I studied her insolent face and had a brief moment when I realized how much I would miss her. No one would ever be able to say that I wouldn’t mourn my child, miss her giggle, the way she slipped her hand so confidently into mine. I enjoyed those moments.

  It was sad that this had to happen. Sad—that was the emotion I should assign to it. Emotions like sadness were harder for me. They were like communion wafers—void of taste. Envy, greed, passion—those I felt vividly. Those I savored. They were explosions of flavor, a spicy conch salad of emotion.

  I loved conch salad.

  And I would love this. Maybe not the initial bite but certainly the lingering taste.

  “Mom?” She wiggled, trying to pull away from me.

  “I need you to promise me,” I said firmly, keeping her in place. “Don’t bother your father about it.”

  “Okay, okay.” Her body sagged in defeat. “Fine.”

  I stood and turned back to the rows of spices, my mind ticking through everything that still needed to be put into place before the party.

  There was a lot, but that was okay. The planning was part of the fun.

  CHAPTER 36

  LEEWOOD FOLCRUM

  INMATE 82145

  Mr. Folcrum,

  You know, you’re a hero to some of us. There’s three of us that go to a cabin each winter and spend a weekend together, sharing our stories. Each of us does one event during the year, and that reunion is where we share our stories.

  I haven’t picked the source of my event yet, but I have to say, you’re my biggest inspiration. The drama of the setting in yours . . . it had bite, man. Theatrical effect, if that makes sense. I mean, it’s been twenty years and people are still talking about it. You’re being listed next to Lizzie Borden and the Black Dahlia, dude. If that’s not iconic, what is?

  I don’t plan to be iconic. The problem with iconic is that it typically involves getting caught, and I got to tell you—I don’t think I’d do well in prison. That is one of the things I don’t understand about you, man. Why didn’t you just get out of there? Why wait, when you had to know that they were coming?

  United in solidarity,

  Your friend

  Redd was off, which meant I was delivered to the interview room by the thin guy with the lisp, whose name I’d never remember if it wasn’t printed on the front of his uniform. I glanced at his name tag as we got on the elevator. PERDUE.

  “How’s it going?” I asked.

  “Shut the fuck up, Folcrum.” He stared dead ahead, his right cheek bulging with a wad of gum. “I’ll be so glad when you’re dead.”

  The doors opened and I stepped out, lifting my chin at a passing prisoner who I sometimes played dominoes with.

  We journeyed the rest of the way in silence. It was probably this prick who’d told Valden about my cancer. “You know who’s in visitation?” I asked as we entered the left wing.

  “What the fuck I look like, your social coordinator?” He stopped at the door and glanced up at the camera, waiting for the buzz. It sounded, and he pushed the door open.

  Yeah, definitely a possibility.

  As we passed the visitation room, I glanced in the window. Tim Valden sat at a table, his knees pinned together, his back straight, a paper bag and drink in front of him.

  “Enjoy that food,” Perdue said under his breath as he passed me off to Johnson. “I spit in it.”

  I ate the Big Mac without hesitation, and if Perdue spit in it, I couldn’t tell and didn’t care. As I chewed, I watched Tim, who seemed on edge.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Nothing.”

  I finished chewing, then swallowed. “I’m good at giving advice. Don’t have shit else to do in here.”

  “Okay. I guess I’m frustrated. I’ve met with you four times now and don’t have anything to show for it, except for a bunch of junk food receipts.” He tapped the top of his folder. “You just grunt and argue and talk in circles. Just let me know if I’m wasting my time. I have other inmates I can talk to. You’re not the only person in this building who has killed someone.”

  I shrugged. “Not sure why you picked me to begin with. I haven’t talked to anyone in twenty years, and you think I’ll start babbling to you?” I wiped at my mouth with the napkin. “Why would I?”

  “You’d think a man would want to purge his soul before death.” He met my eyes. I bet the women fall all over this guy. He probably has some hot treat of a girlfriend. “There’s some relief in confession, Leewood.”

