? I am. It’s not every day I get a chance like this.

I stand behind the storm door and wave. Her head pops up. Busted, Molly! I see you! She squints. The last rays of sunshine bounce off the glass door. Maybe she can’t see my face. No look of recognition. Good. I’m pretty sure we’re both people who enjoy the element of surprise.

Molly reaches for something on the passenger seat and looks at the house again.

Now that she knows I’ve seen her, she has no choice but to come inside.

I press my hand to the storm door’s glass, cool against my sweaty palm, and whisper, “Welcome back, Molly Mason.”

Chapter 45

Molly

Iopen the car door and grab the wine and flowers from the passenger’s seat. I smile but can’t wave back. Hands full.

“Hi!” I call. Even as I get closer, it’s not coming to me. Who the hell is Anna Fox?

She holds the storm door open and steps back. For someone who used a ton of exclamation points, she doesn’t look too happy to see me. Her brown hair is shoulder length with blunt bangs. Her eyes are hidden behind glasses that reflect the light. What is she wearing? Overalls. Carly wears them in the opening chapter. I suddenly feel overdressed in a linen skirt and sleeveless top, a cardigan draped around my shoulders in case it’s cold in her house, though after sweating all day at Mom’s that would be a welcome relief.

“Molly!” Her voice is loud, high, breathy. She doesn’t smile so much as she bares her teeth. They’re square. If she were a character and I were to describe them, I’d say they looked like Chiclets. I file this detail away for later use.

“Anna!” I try to keep the question out of my voice. Do I just play along as if I recognize her when clearly, I don’t? Her eyes are brown with flecks of green and have a bulging quality that reminds me of someone I can’t quite place. But the way my body instinctively recoils, it’s someone I didn’t like. Or maybe it’s the smell.

“Come in!” She orders. She’s younger than I am—by a lot. Maybe a decade? How the hell do we know one another? I should just come out and tell her I can’t recall anything about her. But that’s so rude. And embarrassing. We’ve had a half-dozen email exchanges and I waited until I was in her living room to say, “Oh, by the way, who are you?”

Also, whatever’s going on with Mom makes me want to try to dig deep into my memory bank and pull up something from the past on my own. Eventually, it’ll come to me—same way I remember who sang a hit song or what I wore to an event so I’m not in the same outfit in every social media post. When it comes back to me, I’ll apologize, and say it took me a minute, but I’m so happy to be here.

For now, I step inside. My gaze sweeps the small, overcrowded living room. There’s a couch, loveseat, two armchairs, a dizzying mix of plaids and florals like a furniture showroom from half a century ago or an estate sale. Stranger though is that they’re all empty. No one else is here.

Was this canceled and I missed an email with everything going on with Ingrid and Mom? After Gavin agreed to stay with the kids, I grabbed my laptop and started searching for memory care facilities in New York. I haven’t thought about the book or Georgia once all day. If a vacation is supposed to make you forget your day-to-day life, this trip is definitely accomplishing that.

“Sorry, am I early?” I ask.

“Oh, gosh no.” She takes the wine and flowers with a brisk little nod. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for tonight.”

“Great!” I chirp, relieved. Sort of.

“I was hoping we could have some one-on-one time, you know. Just the two of us.”

“Sure!” What else can I say now? “No, let’s get this show on the road, I only have a thousand other things to do.” I’m fixating on the smell. It’s like Isaac’s sneakers after summer camp.

“Have a seat. I’ll be right back with the wine. I picked up a California cabernet sauvignon—the kind Clem’s mom likes. Oh, and I’ve got a brie dip in the oven. Remember when Carly went to Clem’s house for Thanksgiving and they ate all that cheese?”

“Right! Yes!” So she’s definitely a fan. “I can’t wait to try it!” I mean it. I’m starving. I move to the sofa as she heads toward the back of the house—the kitchen, I assume. “Can I help you?” I pivot and start to follow her.

“No.” She wheels around. “Sit. Really.” She does that weird mouth thing again—the smile-not smile.

I sit on the couch and take in the room. The walls are covered in the brown paneling that was popular decades ago—not that shiplap that was recently so trendy. Between that and all this furniture, I’m feeling claustrophobic. I do a quick scan. No photos. No children’s toys or books. No evidence of anything personal really beyond Birds at Night on the coffee table. It rests with my author photo face up. I want to flip it over.

“Your home is so …” I search for a word. Lack of sleep and my worries about Mom have made me slow, dull. I shouldn’t be here. I can barely finish sentences “… so rustic,” I call.

She pops out of the kitchen.

“It’s not mine. I’m renting.”

“Really … charming,” I add as she turns away.

I listen for a cork popping. My mouth waters. She returns with two balloon goblets just like the ones I have at home.

She raises her glass. “To all your success.”

“Aw, thank you and thank you for inviting me.” I clink my glass against hers and take a long swallow. A fleck of something gritty, sediment probably, lingers on my tongue. I swallow it.

“Do you mind if I ask you some questions?” She takes a seat across from me.

Oh, here we go. I was hoping to sit and enjoy the wine and maybe a moment of quiet. For a second, I debate asking, “Shouldn’t we wait until the others arrive?” Then I take a longer sip and put on my best bubbly author persona. “Of course!” I smile. “That’s why I’m here.”

Chapter 46

Anna

“Istill can’t believe you came all this way.” I shake my head and pretend to sip my wine. “Anything to sell some books, right?”

“Well, it’s not just that.” Molly chuckles and gives a little eye roll. “I love meeting with readers.”

“Like it says on your website.”

“Exactly!” She takes another slurp from the glass. That’s right, Molly, drink up.

“So how do you do it?”

“Do what?” She’s looking around for a non-existent coaster, so I push a napkin toward her. It’s from Christmas and the Fa-La-La-La-La circling a green wreath seems to throw her off.

“Come up with your ideas? This one feels so real.”

Her eyes search my face. She still doesn’t know who I am. Good. Will she come out and ask? If she does, how will I answer? Don’t you worry, Molly, you’ll remember soon enough.

“Well, with this one I wanted to really explore how these awful things that happen to young women aren’t uncommon, unfortunately.”

“I heard you say that on a podcast. Then you said readers are tired of women being portrayed as weak, drunk, or crazy and we want to see a woman who says, ‘No, I’m not going to go down that road. I’m taking matters into my own hands.’ I found that really eye-opening—and inspiring.”

“Aw, I’m so glad!” Molly smiles, swirls the wine in her glass and polishes it off. “Thank you for sharing that.” Are there tears in her eyes? Is this an act she’s perfected? “That makes it all worth—”

The timer’s beep interrupts her. I stand. “Excuse me a sec?”

“Of course. Maybe I’ll just run to the bathroom. Can you—”

“That way.” I point down the hall and watch her sway a bit. Her right arm stretches, brushing the wall as she tries to steady herself.

I allow myself a second to enjoy it. Molly’s here. I made this happen.

Then I head into the kitchen to get the knife.

Chapter 47

Molly

Like the rest of the house, the bathroom is cramped and outdated. Tiny pink and black tiles extend three-quarters of the way up the wall, so old it’s in style again. The wicker hamper is too big for the space. So is the black bathmat that’s more like a small, shaggy area rug. I trip on the edge and catch myself by grabbing the towel bar. Ever since walking into this house, I’ve felt off. I’m grateful for a minute alone to collect myself.

Anna’s nothing like I expected. You get this idea of a person in your mind and maybe it’s a character sketch, but whatever I imagined, this isn’t it. There’s an awkwardness about her. She has no awareness of personal space. And her eyes, that intense stare—has she blinked at all since I arrived? “An odd bird,” Mom would say.

I stand in front of the mirror, cheeks flushed, hair frizzing from the humidity. I should stop being so judgy. Anna’s welcomed me into her home, gone to a lot of trouble with all that food. When Gavin asks how the evening went, I can say, “To paraphrase Carly, if the night had a theme it would be ‘cheeses I wrote about.’”

Of course, first thing he’ll want to know is: “Who is Anna Fox?” —something I still can’t answer.

The toilet seat is one of those pink puffy things that deflate when you sit on it. I lift my skirt and hover above it. God, I wish this night—this entire trip, actually—was over. But then it’s back to real life and figuring out what the hell I’m doing with the sequel.

When I’m done, I stand at the sink. There’s no pump soap—only a shrunken chip of dried out Irish Spring. I turn on the water. The pressure is low. Even so, I bobble the nubbin of soap twice, my fingers thick and slow. I wash and dry my hands then glance in the mirror again. I got a bit of sun yesterday while gardening but not enough to mask the purple bags beneath my eyes. I reach into my purse to touch up my lipstick. The tube slips from my grasp and hits the floor. The lid flies off. I bend to pick up the pieces and the room spins.

My phone has fallen from my bag too. I reach for it. I forgot I switched off the ringer while we were at the museum. A voicemail pops up. Sonny Douglas. How long have I been in here? Time is distorted, spooling out as the wine and Xanax swirl through my system. I want to stay in here a while longer, just until more people show up. I’ll listen to Sonny’s message, then I’ll go back out there.

As I press play, I smile in anticipation of Sonny’s warm, deep voice.

“Hey, Molly, it’s Sonny.” I lean against the wicker hamper. “Sorry for not getting back to you sooner. I was on a fishing trip with a couple of buddies. Good to get away.”

“I’ll bet.” My words sound slurred.

He clears his throat. All business. I stiffen.

“Listen, I called in a few favors …”

I’m pressing the phone to my ear hard, willing him to speak faster, sound friendlier.

“I’m coming up empty, Mol. There’s no Anna Fox in Milltown as far as I can tell.”

I stand, drift back to the sink, and stare into the mirror as if seeing my own reflection will make me feel less alone in this stranger’s bathroom.

“Got a few scattered around the state but none beyond the ones you found on your own. Now, I’m not saying you’re getting catfished, but if I were you, I’d Zoom into that meeting. That advice comes from me and Knox.” He chuckles. Bad news delivered, the usual lightness returns to his voice.

