“—but you have to be careful about these things. The younger girls, they just don’t respect a household—a family dynamic—in the same way.”

  “The older, the better,” Tracy said. “I like a wrinkly hag, myself.”

  I laughed. “I’m not choosing a nanny based on whether or not I think she’ll want to sleep with my husband. Like you all said, Grant would never.” I pierced a cube of melon with my fork and then a folded strip of prosciutto.

  Looks darted between them, ones I pretended not to see.

  “It’s not him that we worry about,” Chun tried again. “It’s just that . . . Look, we’ve all had nannies. We all have nannies now. And the young ones . . . they just lead to a disaster, every time.”

  Exactly what I was hoping for. I hid my smile by popping a big purple grape into my mouth. I shrugged and took my time to chew it.

  CHAPTER 32

  This event was too important for me to flub. This wouldn’t be like before. This scene would be examined with a fine-toothed comb. Every detail had to be perfect, which was why the framework needed to start now.

  Cue my surgery, which would require recovery time.

  Cue a new addition to my home, in the form of a nanny.

  Cue her spending long hours around my husband and child.

  Each one was a domino, and I needed to have a dozen in place before the birthday party.

  A few hours after the birthday cake was cut, I’d tip over the first one and watch them all fall around her.

  The nanny wouldn’t understand her role in it, not right away. It would take her days, weeks, maybe even months, before she really understood what had happened. By then, the noose would be tied, she’d be in jail, and I would have my new life.

  My first instinct in a nanny had been for flash—something that would cause the media to foam at the mouth. A local beauty queen or an Instagram star. A “perfect, rich teen” . . . the sort of girl Sophie would have turned into five or six years from now.

  In my first interview, with Kayla Dearden, I saw the error in that mentality. The guy at the table beside us wouldn’t stop staring at her. In addition to being annoying, it also brought to light a problem: Kayla was both beautiful and interesting. The media would focus all their attention on her and I would be forgotten, a second-class citizen, an Oh, by the way feature.

  Screw that. I needed to be the main event. The star. If they ever put us side by side, I needed to be the more interesting choice in every category.

  I told Kayla I would call her if she was selected, then tossed her résumé into the stack with the other rejects.

  My fourth interview looked to be a lot more promising. Paige Smith had sounded meek on the phone, and she’d informed me that she was one of the waitresses from the club. I liked that connection, and was curious if she was one of the regular staff who waited on Grant and me.

  Paige was ten minutes early to the interview. She took the seat across from me in a white button-up shirt and cheap black dress pants. She wore dingy tennis shoes that were double-knotted and had a single gold ring on her index finger. Cheap, fake diamond studs in her ears. Clean but thin brown hair in a low bun that was losing pieces every time she moved her head.

  She looked exactly like what I once was. Slightly white trash and neglected. Looking for a way out.

  On one side, that was perfect. She’d have no resources to defend herself. If the rewards were flashy and in easy grasp, she’d make mistakes and overlook red flags.

  On the other side, if she was like my early self . . . There was something very dangerous about a woman with nothing to lose. I would need to watch her carefully and make sure our similarities were only in circumstance and not also in cunning.

  “You’re in school?” I asked, scanning her résumé.

  “Yeah, I take classes at the community college.”

  “What are you studying?” I placed her résumé to the side and picked up my glass of ice water. I had selected the Stag House as the location for the interviews. A neutral location was best, and I wanted to see how the applicants handled themselves in the upper-class restaurant.

  Kayla had been right at home, tossing her purse onto one of the free chairs at our table and flagging down the waiter to demand a sparkling water with a slice of lime.

  In contrast, Paige had her bag tucked between her knees as if someone might steal it. She’d nervously reviewed the menu before ordering a side salad and a cup of soup—the cheapest items, but they would still total almost forty dollars before the tip. I smiled to myself, warming to the brunette. This could work. I’d have to give her some confidence, get her out of her shell a little, but there were a lot of ways to do that.