  I chuckled and picked the double-decker sandwich back up. “Really? How do you know?”

  “It’s been proven in the field of psychology.”

  I took another big bite, chewed for a spell, then spoke. “I got a confession for you.”

  He sighed.

  “No, no.” I held up my hand. “I’m serious. I’m going to tell you something that is true.”

  “What’s that?” His voice was dry, but I could see the interest in his face. He was hooked to whatever I was about to say.

  I leaned forward. “I didn’t kill those girls.”

  His mouth flattened and he rolled his eyes. “Okay.”

  “Listen!” I slammed my palm on the metal table, and the sound reverberated in the small, enclosed room. Tim flinched. The motherfucker was actually listening.

  “I. Did. Not. Kill. Those. Girls.” I said it slowly and without any ire. “I swear on my daughter and my wife and whatever entity is up there listening. If you came here to understand why a killer kills, I’m not your guy. I don’t care what the evidence says and what the jury believed. Look at me, Tim. Look into my soul.” I paused, my eyes boring into his. “I did not kill those girls.”

  There was a moment after that, one where he didn’t speak and I didn’t breathe and the tie between our eyes was as strong as wire.

  And in that moment, even if it only lasted a beat, I think he believed me.

  CHAPTER 37

  PERLA

  When the first email came in from the TFK guy, we pretty much dismissed it. I mean, we get a lot of random stuff, and most of it is just attention-seekers, you know? And then the second one came in, and even though it was also bullshit, with two emails, there was enough of something that we could at least build an episode around it. But obviously, it’s fake. I mean, come on. Leewood did it. We all know it. But whatever. It stirs up the listeners, which is why we replied to it.

  —Rachel, Murder Unplugged

  In a private training room at the country club’s gym, I bent forward, looped my arms around the girth of a tire, and pulled. Stepping backward, I hissed out an exhale as it slid a few feet.

  “That’s it,” Joshua said.

  I continued, my legs and shoulders burning from the effort. The tire was a hundred and forty pounds of deadweight. I had to imagine a body would be easier and less cumbersome.

  Thankfully, I wouldn’t be moving anyone a great distance. I would need to get them from Sophie’s bed, down to the floor, then shift and arrange them into place. The girls would be groggy and barely functional, but they wouldn’t be deadweight. Not yet.

  Plus, Sophie was light. Only eighty-nine pounds, per her last doctor’s exam. I would move her last, in case the other two girls took it out of me.

  “Almost there . . .” Joshua called out as I staggered the final feet across our makeshift finish line. “Now, drop and give me twenty push-ups. Good ones, Perla. I want your nose tapping the mat with each one.”

  I dropped into position, spacing my hands apart and lining them up with my shoulders, staying off my knees.

  I had increased my sessions with Joshua from twice a week to three, and my home workouts from five days a week to seven. My body was already responding. While I had always been strong and fit, I was going to be in the best shape of my life by Sophie’s party, with a new face and slimmer waist to match.

  As I performed the push-ups, I thought about my next steps with Paige. Her first day was tomorrow, and it seemed like my job, at least initially, was to woo her into a sense of false security. I needed her to rave about her new job to her friends and be wowed by our lifestyle. Even better if those conversations with friends included a complaint about Sophie.

  I finished the set and collapsed onto the mat, thinking up different ways to pit Paige against Sophie.

  CHAPTER 38

  LEEWOOD FOLCRUM

  INMATE 82145

  Another week passed, and then, like clockwork, Tim was back. This time, instead of fast food, he had the guards deliver me a soft padded lunchbox with apple slices, two grilled-cheese sandwiches, and a large chocolate chip cookie.

  I stared at the food. “This is different.”

  “It’s my lunch. I didn’t have time to go anywhere.”

  I picked up a grilled-cheese sandwich and studied it. “Your mom pack your lunches for you?”

  “That’s hysterical.” He hunched forward and met my eyes through the dusty glass. “Hypothetically speaking, let’s say I do believe what you told me last visit—that you didn’t do it.”