The phone feels hot, impossibly heavy in my hand. My heart beats faster as I wait, hoping he’ll say more.

“Oh and hey, thanks for the shout-out on that podcast. Knox is enjoying a nice bump in sales. Let’s grab a beer some—”

I stop listening and let the phone drop into the sink.

There’s no Anna Fox in Milltown … I’m trying to wrap my head around Sonny’s words—what this means. But as I look in the mirror I see something I didn’t notice when I walked in.

Behind me, resting on top of the toilet tank is a mason jar brimming with pink peonies.

Chapter 48

Anna

I’m listening at the door. She flushed the toilet at least two minutes ago.

Has she put it together yet? For someone who’s been called a “masterful plotter” beloved for her “devious, scheming brain,” she doesn’t seem all that bright to me. She still has no clue who I am, and why should she remember me? I—we—mean nothing to her.

I saw how she scanned the living room with a real “This is it?” face.

“You forget, Molly, I know where you came from. You can try to be someone new with your fake name and fancy clothes, but you can’t outrun your past,” I whisper to the closed door, waiting, straining to hear.

She’s been in there forever. I hope she hasn’t passed out.

I lean closer. She’s panting.

I slip my phone out of my pocket.

It’s time.

Chapter 49

Molly

Gripping the corners of the sink, I try to steady myself. The room’s tilting slightly, that same sweeping sense of vertigo I get after riding a merry-go-round with the kids. My breath comes in short, shallow bursts. My brain’s spinning. I glance in the mirror at the peonies again, as if maybe I’d imagined them.

Was this person—whoever she is—in the house last night while we slept? Is she what Mom and Ingrid heard?

I’m struggling to think. I lift my phone out of the sink, set it on the hamper, and splash cold water on my face. I never should’ve taken the whole Xanax on an empty stomach and then guzzled all that wine.

I press a hand towel to my eyes, my temples, my mouth, leaving mascara and lipstick streaks across the thin terrycloth. It’s hard to stand straight. I stagger back and sit on the toilet. Air whooshes out of the puffy seat like a sigh. I rest my head in my palms. There’s something familiar and off-putting about this woman, like I can’t make myself look at her for long. It’s her eyes, those awful buggy eyes.

How do I get out of here? Say I don’t feel well and call an Uber? Text Gav to pick me up? I need to go. Now.

I reach for my phone and hear a woman’s voice.

Not Anna’s—or whoever she is.

Someone else is here.

I blow out a long exhale, relieved but only slightly after Sonny’s message. Maybe the peonies are a coincidence—a nod to the bouquet J.P. gives Clem. Then I remember Mom telling Gavin they’re not in season.

The voice gets louder. I recognize it but can’t quite place it. Did Anna—or whatever her name is—invite someone I know? Who? I force myself to listen. Her words are familiar. Too familiar.

“Game on!” J.P. roars over the rap song.

It’s Birds at Night. The audiobook. I never listened to the whole thing, afraid I’d want to change dialogue, sentence structure, images. But I know it nearly by heart after so much editing, revising, and proofreading. Why is it playing here? In the bathroom? And where is it coming from?

“Bring it,” Carly says, wondering if Clem and J.P. see through her faked indifference, this rare display of bravado.

My head whips up to inspect the ceiling. There’s only a basic round light fixture with a few dead insects trapped inside the dusty globe. I stand and sweep back the striped shower curtain. The tub is empty except for a beige rubber bathmat freckled with mold.

“What’s the wildest, most fucked up thing you’ve ever done?” J.P.’s mouth twists into a side pucker, barely containing his disdain.

Carly knows he views her as a hanger-on, Clem’s disciple, not a whole person and certainly not an interesting one.

“What’s the wildest, most fucked up thing you’ve ever done?” he repeats.

Carly knows he expects her to say something lame like she ran a red light, shoplifted lip balm, or cheated on an exam—unless Clem told him about the eel?

No. Clem wouldn’t. Carly suspects that Clem blames herself for bringing that asshole back to her room. She wouldn’t tell J.P. because she’d believe the story makes her look worse than her attacker. Carly hates that they’re forced to feel this shame, as if somehow they’re responsible for the behavior of a predator.

“Quit stalling, birthday girl.” J.P. knocks her foot lightly with his fancy brown leather boot.

Am I losing it? In the mirror, my eyes are wild, panicked. I look as manic as Mom did last night as she lurched through the shrubs.

Where is the voice coming from? I swing open the doors to the medicine cabinet. It’s empty.

Rage rises in Carly's chest. She will reveal her truth and J.P will regret underestimating her.

Her lips part, her head swimming. To say it aloud, to put words to this thing she’s done, feels like jumping off a cliff. She does it anyway.

“I killed someone,” Carly says.

I squat low and fling back the vanity’s doors. Beneath the sink is a mint green Bluetooth speaker—just like Clem’s.

Collapsing to the tile floor, I stab at the buttons to stop the voice. It only grows louder.

I have to get out of here.

I close the cabinet and reach for my phone. With shaking hands, I raise it to my face.

Out of the corner of my eye, I sense movement as the doorknob twists open.

Chapter 50

Anna

“Oh, Molly, you don’t look so good. Was it something you drank? They say you shouldn’t mix medication with alcohol. I put a little surprise in your cabernet. It may do a bit more than ‘take the edge off.’” It feels good to laugh, a reward for all my hard work and preparation.

Molly’s a trembling heap on the floor. Her big doe eyes look genuinely, rightfully, terrified as her gaze darts from my face to the knife and back again before landing on the door. Is she going to try to push past me? Good luck with that, Molly.

“You didn’t expect to see me in here, right?” I smile. “I know it’s weird but you gave me the idea. Gum in the strike plate. Clever.” I tap my temple.

With the other hand, I trace the knife’s point across her forehead, not so firm as to draw blood but enough that she cowers and twitches like a scared rabbit. Where’s all that cool confidence now, Molly?

“I was just slicing up more cheese when I thought, ‘I wonder if Molly’s okay?’ But you’re not okay. You’re not even close to okay.”

Chapter 51

Molly

I’m having a nightmare and soon I’ll wake up. I’m having a nightmare and soon I’ll wake up. Wake up!

I close my eyes and open them, blinking hard. I’m still here. She’s still there, looming, ready to carve me up.

My arms hang limp by my sides. I can barely breathe.

“Who are you? Why are you …” is all I can manage. My voice sounds small and far away.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” She pulls a sad pout. “I’m not surprised. We haven’t seen each other in ages. Last time was at a funeral and you probably had a lot on your mind. Let’s keep listening. It’ll all make sense soon.”

She plucks my phone from the top of the hamper and tucks it in the pocket of her overalls. Then she holds out her phone and presses play. With a few jerks of her thumb, the volume swells. The narrator’s voice fills the tiny room, bouncing off the tile walls. I shrink from it. There’s nowhere to go, no way out.

“I killed someone,” Carly says.

Clem’s been playing with a chunky silver thumb ring, switching it between hands. She stops and leans closer to Carly. “Wait? Sorry, what did you just say?”

J.P. laughs, his head lolling forward, a lock of hair falling over his eye. He sweeps it back and says, “I call bullshit!” stretching the final word so it lasts at least five seconds. “Okay, for real. We don’t have all night.” His eyes roam Clem’s body. “I gotta get this girl to bed.”

Clem ignores him, eyes locked on her friend.

“I killed someone,” Carly repeats.

It’s freeing, setting this secret loose in the shadowy room, picturing it slipping out the window into the wild dark night where birds still caw and screech.

“If you’re not gonna play right, I’m gonna pack up my toys and send you home.” J.P. lowers the music and removes the bag of weed and lighter from the center of their little circle.

“You’re joking, right?” Clem’s voice is thick and raspy. She’s trying to catch Carly’s eye. “I mean, duh, obviously.”

Carly shakes her head.

Clem presses her palms to her chest. “Car, you’re seriously freaking me out right now.”

“I killed someone,” Carly states a third time. The rush she gets from saying it surpasses any high the weed could offer.

“You’re lying,” J.P. scoffs.

Carly isn’t looking at him but at Clem. Maybe it’s the drugs making her hallucinate but she feels as if Clem can read her mind. Is she thinking about the way Carly smashed the lamp across the eel’s skull, how she dragged him to the elevator without fear, hesitation, or a shred of remorse?

“I don’t think she’s lying,” Clem whispers.

J.P. licks his lips. “Okay, fine, you know what? I’ll play along. Who’d you kill, gangsta?”

Carly shifts her gaze to the open window and exhales. “My stepdad.”

“Are you putting it together yet, Molly?” The woman who is not Anna Fox presses pause. With the knife, she sweeps long oval shapes on my bare arms. Goosebumps rise and multiply as I wait for her to slice through skin.

My teeth chatter inside my dry mouth. I can barely swallow. She turns the knife so the blade is flat on its side and places it beneath my chin. Lifting my head with the pressure of the cold metal, she holds my phone to my face. For a second before my screen unlocks, I see my children, the image of Isaac and Ingrid in the kayak. I whimper.

“What’s the passcode?” She presses the knife’s point to the soft spot under my chin.

“It’s one, one, one, one, one, one.” I made it simple so Isaac would remember it and read my texts and emails to me while I drove or cooked dinner.

She opens the camera roll.

“Aw, your kids look sweet,” she says. “I got to spend some time with Ingrid the other night. In the playground.”

My heart stops.

“I’m going to go see them, and Patsy too, after I’m done here. Before I leave town. Busy, busy, am I right? Isn’t that what you wrote in your email?” She laughs, widening those buggy eyes.

I shiver. I know exactly who she is.

Chapter 52

Anna

“Just a little more to go. We’re almost there—the big reveal.”

I see it now—recognition in her eyes as she looks into mine. It took her long enough. Does she remember my name? I doubt it.

Still, the fear in her face is worth everything—all the trouble I’ve gone to.

“Let’s open the doors so we can hear your story—oops, I mean our story—better.” I reach past her to the vanity, keeping the knife’s point poking into the hollow behind her collarbone. Her shoulders shake. Is she crying? Good.