  I thought of my first month with Janice and George—the day that Janice took me to her salon. It had been all modern surfaces and gold accents, and I’d been given a robe, then seated in a chair before a mirror as two people swarmed around me, peering, touching, fingering the ends of my hair, and speaking as if I weren’t there.

  “A bob, definitely.”

  “Look at her bone structure. We can work with this; we just need to get rid of the mess.”

  “Poor thing. You can just see the pain in her eyes.”

  Chris, the stylist, had tapped my jaw. “Chin up.”

  I had glared at him in response. He had paused, then glanced over at his assistant with a loud laugh. “Look at her, Bea. I do believe we have a lion under this mane.” He ran his thin fingers through my hair, pulling it off my face. “It’s Perla, is that right?”

  Perla. Back then, I wasn’t used to the name. It sounded strange, like a brand of tampon. Still, it was one that Janice had picked, and I was frantic to make her happy, no matter what.

  I nodded and Chris had leaned forward, his cheek next to mine, both of us facing the mirror. “Are you ready to remake yourself, Perla? Are you ready to become a different person?”

  I met his eyes in the mirror, and it was like signing a contract with him. I gave him my looks and trusted him to make me beautiful—or at least someone who was unrecognizable from the girl I had been.

  And he did that.

  He had done that for me, and I could do something similar for Paige, though her story wouldn’t end up like mine.

  Mine would have a happy ending. Hers would end in tragedy. Jail. A life sentence, maybe several.

  “History,” she said. “Well, initially.”

  “I’m sorry?” I stopped, my glass halfway to my mouth.

  “You asked what I was studying.” Her napkin was still before her, folded in an arched fan on top of her salad plate, and I couldn’t concentrate on anything she was saying while it was there.

  “As soon as you sit, you should place your napkin in your lap.” I nodded toward it, and she flushed, then quickly grabbed it and placed it on her lap. “It’s not a big deal,” I said kindly. “I didn’t know, either, when I was your age.”

  “I should have known,” she said bluntly. “I mean, it’s like the first rule of fine dining. I just didn’t think. I’m nervous. Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I just really want this job.”

  I smiled, and this one was more genuine, because I would be able to cancel the other interviews. I didn’t need to hear anything more from her.

  Paige was perfect.

  CHAPTER 33

  LEEWOOD FOLCRUM

  INMATE 82145

  Leewood,

  My daughter caught a butterfly the other day. She brought it to me, cupped in her hands, then cried when she realized that she’d accidentally broken off one of its wings.

  What was your daughter like, Lee? Were you close to her? Did you love her? Can a man like you love? If so, what does that look like? Does it look like a knife cutting open her skin? Does it look like a dead stare? Does it sound like a beg, a plea, a scream of pain?

  I don’t know how a man like you ever got married, but I understand why your wife numbed herself with drugs. At least her death protected her from finding out that the man she loved was a monster.

  I’ve looked at photos of the two of you, and I do believe that she loved you. There are some photos that make me think that you might have loved her too. I’ve enclosed one here, not that you deserve it. I hate to even extend this kindness to you, but I hope that it reminds you of the innocence of love and I hope you repay this favor with one of your own and tell me what happened that night. Tell me why. Then I’ll stop bugging you. Or I’ll keep writing you. Whatever you want, Leewood. Just tell me before you die. Please, I’m begging you.

  I took the photo out of the envelope and looked at it. It was one of me and Jessica, in the parking lot of the plant where I used to work. I was in my electrician coveralls, standing by the back bumper of the red Chevy I drove back then. She was holding a foil-wrapped casserole and wearing a big smile. I turned the print over and wondered where my pen pal had gotten it. It looked like something he had just printed off a computer, so maybe this was floating around the internet.

  God, I remembered those casseroles. My favorite was her broccoli-cheese-rice one. She’d bring them to me on the nights I worked late, and I’d share them with the other guys on shift. She was a good cook. A good woman.