  “Hypothetically speaking,” I repeated as I unzipped the plastic bag and pulled out the grilled cheese. Grilled-cheese sandwiches had always been my favorite hangover remedy, and I had a sudden and painful memory of my daughter, on her stool by the stove, carefully flipping the bread over in the pan. She’d made the best grilled-cheese sandwiches.

  “Wally Nall believes you. You seem to believe yourself. But you got to admit, the circumstances are impossible.”

  “They seem unlikely,” I conceded. “Not impossible.” I examined the sandwich, which seemed like a gourmet version of what Jenny used to make.

  “So there has to be a piece that is missing. Something that makes the unlikely circumstances more probable.”

  I shrugged and took a bite. It was good. Crispy but not hard. The cheese was more than I liked, but it was pretty damn good.

  “So, what’s the missing piece? What are you hiding?” He studied me. “And why?”

  “Let’s look at this a different way.” I spoke through another bite. “You’ve been meeting with me because you wanted to know the . . . the motivations and justifications? Was that it? Of a killer?”

  He gave me a pained look. “What’s your point?”

  “Well, that’s why you said you were here. And if you do ‘hypothetically speaking’ believe me, then you accept that I’m not a killer. So I’m not really of any help in your project.” I shrugged, taking another big bite, the sandwich now half-gone. “No reason to talk to me.”

  “Not being a killer and being innocent are two different things. Are you saying that you’re innocent?”

  No, I certainly wasn’t saying that. I ignored the question. “You’re evading the question. I think that you are hiding your own secrets, Tim.”

  He sighed and shook his head, muttering something I couldn’t catch.

  “So, why are you really here? Why do you need to know the truth so badly?” I tilted my head and peered at him. “Is this just a research project for you? Or do you have a more personal interest in the crime?”

  He scoffed, but the gesture felt weak. Wrong. My gut, which rarely steered me wrong, coiled tighter than a cobra.

  I’d been blowing smoke, trying to distract him, but it felt like I had hit pay dirt, and that made me very, very nervous.

  CHAPTER 39

  PERLA

  I was so happy when I got that job. I was so broke, and the pay was good—like, ridiculously good. I remember on that first day just thinking that I couldn’t do anything to screw it up. Like, whatever they wanted, I would just smile and do it, because I had to have that job.

  —Paige Smith, former Wultz nanny

  Paige’s first day was a Tuesday, and I watched my daughter closely, curious how she would respond to the new addition in her life.

  After a somber handshake and close attention to my introduction, my daughter looked at me. “May I go up to my room now?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  She took off toward the stairs, and I glanced at Paige. “So, that’s Sophie. She won’t give you any trouble.”

  “Yeah, she seems really well behaved.” The girl stood with her feet spread, her weight on one hip, the stance sloppy. I wondered how much training it had taken for George and Janice to turn me from what I had been into what I was now. I had found them so critical in the beginning, but now I could see how much there had been to fix, and I had to remind myself that I didn’t need Paige to be perfect. Her imperfection was what would sell this to the jury. I only needed her to be motivated.

  “Let’s give you a tour of the house,” I said. “I want to make sure that you know where everything is.”

  I invited Paige to join us for dinner. We ate in the smaller of the two formal dining rooms, and I poured her a glass of wine, then hesitated. “I’m sorry, Paige. I don’t even know how old you are.”

  “I’m nineteen.” She blushed. “I mean, I do drink, but of course I won’t when I’m working.”

  “Oh, it’s fine.” Grant gestured for me to give her the glass. “A little won’t hurt. And besides, this is too good to go to waste. Knowing my wife, she’ll only have a sip.”

  I shrugged in assent. “More than a glass and I fall asleep.” I took my seat and picked up my silverware. Sophie, who had been waiting for the cue, immediately followed suit. Paige was already halfway through her salad and had three bites missing from her fish.

  A lull fell, and I waited, certain Grant would fill it. He was a man who hated silence in social situations, not so much for its weight but for what it was—a wasted opportunity in which data collection could have occurred.