“Your stepdad?” Clem whispers.

“He deserved it,” Carly says, her voice high and tight as if someone has challenged her. Her skin starts to prickle. It’s the same crawling sensation she’d get when Travis, her stepfather, would slide his fingers up and down her arm, his bear paw of a hand strong enough to snap her neck.

“And how’d you do it?” J.P. sits up. He’s flicking the lighter. The sound of the little wheel sparking over and over makes Carly flinch. “You may know your way around a bunsen burner but you don’t seem like a criminal mastermind or a secret assassin.”

Carly wishes she could give him the middle finger with both hands and yet, she understands what he’s saying. The idea that no one would think her capable of this is exactly what’s allowed her to get away with it.

“He’d go to this townie bar every Saturday and Sunday all through football season. He’d bet on games and get annihilated with his high school buddies, relive their glory days. Then he’d drive back to his repair shop to sleep it off.”

Carly pictures the rundown, single-bay garage Travis bought on the edge of town, near the quarry. She can see the inside of it—the tools and gas cans, the Buckeyes banners, the thick insulated curtains her mom sewed for him.

“A one-pump filling station at the end of a road nobody ever takes? Really, Trav? I hope you know what you’re doin’,” her mom said when he drove them out to see it.

A cold wind rushes through the window. Carly trembles as if she is back in Ohio with Travis sitting too close beside her on the faded plaid loveseat her mom pulled from a neighbor’s trash, his hand snaking down her body,

“Such a skinny thing.” He’d start by squeezing her wrist or her thigh. Sometimes the nape of her neck.

“Make a muscle for me.” The first time she did, his fingers curled around her soft flesh then slipped inside the armhole of her t-shirt. His thumb scraping long, slow strokes from the bottom of her rib cage up to the side of her newly budding breast, the rough tips of his fingers grazing her nipple. She squirmed away.

“Somebody’s ticklish!” He grinned, exposing his yellow-brown teeth, his giant hands suddenly everywhere and, despite her heart pounding, she was laughing, her body betraying her as his fingers spent too long in certain places that felt not right.

“You like that, do ya?”

As she wriggled and writhed against this beast with his beer-and-Marlboro breath pinning her in place, she tried to catch her mother’s eye in the shifting light of the TV.

“Stop! Stop it!” she yelped, her pleas drowned by the mix of the sofa’s creaking springs, the game show’s chimes, and the studio audience's applause.

“If you two don’t quit it, I’m gonna have to watch this upstairs. I can’t hear a thing,” her mom said, never taking her eyes off the show.

“And?” J.P. slices through the memory.

I drop to the floor. I want to be eye-level with Molly for this next part.

“One Saturday, I waited ‘til he passed out in this ratty recliner he kept in his garage. I snuck inside and started this old truck he thought he could restore and sell for decent money. He had a game on the TV, turned up loud, perfect background noise. I left him there snoring his head off, inhaling clouds of exhaust. He never woke up.”

Clem’s mouth drops open.

J.P. shakes his head. “Why’d you do it?”

Carly takes a hard swallow. “He’d come into my room—at night. He would … he was… it was …” She pinches the bridge of her nose. She will not cry in front of J.P. “It was messed up.”

She can picture her doorknob turning, still hear its tinny squeak. Travis’s gruff voice, “Long as I pay the rent, this door stays unlocked, you hear?”

Some nights he’d sit on the edge of her bed, rubbing her back. Others he’d say, “Roll over.”

Her mother, beat from double shifts at the diner, slept deeply in the other room. Carly wanted to cry out, but would her mom blame her? Had she done something to make Travis think this was okay? She stopped washing her hair and shaving her legs. She wore looser clothes and stayed as far from him as their small place would allow. Still his wolfish, roaming eyes found her.

Carly’s head pounds as she blinks away the image of Travis’s mouth looming above hers. Her stomach fills with that familiar ache.

“So, like, he molested you?” J.P. makes a face like he’s tasted something vile and wants to spit it out. Carly thinks of the wasabi and all her other mistakes. “Did you try to stop him? Did you tell your mom?”

“That’s why you have those nightmares—because of him. Because of what he did.” Clem stretches to place a hand on Carly’s, then turns to J.P. “She wakes up screaming. Like a lot.”

“Maybe it’s ‘cause she murdered a dude,” J.P. throws up his hands.

“I didn’t have a choice,” Carly says.

Clem and J.P go silent. She doesn’t know what she expected—empathy, support, respect?

“How old were you?” J.P. frowns.

“Fourteen.”

Clem gasps.

“And you never got caught?” J.P. shakes his head. “No one suspected you?”

“He’d hurt his shoulder playing high school football. He took a lot of pain meds. Drank like a fish. He had a bunch of debt, an ex-wife, a little boy he never saw. People figured he did it on purpose.”

“And you let them think that?” J.P. rears back.

Carly nods. Guilt and humiliation well up inside her, a rising tide so powerful, it chokes her. She’s sorry she told them. The high of her disclosure disappears as swiftly as it arrived. In its place is the shame that she shouldn’t have to carry. He—Travis—was the one who was wrong. So wrong. He started it and he had to be stopped. No one else was going to help her.

“That’s fucked up.” J.P. holds her gaze, smirking and nodding not with admiration or reverence, but because he’s got something on her.

Beyond the window, a bird calls. A warning.

As J.P.’s eyes narrow and gleam in the low light, Carly sees her miscalculation.

J.P. is the hawk circling, the thing that will pick her bones clean.

I stop the audiobook.

“Time for that Q&A, Molly.”

Chapter 53

Molly

“Iwish we had more people here—that this was a true book club—because there’s so much to talk about or what’s that new buzzword? ‘Unpack.’ Yes, so much to unpack.”

She’s too close. My skin crawls. I try to move. There’s nowhere to go. My muscles won’t work.

“I think it would start a really interesting discussion. For example, did your guilt eat away at you or did you simply run out of other ideas?”

I’m fading. Whatever she put in the wine is dropping me down a deep dark well. I’m going under but trying to fight through it. I bite the insides of my cheek to stay conscious.

Words, dialogue, hers and the characters, come in and out. It’s like falling asleep with the television on. I try to push myself up but I’m weak. My body isn’t following the signals sent by my brain. But I have to try. She knows where my children are. I need to get out of this room.

Darren’s warning, Sonny’s words loop through my mind. Why did I come here?

I can picture this woman in front of me at the funeral all those years ago. A small child hiding behind her mother’s skirt. I was a teenager. I remember thinking we had things in common. Our moms crying beside us. We’d both lost our dads. I didn’t want to stare at her too long. She’d looked so much like him.

In the car on the ride home from the cemetery, Mom wept softly. I expected her to say something to me like, “Whatever happens next, Molly, we’re in this together. I’m here. I’ve got you.” All she’d said was, “Waterproof mascara—what a joke.”

Mom recovered quickly. I remember she went to the bar that night with a handful of mourners. She had a new boyfriend within weeks.

“You’re …” God, what is her name? Nina? Nora? Nadia? “Nadine. Nadine Fowler, Trent’s daughter.”

“That’s not how this works,” she tsks. “I ask the questions. But, yes. Surprise! It’s me.”

She pokes her tongue in the side of her cheek, the way her father would when he’d open my bedroom door, lean against the wall, switch off the light. My stomach lurches at the memory.

“Would you have come if you knew my real name?”

I shake my head. With my thick, dry tongue, it’s a struggle to speak.

“Okay, let’s begin—which do you think is the worst part: That you murdered my father? That you’re profiting from it? Or that you made him out to be a sex offender to try to justify your crime?”

Her face twists into something hideous as she makes slow deliberate slashes through the wicker hamper.

“If anyone’s sick, Molly, it’s you! You are clearly a disturbed individual.”

M.J. is clearly a disturbed individual. She’s the one who left that review. She’s NAD, not Dan.

In one quick jerk of her wrist, she pulls the knife from the tattered hamper and presses its cold steel blade against my neck. I shut my eyes tight against its glinting silver. I’m scared to look at her.

“I—I—I didn’t do anything.” Words tumble out now, fast, panicked. “Other than write a story— a story I made up.” It’s hard to breathe. Invisible hands squeeze my lungs. My skin prickles the way it did when Trent’s hands lifted my nightshirt. I can’t think about that now. I need to focus, stay grounded, present, in the room. It’s my only way out. If I give in, it’s over.

“Your—your dad died in a fire.” I will reason with her. Maybe no one told her the details. She was just a child. “He was smoking near gasoline and he fell asleep and dropped his cigarette and he—”

“Did he, Molly?”

She holds the knife beneath my chin again, tilting my head up so I’m forced to look at her.

“Or did you do that? Did you torch him? Burn him alive?”

The centers of her giant eyes are wide, black holes.

“My dad was a good man. He made some mistakes but he was coming back to us. Did you know that?”

Her voice goes soft, weepy but only for a second before it turns sharp as the razors she’s eyeing on the lip of the tub. “He called Mama and told her he was sick of Patsy always whining about money. He wasn’t a fan of yours either.”

The knife makes it hard to speak but I try. “Your dad was a good man.” Tears slide down my cheeks as I choke on the words. If I say them as if they’re true, will she believe me? “He’s not Travis—Travis is just a character. You know that, right? None of it’s real.”

“Did you actually think you’d get away with it? You barely disguised the name. Travis instead of Trent? A different type of death, a stepfather instead of a boyfriend. You gave him a son instead of a daughter. You couldn’t stand being some unknown, overlooked author, so you took the one story you had, the one thing you’d ever done that made you different from everybody else and you twisted it to turn yourself into some kind of hero.” Her voice is loud, piercing. Where are her neighbors? “You defiled him to absolve yourself!”

“Travis isn’t your … it’s not real. It’s a story. It’s fiction. There’s a disclaim …”

“I see you, Molly. What you did. Who you are. This is your confession. All this time I believed it was a terrible accident, and I don’t know why, but that made it seem … not okay … but inevitable. Like fate. But it wasn’t fate. It was you.”