  I rose and walked over to the sink, carefully wedging the photo into the framed edge that surrounded the mirror. I had a few other photos there—one of Jenny’s old school photos and a couple from my other pen pals. It didn’t seem right to have Jessica’s photo next to some half-naked whore, so I removed the more risqué ones and dropped them into the trash can beside the sink.

  I caught my reflection in the small square mirror. It had been a while since I had taken a look at myself. In a place like this, looks don’t get you anything except the sort of attention you don’t want.

  Now I took my time and examined my reflection. My beard was full and wild. Normally, I’d visit the barber and have it all buzzed off when it got to this point, but it wasn’t bothering me, so I’d leave it. I couldn’t imagine dying with bare cheeks like a young tart. I winced at the realization that I would never again see a girl’s bare legs. Touch her cheek. Feel her tremble.

  That, out of all of it, was the worst thing about dying. The realization that the final pleasures you experienced in life were done without the proper appreciation.

  I might have been dying, but I didn’t look that bad. The beard hid the weight loss in my cheeks. I was pale, sure. A little weak around the eyes. But did I look like a walking corpse?

  I didn’t think so. Which meant Tim Valden hadn’t just “figured out” I was dying. Someone had told him, and it damn sure wasn’t me. He didn’t look or seem like a man with connections inside this joint, but then again, you never knew what you were dealing with when you had a smart adversary—and he was smart. I could tell that. Not just book smart . . . he also had a bit of calculation going on in that head. A wolf can recognize a fellow wolf, and while Tim might never be on trial for murder, I was beginning to suspect his visits to me weren’t altogether professional in nature.

  Just tell me before you die. Please, I’m begging you. The words of my pen pal—the blonde’s brother—chimed in my head, reminding me that there were a few other people whom I had shared my diagnosis with. Him. A few of my female fans. Almost all the fellow lifers knew. It wasn’t exactly a secret within these walls, which meant that maybe it had gotten through them. Maybe it was all over the internet. Maybe everyone knew and Tim Valden wasn’t special.

  I rubbed my fingers across the prickly hairs of my mustache and then bared my teeth, checking them in the mirror.

  Something felt off about Tim Valden, and I didn’t like it. Not one bit.

  CHAPTER 34

  PERLA

  I heard they sent an ambulance to the Wultzes’ house after the 9-1-1 call. We were in bed; I mean, gosh, it was like three in the morning, but I woke up when I heard the sirens. I remember going to the window and looking out and seeing the red and white lights reflecting against the trees as the ambulance passed our house. Of course, it wasn’t needed. By the time they got there, it was too late.

  —Nikkila Matthews, homemaker

  On the back deck, just beside the pool, we sat under the stars. It was a full moon but cloudy, with a snap in the air. I had opened a 2016 bottle of Masseto merlot and brought Grant a cigar, then curled up in a big afghan in one of the rocker lounges that surrounded the firepit. He had turned the flames to low, and I scrolled through the playlists on my phone and selected one of his favorites. “Ole Man Trouble” by Otis Redding began playing through the hidden speakers, the soulful tune floating on the evening breeze. It, along with the crackle of the fire, instantly turned the dial down on my stress.

  I rested my head back on the chair’s cushion and closed my eyes, humming along with the song. After that was a Sam Cooke tune, and I kicked off my slippers and rested my feet up on the pit’s wide rim, twitching my toes to the beat. Grant smiled and took a deep draw on his cigar as he watched me.

  I waited until Grant had finished three glasses of wine before I brought up my surgery. I tried to downplay it, but he was a detail lover, and I sighed after his fourth question. “I don’t have all of the details, Grant. The details don’t matter. It’s a nose job. It’s with Kellan’s office. It’s all above board. You know how I am with things like this. It will be safe.”

  “Okay, but you mentioned a recovery period.” He stretched to one side and dug into his pocket, withdrawing his slim silver phone.