  “So, Paige . . .” He hunched forward over his plate, a knife in one hand, fork in the other. “Are you from Pasadena originally?”

  “No. I’m from Ohio. I came here for school. I’m at the community college but will transfer into the university as soon as I finish my AA.”

  “What do you plan on studying?”

  “Criminology.”

  I almost choked on my swordfish. “I thought you were a history major.” I coughed, trying to clear the thick wedge of food.

  “Well, history is the focus of my AA. I’ll move into the criminology portion once I’m at the university.”

  Criminology? This wasn’t good. I had selected Paige because I needed a dumb pawn, not someone who might grow suspicious before the big reveal.

  Grant was looking at me, his expression guarded, and I wondered what he was thinking. He had his own complicated history with law enforcement, and would certainly approach this from a different direction than I would. I stayed silent, and his gaze flipped back to Paige, who was biting off the end of an asparagus spear, clueless.

  “Why criminology?” Grant asked, reaching for his wineglass and finishing off the contents in one deep sip.

  “Well, my dad works in corrections,” she said, talking with her mouth full.

  “Corrections back in Ohio?” I asked.

  She shook her head and swallowed. “No, actually close by here. My parents are divorced; my mom’s the one who lives in Ohio.”

  Corrections. Close by here. I straightened my fork beside my plate. “Your father works at a jail?”

  “Prison.” She leaned back in her seat and patted her stomach. “Oh my God, this is so good. You are such a good cook, Mrs. Wultz.”

  “Thank you,” I said softly. Prison. Close by here. Maybe he worked in a women’s prison. Maybe. Maybe. Please.

  Grant cleared his throat. “That’s interesting about your father,” he said. “Don’t suppose he’s at Lancaster?”

  “Yeah.” She looked up, surprised. “You’ve heard of it?”

  The room closed in on me, and I gripped the edge of the table, willing myself not to faint.

  Lancaster. My new nanny’s father worked at the prison where Leewood Folcrum was. He probably knew the man. Had talked with him. Maybe they were friends. Maybe they were enemies. Whatever they were, I had invited his daughter into our house. Employed her. Tasked her with taking care of our child and carrying the weight of my future crime. A crime based on and copycatting the Folcrum murders.

  It was okay. I pursed my lips and exhaled, then inhaled deeply, filling up my lungs. It was okay. A minor speed bump. Know about something early enough, you can overcome it or twist it to your benefit.

  That’s what I needed to do. Twist away. And looking at it from that direction, this might even be a good thing. The knot in my chest released, and I took another set of deep breaths.

  This could be okay. Maybe even great. After all, here was Paige’s connection to the murders—one I didn’t even have to fabricate. She already had a documented tie to Folcrum, and maybe even a logical explanation for why she’d hunted down this job to begin with. Look, I’d say. She’s clearly obsessed with us, has been from the start.

  Yes, maybe this could work.

  Or maybe, quite possibly, I had just royally fucked up.

  CHAPTER 40

  JOURNAL OF SOPHIE WULTZ

  It makes no sense that I have a nanny. Mom always makes fun of the moms that have nannies.

  Paige isn’t bad. I asked her for a candy bar, and she couldn’t find one in the kitchen, but then the next time she came to the house, she had one for me in her bag. So that’s cool.

  She seems super interested in my parents, but I think everyone is, so that’s nothing new. People either love or hate my parents. I can’t figure out which side Paige is yet.

  I know which side I’m on.

  CHAPTER 41

  PERLA

  I lay back on Dr. Maddox’s couch and thought about our recycling bins. Madeline was doing a shitty job with separating the items. Today was trash day, and I hadn’t had time to go through the bins and double-check her work, which pretty much guaranteed that there’d be something wrong.

  All it took was one wrong item—one—and the recycling facility would throw out our neighborhood’s entire bin. I refused for my family’s contribution to be the one that caused four hundred pounds of recyclable content to go to waste.