I shake my head. No, no, no.

“Mama was never right after that. She clung to me. We did everything, went everywhere, together.” She leans close. I shut my eyes. Her stale breath hits my face. “I never had my own life. You destroyed it, and now I’m going to end yours.” She pulls the knife back.

I’m drifting. Fear is not enough to keep me awake. I lower my heavy head to the bathmat. Its fuzzy threads tickle my nose like Snowy’s tail did weeks ago when Dan was my most dangerous enemy. I’ll close my eyes … just for a second … then I’ll open them and …

Chapter 54

Anna

“Does this remind you of Carly dumping the eel in the elevator?” I ask Molly but she’s out cold.

Finally. She put up a decent fight, battling to stay awake.

I should’ve used horse tranquilizers instead of Xanax, but I know Molly’s got a prescription. She said so on that podcast. Dr. Merton wrote me the script for the ones I put in Molly’s wine. I told the doctor I was expecting a houseguest and the thought was making me so jittery I couldn’t sleep.

Molly’s bottle is in her purse. She’s so predictable. I spill out a handful and flush them, then I stick the knife inside the vanity beside my phone. Trudy’s sent another text. I should’ve blocked her weeks ago.

Molly is light, maybe one hundred and ten, one hundred and twenty pounds. “A bag of bones,” I can hear Mama say. Maybe I’ll write a book one day about all of this and that’ll be the title. Probably already taken. She Had It Coming would work too. That’s the sentence I hear Mama repeat inside my head as I drag Molly through the hall and living room, into the kitchen, toward the side door. It’s dusk, the sky a mix of silver, pink, and purple. The garage is its own freestanding unit, set maybe twenty feet from the house. I made sure to pick a place where it wasn’t connected.

I poke my head outside in case my neighbors are riding bikes or jogging by.

The garage’s back door is propped open by a rock. I swing it wide with my foot and step inside. A boom sounds nearby. Backyard fireworks. I drop Molly’s limp body on the concrete floor. I brace for her to wake. She doesn’t. I unlock the truck door and lift her into the cab. One of her arms flops around at an unnatural angle. It better not be broken.

I hop up to sit beside her and buckle her in.

“You’re not going anywhere, Molly,” I whisper. “This is how your story ends.”

I slide the key into the ignition. What if the engine doesn’t turn over? What then?

Before moving here, I had the truck towed to a mechanic.

“Needs a lot more than just the battery,” he said. “You’re years overdue for an inspection and it’ll never pass with the exhaust like this.”

“Just get it running. When I can afford the rest of the repairs, I’ll come back.”

“If you get pulled over …” He looked me up and down and let out a patronizing whistle.

I stopped listening. I knew what he was getting at: You’re not pretty enough to flirt your way out of a ticket.

“All right, Mama, let’s finish this.” I close my eyes and turn the key. The engine starts up with a whine and a wheeze. Charcoal-colored puffs of smoke cloud the garage windows.

Molly’s resting peacefully. I’m doing her a favor. It’s terrible to go through life burdened by a secret. Knowing that I caused Mama’s accident has been brutal.

I close the truck door gently as I can and lock it. I shut the garage’s back door behind me and lock that too.

It’s strange knowing she’s in there, engine going, cooking like a Thanksgiving turkey.

I sealed the windows with duct tape. Still, there’s the faint odor of exhaust fumes. It’s more the noise, the steady rumble that sets off little nervous sparks inside my chest. What if a neighbor comes by?

There are fireworks behind the high school tonight, postponed from getting rained out on July Fourth. The show will start once it’s dark but most people probably headed over there early. Get a good spot on the lawn, crack open a beer, catch up with the neighbors while they wait. Anyone who hears a truck idling will be too preoccupied to care.

In the backyard, I lower myself into a plastic Adirondack chair. I’m tucked behind the house, but I can keep an eye on the garage from here.

Molly’s phone beeps in my pocket. I unlock it and read the message from someone called Gavin.

Kids are tucked in. Patsy’s killing me at gin rummy.

She’s got someone babysitting her kids and her mom. Not a bad idea after Patsy was stumbling around the bushes last night thinking I was a cat. Sad.

The phone pings again.

I can’t take the suspense! Who is Anna Fox??

So Molly really had no clue what she was walking into. It proves my point—she never thought about anyone but herself. The arrogance. Sure, she moved and changed her name but did she think no one would put it together? Mine’s not the only life she ruined, I’m sure of it.

I reread the text. How would she answer this? I skim the other messages they’ve traded. Considering Molly’s a writer, they’re pretty dull. I have to respond. The last thing I need is him coming over to check on her.

Long story. Her dad dated my mom. She’s given me a lot to think about.

I hit send, hoping he goes away.

Quite the cliffhanger. I’d expect nothing less! Back soon-ish?

“Sorry, Gavin, she’s not coming back. Ever.” The engine’s steady chugging provides a nice soundtrack. It’s comforting, almost like clothes tumbling inside a dryer. A squirrel sniffs at the side door and darts away. “Good thinking,” I tell it and turn my attention back to the phone.

Might be late. If I’m not back by 10, you can go. We’ll catch up tomorrow.

I add a heart emoji.

He gives it a thumbs up.

Scrolling between apps, I find her Instagram. Her last reel—scenes from the children’s museum—is a total snoozefest but she’s got a bunch of DMs and tons of likes.

I press the plus sign to add a new post and her camera roll opens. Photos from this trip fill the grid. I click on a shot of her kids eating grilled cheeses around the wooden table in Patsy’s kitchen, a blurry one of tropical fish, then Patsy and the children licking ice cream cones, and last, a selfie of Molly sitting between two guys, pint glasses raised. Is one of them Gavin?

Picking photos is the easy part. The writing will be the challenge. It has to sound like Molly. I’ve listened to enough of her podcasts and read her words so many times I should be able to mimic her voice in my sleep.

I remember something she once said in an interview. “The real writing comes in the rewriting.”

I begin.

This week I traveled to my hometown and spent time with my mom. Then I visited someone I knew long ago—someone whose life I ruined. Are you ready for a plot twist?

Too much? Probably.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see something move, a flash of color. I brace myself and lift my head. It’s only a cardinal. I exhale, read what I’ve typed, delete the last sentence, and start again.

True confession: Birds at Night isn't entirely a work of fiction. I did some things—some terrible things—when I was a teenager and I tried to justify them in the pages of that book. I killed a man—a good, decent man. I hurt his family. I’ve lived with that guilt all these years. It’s eaten away at me. I thought in writing this novel, I’d exorcise those demons, but they only grew louder and I can’t go on like this any longer. Mom, Isaac, Ingrid, please forgive me. Most of all, my deepest apologies to this young woman I robbed of a father and an entirely different life. You deserved so much better.

Tougher than I expected but I think I nailed it. I reread it and debate between “young woman” and using my name. No, I’ll stick with it as is. I don’t need the attention. Let her fans and internet sleuths have some fun trying to track me down.

In the advanced settings, I schedule this to post at eight a.m. By then, I’ll be long gone. My bags are in the trunk of my Sentra. Do I visit Keith first or Cheryl? They’ve been apartment shopping. I watched a reel Cheryl shared last weekend. A quick tour of a walk-up in Gramercy Park. She’s a lawyer. I know where she works and the little place on the corner where she gets her afternoon lattes. Quite the upgrade for Keith—from a disgraced library volunteer to a corporate attorney. But when he sees me again, he’ll remember our connection. I’m sure of it.

After Molly is found, the police will catch up with me eventually. They’ll have questions. Why was she here? Why did I give her a fake name? I’ll tell them I invited her because I wanted to ask her about her story. I created Anna Fox because Molly probably wouldn’t agree to see Nadine Fowler after making that thinly-veiled confession in her book. I’ll tell them she admitted to murdering my dad. I’ll say she started to cry and revealed the pressure of her new life was too much. She’d gotten hooked on pills. I tried to help her, I’ll say. I told her there was nothing we could do now. Nothing would bring Daddy back. Forgive yourself, is what I’ll tell the cops I said to her. I’ll add that after our talk I left for New York, looking for comfort from my boyfriend Keith following this difficult conversation.

I’ll admit it’s a lot to process, but as Mama loved to say, “The truth is often stranger than fiction.”

I need to head into the house to get my phone. I want to at least try calling Keith so there’s a record of it.

As I push off the armrest to stand, the cracked plastic of the lawn chair pinches my fingers. It distracts me for a second but then I hear it. The engine. Louder than before. Why? How? My mind goes blank. What is happening? The back door is still closed.

I rush around to the front of the garage, where smoke pours out in angry, dark clouds.

Did Molly wake up? Get out of the truck? I whirl around. She’s nowhere in sight.

Someone is coughing inside the garage.

“Hello? Hello!” There’s a high-pitched whine.

As the exhaust fog clears, I see them—Trudy and her fucking dog.

“Anna? Anna!” She’s tugging at the driver’s side door. She must think I’m in there.

My heart pounds as gasoline fumes and smoke assault my nostrils.

“What are you doing here?” I shout.

She spins toward me, her eyes wild and confused. “Oh, Anna, thank God.” She looks as ridiculous as always in navy Bermuda shorts and a red and white gingham blouse with balloon sleeves. “I came by to see if you want to go to the fireworks with Drew and me. You didn’t answer my texts. When I heard the car and saw the door down, I was afraid you …”

I can’t help it, I keep glancing back to the truck, to the cab. I need Molly to stay in there. I need Trudy gone.

“Anna?” She repeats.

Why is she here? Why now? The engine keeps chugging as the dog whimpers and whines at her feet. I can’t think. Why didn’t I read her messages and text her back?

She follows my gaze and returns to the driver’s side window.

“Anna?” Her pale face morphs from concern to pure panic. “Is someone in there? Oh my God.” She cups her eyes to the glass and knocks frantically.

I’ve gotten this far. I will not let her ruin it. “Get away from there,” I roar.

“Anna?” Her expression changes. She’s seeing me—really seeing me—for the first time. She’s piecing it together. The woman in the car is there on purpose. Because I put her there. “Anna?”