  “I’ll need to take it easy for a little bit. There will be a week or so where I’ll need to stay at home, take some pain meds.”

  He fiddled with the touch screen and moved his chair closer so I could see his calendar. “What day is the procedure?”

  “It’s in three weeks. On a Wednesday.”

  “The eighth? Or the fifteenth?”

  “I’ll have to look.” I placed my hand on his forearm and squeezed the muscle, his hair soft and golden from the sun. “It’s okay. I’ll arrange transportation to and from the surgery, and I’m bringing in extra help to take care of Sophie while I recuperate.”

  He lifted his gaze from the phone, and I steeled myself for an argument. We had never before discussed a nanny, but it was understood that he carried the same opinions I did regarding pawning our child off on a stranger.

  “What do you mean, ‘extra help’?” His thick brows pinched together, creating a sea of deep wrinkles and stress lines across his forehead.

  “There’s a waitress at the country club who’s going to help with getting Soph to and from school, with her homework, that sort of thing.” I cupped my wineglass with both hands and brought it up to my lips.

  “But you hate the idea of nannies.”

  I made a face. “That’s not true. I’ve—we’ve—raised her to be independent. I don’t let people coddle her, and I don’t believe in tossing her off to a stranger instead of doing our duties as parents.”

  Grant chuckled. “Please, tell us how you really feel.”

  I smiled. It was possible my voice had risen an octave in that last sentence. “Okay,” I conceded. “I’ll get off my high horse. But I’ll be fully involved and supervising. I just want to make sure, if there’s an accident or if anything happens while I’m impaired from pain or medicine, that there’s a capable and responsible adult here at home while you’re at work.”

  There. He couldn’t possibly say anything about that.

  He looked out toward the darkness of the backyard and slowly swirled his glass, considering it. “Okay,” he relented. “You know best with Sophie. You always do. If you think someone is needed while you’re healing, then someone is needed. Do you like the girl?”

  I nodded. “I do. You will too.”

  And he would like her. I’d bend over backward to make sure that happened.

  And she’d love him, at least on paper. On paper, she’d love him so much that it would drive her to kill.

  Sweet, quiet, shy Paige. A girl who would enter a world of wealth and power and fall for the king of the castle—a man she would see as a path to the life she wanted, a life that could be hers, if not for his wife and child. A life she would kill to have.

  It could play. I could make it play.

  I leaned forward and held out my wineglass toward Grant. “Cheers to a beautiful life.”

  “I’ll drink to that.” He clinked his glass to mine, and we both sipped in silence.

  And that moment . . . under the stars, a cool hush to the night, his eyes warm from the wine, his leg against mine, a promise of more in the air . . . It felt pregnant with perfection in the way that only something with an expiration date can.

  Our expiration was looming, and I was both giddy and nostalgic for it.

  CHAPTER 35

  “Are you excited for your birthday party?” I pushed the grocery cart, keeping pace with Sophie’s slow strides. She was in a purple Lululemon leggings-and-tank-top set that would have made me look like a grape.

  “I am, but I don’t understand why I can only invite two people.” She scanned a display of cake toppings. “Do you know how many friends I have? It isn’t fair.”

  “It’s your dad’s decision.” I stopped at the section of spices and searched the labels, trying to find cumin. “Respect it.”

  “But if I just talked to him, I could explain.” She hung on the side of the cart, her earlobes sparkling with the small diamond studs Grant had given her for Christmas.

  “Don’t talk to him about it,” I said sharply. “He told you once, and you already pushed it then.”

  “But—”

  “Sophie.” I turned to face her and bent so that we were at eye level. Grabbing her shoulders, I squeezed tightly, making sure I had her full attention. “Look at me. Do not talk to your father about it again, do you understand me? I will plan a pool party for all of your friends the following weekend, okay? It will be a secret, something we don’t need to tell Daddy until after your birthday, okay?”

  She winced, squirming underneath my hard grip. “You’re hurting my arms.”