The dog runs back and forth between us, jumping, scratching at the hubcaps. “Get down!” I screech.

“Lou, come here.” Trudy pats her leg, her cheeks flushed with fear. “Anna,” she says so timidly I almost don’t hear her over the engine. “We have to turn off the car. We have to help this lady.”

“No! Go! Leave! Now!”

She steps closer, crossing and uncrossing her arms, tucking her hair behind her ears with her perfect pink bubble gum nails. “Remember that patron who was sleeping in the children’s room and we had to deal with it? It was hard but we did it. Together. We can do this now. We have to.”

She’s all calm and reasonable, like a hostage negotiator.

“No!” I wheel around and tug the large door down, twisting the handle hard to lock it.

“Anna! No!” She spins around, grabs a rake, and jabs the wooden end hard at the window. It makes a dull thunk. “We have to get her out. Now! Do you have a spare key? Where is it?” Trudy’s voice is shrill, hysterical now. She’s losing it.

So am I.

“No!” I spit. “Get out.” I point to the back door. “Go!”

She pulls out her phone.

I lunge and knock it from her hands. It flies over the hood of the truck. The dog yelps and scratches at my legs. I barely feel it through the denim of my overalls.

She steps toward me. I shove her off. She hits the truck’s cab so hard I hear her teeth rattle over the engine’s rumble. She adjusts her jaw, takes a second to right herself, then charges at me. I push her back again. The dog barks and growls.

Tears swim in Trudy’s eyes, her features twisted. “Why are you doing this?” She stares at me with such disgust, such loathing. I’ve gotten that many times before. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m not the monster. She is!” I point to the truck’s cab.

“So tell the police. Let her out!” Trudy pleads. “Let me out.”

“No!”

Her eyes shift to the axe on the wall behind me. She darts forward and I kick her hard in the shin.

It does something. Her eyes get small, hard. With both hands and every ounce of strength, she drives me backward, throws me up against the wall where the tools and garden supplies hang.

I see it before I understand what’s happened. Blood sprays Trudy’s face, dotting her Peter Pan collar, turning the white checkered squares of her blouse reddish pink. Her eyes are enormous. Their black centers widen in slow motion. Her mouth forms an open circle.

Then I feel it—the piercing stab, blood and air rushing out of me, my chest bursting like a balloon. Shock.

I try to move but I’m pinned in place. I can’t lift my arms.

Trudy backs away, gagging as she covers her mouth. She steps on Lou’s paw. A howl fills the garage. Trudy reaches the large door, dog on her heels, and opens it to the warm dark night. She is in the driveway, her face flooded a ghostly white beneath the sensor light.

I’m here and I’m not. Inside the garage, the truck coughs out exhaust. But I’m also floating above it, watching from the rafters. Beside Trudy and the dog, a crowd gathers. Boys bouncing basketballs in the driveway.

“Holy shit, dude.” They gape at me, at the blood pooling at my feet. The metal points of the garden shears—are they poking through my chest, my ribs? I can’t look down.

“Call 911!” Trudy pleads.

She’s going to help me. I will tell her everything. She loves a good story—one you can learn from. I learned so much. Has Molly?

The light is fading. I’m fighting to stay awake. Is this how Molly felt in the bathroom? Is she still alive? No. She can’t be.

Sirens mix with the thunder of fireworks.

The garage walls flash red and blue, red and blue. Men, women, uniforms storm the driveway.

“She’s in there!” Trudy’s crying now. She's not pointing to me. She’s directing them to the truck.

“No!” I scream, but nothing comes out.

A person stands on each side of me, pulling me down from the wall. Someone else is wrenching the truck’s door open. “No!” Again, the sound is only in my head.

I’m lowered onto a stretcher on my side. Rolled to the driveway.

Sirens wail. Closer. Closer.

Overhead, colors bursts—gold, red, green. Fireworks.

Trudy sits on the lawn, blood-freckled face in her palms. Professor Hotness drapes his arm around her. The little dog squats on his hind legs, front paws swiping at the air.

I picture Mama tumbling down the stairs, her arms flailing, clutching for the banister.

I see her now, extending her hand the way she did when she’d pull me into her lap. I hear her voice, soft, like it was back when I was small. I’d forgotten how gentle, how kind it could be.

“I’ll tell you a story,” she whispers, “then we’ll rest.”

Chapter 55

Molly

I’m floating up from a dark bad dream. In it, I was underwater, gulping for air, gasping, fighting to break the glassy surface.

I’m awake, I think, but still struggling to breathe. My head throbs. I hear moaning. It’s coming from me.

“Molly … Molly …”

Something brushes my arm and I flinch.

“It’s okay, Molly. You’re safe. We’ve got you.”

I don’t recognize the voice. My eyelids are impossibly heavy. I force one half-open. Everything is blurry but I know this isn’t my bedroom. Not the one at my home or Mom’s. Turning my head takes all my strength. Beside the bed a woman stands in … pajamas? No. Scrubs.

I swallow. My throat is scratchy as sandpaper. I try to speak but a mask covers my face. With a weak arm, I reach for it. The woman curls her cold fingers around my hand and places it back by my side.

I shrink at her touch.

“Don’t try to talk. Just rest. You’ve been through it, girl!”

Both my eyes are open now. I blink at the tubes and machines.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” the woman asks.

The question is so familiar. Nadine asked me that too. The machine next to my head beeps faster.

“I’m Sarah Sealy. Well, Sarah Simmons now. You were in my chem class junior year.”

I nod though I have no memory of her.

“I read your book. Loved it!” She puts a clamp on the tip of my finger, testing something—my pulse, oxygen level? “Guess you’ve got the plot for your next one now!” She whispers, widening her blue eyes before she turns to a computer perched on a cart and starts to type. “Everyone’s saying what happened to you is like straight out of that movie Misery. Remember that one? With James Caan. I always get him and Ed Harris mixed up.”

Nadine Fowler's face flashes through my mind. The last time I saw her, I was on her bathroom floor, fearing for my life—my children.

As if she can read my mind, the nurse pivots back to me. “Your husband’s here with your kids. Oh my gosh, Molly, they’re adorable. And your mom’s here too. I don’t know if you’re up for visitors. Moms never get much peace on a good day, am I right? I’ve got twins—a boy and a girl—just turned thirteen, so I get it. Anyway, we can hold the whole crew out there ’til you tell us you’re ready.”

Husband? She must mean Gavin.

I try to sit up.

“Don’t, honey. You’ve got a broken clavicle—that’s your collarbone. You probably know that. Just rest.”

Then she says, “Oh, and Gavin’s here. He looks amazing. I told him he should plan a reunion.” Her cheerful tone changes. “Some police officers are here too. They want to talk to you about the …” Her voice trails off.

I arch my eyebrows. The machine’s beeping quickens in time with my thumping heart.

“The murder? The death? I don’t know how they’re classifying it.”

My skin’s alive with goosebumps, eyes pleading with her to say more.

“Okay, wow, you look totally confused! You don’t remember much, do you?” She shakes her head. “That’s probably for the best. Crazy lady had you trapped in her garage. She got impaled on some garden shears, bled out on her way here. Oh, and you’ll love this—a local librarian saved you!”

What? I shut my eyes. It’s all too much.

“That’s right. Just rest,” Sarah says again. “Plenty of time to sort it all out later.”

“Mommy!” Ingrid runs through the doorway. I must look awful because she stops midway to the bed, her shoulders bobbing up and down, lower lip quivering. I stretch a hand toward her and try to nod, reassuringly. Isaac appears behind her, slow, tentative. Dan follows, his palms on our son’s shoulders. Dan is here.

“Hey,” he says. “Sorry, I was taking them to the bathroom and Ingrid went rogue.” He stops and studies me, his face softening. “Gavin called me. I hope you don’t mind—I wanted to be here for the kids … and you.”

I blink a “Thanks.”

Making peace with my appearance, Ingrid moves closer. “Your hair’s crazy, Mommy!” She bounces on her toes. “Daddy got Snowy back!”

“She must’ve gotten out. My neighbor took her in, thought she was a stray.” Dan smiles. “She’s really filled out.” He clears his throat. “Anyway, sorry about … all that before.” Dan waves it off like accusing me of stealing his cat is nothing. And compared to everything else I’ve been accused of, it is.

“I’ll give you a few minutes.” Sarah wheels her cart toward the door. “The doctor will be in shortly.”

“Daddy said we can see Snowy when we go home! Can we go today?”

I smile, exhausted but glad to see my daughter so happy, to see her at all, really, after thinking I might not get that chance again.

Isaac’s forehead crinkles. “Did that book club lady really try to kill you?”

“Your mom’s had the news on all morning.” Dan shakes his head. “I told them you’re going to be just fine.”

Isaac steps closer and takes my hand.

I remove the mask for a moment. “I’m good, love.” My voice is weak, raspy. “Don’t worry. No one’s going to hurt me.” I rub Isaac’s chin.

“There was also this bizarre post on Instagram.” Dan frowns. “Gavin caught it and your clever assistant here unlocked your phone and I deleted it.”

Isaac beams as Dan claps his shoulder.

“Hello?” Mom appears in the doorway, looking smaller, more stooped, as if she’s aged years overnight.

She shuffles toward me, eyes watery. Despite the wires and my mask, she finds a way to put her arms around me. Her face close to mine, she whispers in my ear, words I’ve waited decades to hear.

Chapter 56

Molly

“Iguess I’ll never get you to move back here now, will I?” Gavin jokes.

He, Darren, and I stand in the shade of a sycamore tree on Mom’s lawn saying goodbye. Dan will drive the kids and me to New York.

“Maybe next time you can visit me?” I give them each a long hug. I’m so grateful that Darren hasn’t said, “I told you so,” but the fact that he’s refrained only proves how close I came.

Once they’re gone, Dan puts our bags in the trunk of my car and we tell Mom we’ll see her soon.

I got in touch with Heather and let her out of the lease. Knowing that Nadine was not only watching the house but also inside it was enough to convince Mom to leave her home. Over the next few months, she’ll move into the cottage. That way, I can keep an eye on her and if she needs more help we’ll manage it.

It’s quiet for much of the way as endless stretches of highway unspool before us. I’m still in shock, struggling to process how this seemingly simple trip took such a frightening turn. Most of all, I’m grateful to be heading home.

“Hey,” Dan breaks the silence once the kids are asleep, “I just want to say I’m really sorry for the way I behaved a few weeks ago, accusing you of taking Snowy and possibly hurting Heather.” He looks over at me. “I hear how dumb this sounds but I read your book and I started thinking if you could dream all that up, maybe you were capable of those other things. I know you really don’t like to talk about your past. All that messed with my head. Does that mean I’m as nuts as Nadine Fowler?”

Her name makes me shiver.

“I guess it’s not that much different from typecasting an actor, right? You start to believe a person is the thing they create. But thank you for the apology,” I glance over my shoulder at Isaac and Ingrid, their skin tan and golden, the sun sinking behind us, “and for flying out to be there for me and the kids.”

“Of course.” Dan changes lanes and we’re on to the next highway, that much closer to home.

I stare out the window, thinking about how art and life intertwine. Dan and Nadine aren’t the only ones who think an author is writing about herself and they won’t be the last. I try to put that out of my mind.

One thing that bothered me was the name she used—Anna Fox. Where did it come from? Nadine was right. If she’d told me her real name, I never would’ve met with her.

While going through her home, police found a series of little storybooks about a fox named Anna who solved small crimes, illustrated by a Keith Olsen. Keith came forward to say he dated Nadine for a while before he moved to New York. He’d grown increasingly worried about her mental health, he said.

I need to stop thinking about her and yet what I’ve made it through—what I’ve survived—has lit a fire in me. The fear, the terror I felt in that bathroom, if I can channel it into my work, my story will be stronger. This whole brutal ordeal won’t have been for nothing.

“Do you mind if I …” I hold up my earbuds and phone.

“No, sure, go for it.” Dan says. “What are you gonna listen to?”

“A relaxation app.”

I’m lying. I’ve queued up the final chapter of Birds at Night. If I told Dan the truth he’d say I shouldn’t think about work so soon, that it’ll only add to my stress, slow my healing. But I’m mulling a new idea for the sequel and this will help.

I pop in my earbuds, tilt my phone away from Dan, and recline my seat.

The air between 512 and 514 is thick with tension and lingering marijuana funk. Days after Carly’s birthday, Clem invites her into her room to try a new green juice her mom sent in this week’s care package. It’s supposed to taste like mint iced tea and boost energy and focus.

“We’ll see about that,” Clem says skeptically as she spoons the powder into matching lavender water bottles. After tightening the lids, she shakes vigorously and hands one to Carly. Gesturing for Carly to take the desk chair, Clem crosses to the edge of her bed and sits, one leg tucked beneath her.

“So, don’t freak out,” Clem takes a sip, blanches, and continues, “but J.P. and I were talking, you know, about the other night and we think … well, J.P. especially … thinks you need to tell someone about what happened to you.”

Carly stiffens. She highly doubts J.P. is concerned for her mental health.

Clem sets the bottle on the carpet and lowers her voice. “And about what you did.”

Carly’s heart revs like a chainsaw. Her tongue feels thick as a fat pink eraser. For a moment she can’t speak. Tears sting behind her eyes. “I did what I had to do.”

When Clem says nothing, Carly adds, “I thought you would get that.”

“What does that mean?” Clem rears back.

“After what happened in here.” Carly points to the bed. She won’t say the eel’s name. She fears if she does, she’ll lose Clem, and she needs her now more than ever. “You believe me, right?”

“Of course I believe you!” Clem rises a little, almost standing, for emphasis. “Totally. Other people will too. What you did was badass and brave, but you shouldn’t have to live with a secret that huge. You’re crying out, screaming in your sleep. This secret is poisoning you.”

Carly closes her eyes. She sees her stepfather entering her bedroom, feels the rough scrape of his fingers on her neck. The weight of him on top of her. A different type of poison.

“Your conscience is telling you what to do, Car,” Clem continues in a soft voice. “You need help. You deserve it and J.P. says your stepfather’s family deserves to know what really happened to him. He had an uncle who disappeared while he was on a hunting trip. It’s haunted J.P.’s dad for decades.”

Carly’s palms sweat despite the chill coming off the bottle she’s gripping with both hands. She wants to say it’s J.P.’s uncle’s fault for making a sport of killing defenseless animals, but words jumble and clog her throat. “That’s … no. No,” is all she can manage.

“You’ll get a lawyer. You’ll make it right and then you’ll move on with your life.” Clem shrugs.

A headache is spreading from temple to temple. Carly squeezes the bottle until her fingers ache. “It doesn’t work like that. People don’t believe women. We’re punished for speaking up, for telling the truth.”

“J.P. said you’d say that and he told me to tell you that the truth will set you free.”

“What?” As Carly’s voice rises, she hears the desperation in it, undermining her, making her sound hysterical, but she can’t dial it down.

“He said it’s in the Bible. I forget where.” Clem idly braids her long wavy hair.

Carly knows the truth will not set her free. It will land her in jail. She’ll lose her scholarship, her entire future.

“He wants you to tell someone,” Clem bites her lower lip, “or he says he will.”

“No.” Carly shakes her head, her chest rising and falling. Inside her head, above the pounding of blood echoing in her ears “Fuck!” plays on repeat.

“J.P. doesn’t care about justice or my stepdad’s family. Don’t you remember what he said to me? ‘Did you try to stop him? Did you tell your mom?’ He hates me. He wants me gone.”

“That’s not true.” Clem scrunches up her face, confused. "Why would you say that?”

“Because he knows.”

Clem’s perfect feathery eyebrows knit together. “Knows what?”

“That I love you, okay, that I fucking love you … as a friend and probably more.” Carly buries her tingling face in her hands.“And J.P., he knows—”

Clem abandons the braid, sweeps her hair to one side, and blows out a long exhale. “This is—that’s not what I was expecting you to say.”

Clem’s phone beeps. Carly wills her not to look at it, to stay with her, to finish this part of the conversation, to say that she feels the same, that she’ll go back to J.P. and tell him to fuck off and leave them alone.

As Clem slides the phone out of her pocket, Carly’s heart plunges. She pictures the small fist-sized organ dropping through The Carthage’s rotting floorboards, sinking all the way to the musty basement, landing with a wet thwack.

“It’s J.P.,” Clem says without looking up. “He’s coming by in a bit to pick me up for that bonfire thing and I have to turn in a paper then take today’s pics … so…”

Each afternoon at dusk, Clem returns to the roof to photograph the birds and the slow-blooming spring that has finally reached their chilly mountaintop campus. Clem plans to submit them for her Women Behind the Lens class’s final project. She’s hoping she’ll have enough for a show back in California this summer. Possibly at a gallery. Maybe even sell a few.

What must it be like to have that level of confidence, Carly wonders.

“Think about what I said, okay? ‘Cause J.P’ll probably bring it up tonight.” Clem stands, her cue for Carly to leave.

Is Clem going to just ignore this confession—the feelings she just shared, the way she laid her soul bare?

“Think about what I said too, okay?” Carly stands and moves closer to Clem, who steps back.

“You’ve been a good friend to me,” Clem cocks her head, “but I think after this year, you know, you’ll do the RA thing and I’ll live with the 530s.” She swaps her thumb ring from one hand to the other. “Maybe it’s best if we go our separate ways?”

An ache filling her stomach, Carly heads back into 512. This can’t be happening. As she paces, the walls of her room seem to be closing in. She stares out the window, an idea forming in her mind: She’ll go to the roof.

Hours later, she’s on her bed, an anxious hum thrumming through every limb. Since her birthday, since the game of Truth or Dare, she’s been struggling to concentrate. She records her classes with her phone, hoping that listening to them later will help her absorb the lessons.

She’s wearing headphones as Dr. Lawrence discusses mitochondria and its meaning in cell development when J.P. appears in the doorway separating her room from Clem’s.

“Where’s our girl?” He raises his voice to be heard over her headphones or just to be a dick.

Carly says nothing. She sits up and stares him down.

“Did Clem tell you what I said?” J.P. asks.

“Why don’t you worry about yourself?” Carly sneers.

“My life is actually pretty perfect. So I have the time.” He smirks. “Now you’re gonna tell the cops what you did by Saturday, or I will.” He tucks his chin then breaks out his finger guns. “Got it, gangsta?”

Carly hugs her knees to her chest. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I can.” He shakes his head. “Now where is she?”

“Rooftop.” She heard Clem’s closet door squeak open and shut. She keeps her camera, the Ricoh GR III, on the top shelf.

“Isn’t your iPhone just as good?” J.P. has teased her.

“Why don’t you make that call now so I don’t have to?” he says. “Think of how good you’ll feel once you get it off your flat chest?” He laughs then walks out as quietly as he entered.

Carly waits one, three, then five minutes. She takes the stairs two at a time, the climb to the roof gets her heart pumping, adrenaline flooding her veins.

The heavy steel door is propped open by a rock. A cool wind smacks her face as she steps outside. Her eyes scan the area. She can only see J.P. Where is Clem?

In front of him. Her back pressed to his chest, his arms around her. Her long locks float and fly in the breeze. They stand at the railing, exactly where Carly imagined they’d be, lost in each other, in their own secret world, one where she doesn’t fit.

Clem bends her right elbow. She’s raising the camera to her eye.

Carly hears the click of the shutter, the tinkle of Clem’s laughter, her soft voice saying, “Look!” With her left hand, she’s pointing to something in the tree.

The eggs have hatched. The babies chirp, their bright beaks comprising most of their bodies. Clem’s calling her series Birds at Night.

Soon they’ll fly off, leave the nest. How far will they get? Will their lives be easier or more difficult?

Carly thinks about her own next stop. In May, she’ll return to the apartment she shares with her mother and her mom’s boyfriend-of-the-month. She can see it all: the holes in the window screens letting in mosquitoes, her mom at the end of the day soaking her feet in a roasting pan filled with Epsom salts while they eat dinner. Carly will babysit for her high school guidance counselor, the one who helped her get the scholarship.

What seemed bleak hours ago, before Clem and J.P. made their threats, now sounds like heaven. The simplicity of it.

She didn’t want to come up here earlier with the screwdriver the janitor left in her bathroom after he changed a lightbulb. But what choice does she have? Do as J.P. says and lose her scholarship or worse? No. She weighed her options as she further loosened the railings, stopping every once in a while to look at the jagged rocks below, her stomach cratering at the sheer depth of the drop.

She’s a scientist after all. She has calculated the various outcomes. None are good, but this—this is the one that yields the best results, for her.

Carly walks backward away from them. She needs a long runway.

Clem is turning now. On tiptoes with eyes closed, she stretches to place her lips on J.P.’s.

Carly’s heart hammers in her chest. Her feet are suddenly leaden. She kicks at the air, shakes out her hands like a track star before the gun goes off.

As the kiss ends, Clem spots Carly over J.P’s shoulder. Her open mouth widens, she’s about to speak. Carly’s body becomes a coiled spring, a live wire.

Charging at full speed, arms extended, locked, her palms meet J.P.’s broad, warm back with the full force of the years of rage she’s tamped down.

She must stop herself, pull herself up short, or she will go over the edge with them.

Clem’s eyes shine green and gorgeous in the golden light of sunset. But the look in them, the terror, the horror, as the railing gives way and they freefall, plummeting toward the sharp and pointy rocks below, is the memory of Clem’s face that Carly will forever carry.

She can’t look down. Instead, she admires the mother bird, neck raised, head swiveling, furtive, alert after the sudden burst of activity. Sensing the danger has passed, she settles with an elegant fanning of her feathers.

What must it feel like to have a parent who is willing to claw out a predator’s eyes for you? Carly wonders. She imagines it feels like love.

I pause the audio. Tears burn my eyes. I’ve tried to be strong for Isaac and Ingrid. If there is a single good thing that has come from all of this, it is Mom’s words at the hospital.

“Oh, Molly Jean,” she whispered. “I should’ve protected you.”

It is not much, but it is enough.

I wipe my eyes with my knuckle before Dan notices I’m crying. Then I restart the story.

Back in 512, Carly dry heaves into a wastebasket. She’s wiping her mouth when Rhys, J.P’s weed guy, appears in the doorway.

“Sounds like somebody’s partied a little too hard already.” He looks at his watch. “It’s not even seven.”

Carly says nothing.

He jerks his thumb over his shoulder toward 514. “Where’s the happy couple?”

Carly spits a wad of phlegm into a paper towel. “The bonfire.”

“You look like shit, by the way.” Rhys backs up.

“I’m—I’m okay. Big bio exam tomorrow. Pre-test jitters.”

“Happy to hook you up?” He pulls a small bag from his pocket.

It reminds Carly of Truth or Dare, her confession, the terrible decision that led to another. Her gut churns again. She covers her lips with her hand, the contents of her stomach swimming into her mouth.

“Dude, you are not okay.” Rhys’s nostrils flare as he retreats to 514. “I’ll come back later.”

Yes, Rhys will come back. Once Clem and J.P.’s deaths are ruled a tragic accident, Carly plays the role of the shocked, grieving friend. By fall, she’s transferred to another school, out west this time. Just when she thinks she’s gotten her life back on track, she finds an anonymous note in her mailbox: We need to talk.

The sequel will open with that line. Rhys will find her and tell her he remembers everything from her birthday. He thought he was dreaming in the bathtub, but he’s done some digging. He knows about her stepfather and he believes she killed Clem and J.P. to silence them. Rhys tries to blackmail Carly. An elaborate game of cat and mouse ensues.

By the time we’re in my driveway, I’ve plotted much of it in my mind. My body hums with excitement. Police officers found my journal among Nadine’s things. She’d been here. In my home. The thought sickens me and overshadows any joy I might’ve felt about getting my notes back. But I don’t need them now. I’ve got new, better ideas.

When we step out of the car, Dan says, “That must be one hell of a relaxation app, you look totally refreshed.”

Inside, the house feels warm, safe, familiar. Dan carries Ingrid to her bed and I walk behind a sleepy Isaac.

Back downstairs, I order an Uber to take Dan to his condo. We sit together on the front porch as we wait for the car to arrive.

“Thank you again for everything,” I say.

“Whatever’s gone down between us, Mol, you’re still the mother of my kids.” He rubs his eyes. “When Gavin called and told me what happened to you, it rocked me. I know we’ve had our share of disagreements, but I want the best for you and I hope you feel the same about me.”

“I do,” I say and mean it.

The car pulls up. We stand and exchange a not-so-awkward hug.

“Get some rest, okay.” Dan’s hand cups my cheek. “Call me if you or the kids need anything at all.”

I nod. Maybe this is a new chapter for us?

I watch the car back down the driveway and lock the door. I should be exhausted but instead of going to bed, I unpack my laptop and head into my office. The first thing I do is go to my website and delete the line about visiting book clubs. Then I check my email.

At the top of my inbox is a message from Georgia.

Hey Molly,

I know you’re probably hoping for a little downtime after everything but … Birds at Night is hotter than ever and I just got a request for you to join this award-winning podcast: Leave it to a Librarian. Typically, it features librarians who help track down obscure data and info for patrons but they’ve booked Trudy and, of course, they want you. What do you say?

I hit the reply arrow and then stop myself. Yes! has been my default setting for too long. Look where it got me. As the cursor flashes, I think about Trudy. She knows how grateful I am. I made a substantial donation to the Milltown library in her name and promised to dedicate my next book to her.

I type a quick message to Georgia telling her I can’t make the podcast but I’m happy to send a note for the host to share.

I need boundaries and privacy. Time with my family. Time to heal. Time to myself.

After all, I have a sequel to write.

Chapter 57

Evelyn

With trembling hands, I find his contact information in my phone. I don’t know who else to call. It’s been years since Mark and I were in touch, but I’ve kept his number just in case.

It’s after 2 a.m. here in New York so not quite midnight in California. He’s married now. A father of three. We’re “friends” on Facebook. Each year on the day after Thanksgiving, he posts an environmentally friendly holiday greeting, complete with a family photo.

I tap his number and pace my apartment, raking my hands through my hair. With each second that passes my thoughts spiral. A tornado gathering speed.

It rings once, twice more. If I get his voicemail, do I leave a message or end the call?

“Hey!”

I freeze. “Mark!”

“You’ve reached Mark. Leave a message.”

I double-over. The full force of his voice, like a cruel undertow, pulls me back to the darkest moments of my life. But I can’t go there now. I need to tell him.

“Mark? It’s Evelyn. Evie,” I correct myself. “I—I—”

This would be easier if he were there, if he’d picked up. It’s been twenty years. Why would I expect him to take my late-night call?

I breathe deeply through my nose, start again. “Mark, I just read this—this book.” A high-pitched panic floods my voice. I perch on the arm of the couch and force myself to continue slowly, carefully, so I don’t sound unhinged. “It’s the most disturbing thing I’ve ever read. I couldn’t put it down. I only just finished it. I had to be sure.”

I’m babbling, ruining this. The pressure of how to explain it—this thing we could never grasp. I have to get it right or he’ll think I’m drinking again. I was bombed at the memorial service. Then there was our drunken hook-up in the hotel coat room after the inaugural scholarships were awarded a year after their deaths. I remember his sad, handsome face, how I wiped his wet cheeks with someone else’s scarf.

A blink and a lifetime ago.

“My book club—” I’m not making sense. “I know this sounds crazy, but I think it’s about …” I swallow the lump rising in my throat “… them.”

I can’t bring myself to say their names aloud. I don’t have to. He’ll know.

“Please,” a sob escapes. “Call me when you get this.” I’m suddenly so tired, toppled by sadness and rage for everything we’ve lost. Not lost. Everything we had taken, stolen from us. I needed him to answer. I wanted to read him passages, listen to him gasp, have him confirm that this is an admission. A confession. That I’m not losing my mind.

“The author is M.J. Archer.” My voice speeds up. I sound frantic. I should hang up. Call back. Start again. I’ve been going on too long. The recording is going to cut me off. “But that’s not her real name! Her real name is—”

A tone sounds, signaling the call has ended.

“No!” I wail and rest my head on my knees. “No!”

I will gather myself. I will call back. I will say, “The author’s real name is Molly Mason. She was Peach’s roommate.”

Peach. My peach. I’d given my sister that nickname when she was a baby and covered in soft blond downy fuzz.

I will tell him, “I found her, Mark. I know where she lives.”

I stand, summoning what’s left of my strength, and redial. I need to get this out.

It doesn’t ring. Instead, an automated voice speaks, “The voice-mailbox is full and cannot accept new messages at this time. Goodbye.”

I step onto the wide front porch. Its worn wood planks creak beneath me. The welcome mat lies crooked, its cheerful cherries faded. Flowers, browned and hunchbacked, wither inside the planters that flank the double doors. Petunias? Begonias? They were probably lovely. When they were alive.

It’s dusk. A full moon rises behind me. No light inside. Still, it’s bright enough that when I press my face to the glass I can see an entry table, mail stacked, shoes jumbled in a pile, a couch and a pair of armchairs to the left.

Once I had the address, I scanned the old listing photos. I wanted to get the lay of the land, a feel for the house, its exits. That’s the right thing, the smart thing, to do.

It looked nicer online. Doesn’t everything?

My right hand hovers above the doorbell. In my left, is a bouquet of lilies. Peonies felt too on the nose. The book is tucked beneath my arm. Its weight steadies me. That’s all I need, really, but, of course, I brought other things too.

It’s time.

I take a deep breath, let the clean country air fill my lungs. Nearby, someone has cut the grass. My nose twitches at the sweetness of it.

I press the bell, its chime dulled, muted, either by the window panes or the ringing in my ears as I wait, wondering how this will go, what will happen from here.

Shadows shift behind the glass, movement. A figure comes toward me.

When I see her face, I nearly step back. She’s aged quite a bit, like someone who’s been through it. Haven’t we all, each in our own way?

Still, it’s been a particularly rough time for her.

It’s about to get a lot worse.

I wave the bouquet. Lilies, a funeral flower. Will she put that together?

She opens the door, wary eyes searching my face, then my t-shirt and matching baseball cap with a florist’s name. It’s amazing what you can design and buy online.

Her right arm is in a sling. “Can—can I help you?”

“Molly Archer?”

“Yes?”

I waited until her children were out. They’ve been through enough, I’m sure. Do they suspect their mother is a monster? I parked across the street in my rental car. From beneath the brim of my cap, I watched them leave with their father, pull away, the girl dangling a stuffed dog out the window.

“Special delivery.” I hold out the bouquet. It’s unnatural to smile but I manage it.

She looks groggy. The wine on her breath makes my mouth water. A reflex.

“Let me set these down for you.” I step forward, forcing her back.

With her good hand, she tucks a lock of greasy hair behind her ear.

“You don’t have—”

“Oh, but I do. Look at you, a bird with a broken wing.” I place the lilies on the entryway table.

“Let me just—” She rubs her face and looks around, for her purse no doubt.

I’m staring too long, too hard, trying to wrap my head around the fact that the answer to a question that’s haunted my family for two decades is standing three feet from me. This woman murdered my sister.

We’ve met before—for a minute when I was driving back to Brooklyn after spending a Thanksgiving weekend in Massachusetts. Peach wanted me to see her room so I climbed the five flights. No way I’d get in that rickety elevator. Molly was there; she left no impression.

She was at the funeral. But that was a terrible blur.

I follow her into the kitchen. Her purse sits on the island. She fishes out a five.

“That’s not necessary,” I say.

She stares longer too now, probably wondering why a delivery person would refuse a tip.

“I’d like something else actually.”

She notices the book under my arm.

“You want me to sign that? I suppose I could do it with my left—”

“No, don’t worry,” I snicker, “I’m not a fan.”

From the pocket of my cargo pants, I slide out the knife.

Chapter 58

Molly

“Evie.” I step back. “I’ve been expecting you.”

It was a gamble, writing this story. But it’s my story and my other novels had gone nowhere. I expected this one to suffer the same fate. Write without your agent or audience in mind, the pros tell you. Write for yourself. So I did. But then it took off.

“You didn’t even bother to change my name,” she hisses, saliva bubbling in the corners of her mouth, spit flying.

She wasn’t cut out for this. She and her sister had the world handed to them. Does she think she can come into my home and finish what that lunatic in Ohio started?

“Oh, Evie, this story isn’t going to end well for you either,” I’d like to tell her but she’ll learn soon enough.

Instead, I say, “That’s what’s bothering you? That I didn’t change your name? Would you have preferred to be a Sally or a Jennifer?” I want to wind her up, force her to lash out.

“Why? Why did you do it?” Her eyes are bloodshot, the skin beneath them puffy and purplish-blue.

“I had a lot to lose.”

With an unsteady hand, she points the blade at my chest. For a second, I’m dizzy, transported to Nadine’s bathroom, curled on the floor, fearing for my life.

“I’d ask you what’s real and what’s made up, but I wouldn’t believe you either way so why bother?”

Isn’t that the case with any story? It all comes down to perspective—who’s telling it.

“I’ve worked hard to build what I have now, Evie. You’re not ruining that.”

“Watch me!” She lunges toward me. I side-step the knife but she catches my left arm, grazing it. I ignore the blood rising through the skin as I slide my right hand from the sling—the hand with the Glock 19.

Of course I have a gun—a woman alone, a mother with money, a nice home, in a world that does nothing to believe or protect women. After we’d moved in, there’d been a string of burglaries. I needed to safeguard my children, myself. I know too well what it’s like to live in fear. I’m not going back to that.

Evie’s eyes widen. She hadn’t expected this twist. I see her sister in her face.

“You wouldn’t!” She lifts the knife high like she’s going to plunge it into my skull.

“I would.” I pull the trigger at close range. The kick knocks me backward, the power of it radiating first in my hand, then my arm. The searing pain in my broken collarbone is nearly unbearable. I cry out, my heart galloping the way it did when I was a teenager running through the woods after setting Trent’s garage on fire.

I have seconds to try to get this right. I place my hand over Evie’s. I bite down hard on my lip as I run the knife along my neck, down my arms. I need this to look like self-defense.

I’m lightheaded at the sight of so much blood, hers and mine mingling, the feel of it warm and thick, sliding down my arms, pooling at my bare feet. I pull my phone from my back pocket.

This call will be recorded. In time, it will be shared, traveling through cyberspace. I have to nail it.

“9-1-1. What is your emergency?”

My ears ring.

“Hello? A—a—a woman pretending to be a delivery person came inside my home and attacked me with a knife.”

“What is your address, ma’am?”

I give it.

“What are your injuries? Where is the woman now?”

“I shot her. I’m bleeding. I’m … Please help me …”

She tells me to stay where I am. Police and an ambulance are on the way.

I crumple to the floor and try not to focus on Evie, at how much she looks like Peach.

I don’t know how long it’s been since Dan took the kids for pizza. He was picking up two pies. We were going to eat on the patio.

I need to tell him. I lift my blood-streaked phone. “Dan?”

“Hey Mol, I’m just paying. You want a Coke?”

“Dan,” I’m fading, “Dan, I …”

“What? What is it?” He’s got the phone closer to his mouth now. “Are you—”

“There was a woman, Dan, a copycat. She thought the book was about her, her family.”

“What?” he shouts, a mix of panic and disbelief.

“She attacked me. The police are coming.”

“I’m, I’m on my way.”

“No, take the kids to your place. I’ll call you.”

“Molly, I really think I should—”

I drop the phone. I have to move. A crimson river is flowing toward me across the floor.

“Molly?” Dan’s voice echoes through the darkening kitchen. “Molly, are you okay?”

No, but I will be.

Sirens wail in the distance.

Whatever—whoever—is coming next, I’ll be ready.

I’ll do what I’ve done in the past.

I’ll save myself.

Acknowledgments

Thank you, reader, for picking up this story and choosing to spend your valuable time with these characters.

A book comes together with the help, encouragement, and guidance of so many. I’m grateful to Claire Milto and Terri Bischoff for their kind words and careful edits. Thank you, Jason Pinter at Simon Maverick, for your interest in my work and asking, “What’s next?” I’m in awe of the supremely talented Dee Dee of Dee Dee Book Covers, who transformed my half-formed ideas into a design I instantly adored.

Laurie Blau D'Amaro joined my launch team before my novel The House on Cold Creek Lane was released and won my “Name a character in my next novel” raffle. Sonny Douglas exists because of you. Thank you again, Laurie!

I’m grateful to all the thoughtful reviewers, booksellers, and librarians who’ve generously supported my work and placed my books in front of readers. Thank you for taking the time to read and spread the word.

Thank you to my family and friends who bear the brunt of my writing-related laments. Creating a novel about an author was a fun and cathartic way to satirize some of the more challenging parts of publishing. Unlike Molly, I truly mean it when I say I love to meet with readers and book clubs. You make all the hours and effort worthwhile. Thank you!

If you enjoyed this novel, please consider leaving a rating or review as that increases the book’s visibility.

If you’d like to connect or stay in touch, please visit: www.LizAlterman.com

Discussion Questions

Contains Spoilers

1. Molly accepts Anna's invitation to meet with her book club because it feeds her ego and she believes Anna is someone she knew in the past. Would you have said yes to this invitation as quickly as Molly does?

2. What are your thoughts on the book-inside-the-book format and the way it unfolds through interviews and podcasts? Did you feel more connected to Molly & Anna’s story or Carly & Clem’s?

3. A Different Type of Poison & Birds at Night feature complicated relationships between mothers and daughters. Discuss how these shape the women in both stories.

4. Molly says of her relationship with Gavin: There are moments when you need someone to remind you who you were. Other times you need someone to show you who you’ve become. Gavin is all of that for me. Discuss this idea and Molly and Gavin’s friendship.

5. “If a story is in you, it has to come out.” This William Faulkner quote serves as the novel’s epigraph. Retired police officer Sonny Douglas also says it to Molly. How does this statement apply to the novel's theme? Do you agree that all stories need to be told?

6. Molly keeps a quote on her desk: “Let me fall if I must fall. The one I will become will catch me.” How does this lend insight into Molly's character as well as her past and her future?

7. Discuss Dan and Molly’s relationship. Where do you think it will go from here?

8. To be a mother is to exist in a state of constant judgement, Molly thinks during a conversation with Heather. Do you agree with this?

9. Molly, Anna, and Carly are victims and villains. Did you have empathy for any of these characters? Why or why not?

10. The novel ends with Molly acknowledging: I’ll do what I’ve done in the past. I’ll save myself. What do you think is next for Molly and her family?

11. When you read a novel, do you imagine the author blended his or her real life experiences with fiction? Does that enhance or take away from your reading experience?

About the Author

Liz Alterman is the author of the suspense novels The Perfect Neighborhood, The House on Cold Creek Lane, and You Shouldn’t Have Done That as well as the award-winning memoir  Sad Sacked, and the young adult thriller, He’ll Be Waiting. Her work has been published by The New York Times, The Washington Post, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, and numerous other outlets. She lives in New Jersey with her husband, three sons, and two cats, and spends most days microwaving the same cup of coffee and looking up synonyms. When she isn’t writing, she’s reading. For more or to say hello, visit:

www.lizalterman.com

Also by Liz Alterman

Psychological Thrillers

You Shouldn’t Have Done That

He’ll Be Waiting

The Perfect Neighborhood

The House on Cold Creek

Memoir

Sad Sacked

Romcom

Claire Casey's Had Enough