She nodded, but I saw the bit of light that entered her eyes and I didn’t like it. “Yes, of course. I’ll tell him. My dad, I mean. Not Mr. Wultz. I won’t say anything to him.”

  “Good.” I tilted my head toward Sophie’s room. “Please close the door behind you.”

  “Right. Absolutely.” She quickly exited, then carefully pulled the tall door closed until it clicked into place.

  I waited a moment, making sure she was gone; then I turned back to the mantel and carefully picked up the frame, studying the old photograph.

  Lucy had been beautiful. All soft blonde hair and big blue eyes. A laugh like a bell. Skin so pale, it was almost translucent. When they’d found her, her features were unrecognizable from the cuts and the blood. She got it the worst, and the police say that she was alive for most of it, that her screams were probably what the neighbors heard.

  I placed the frame back in its place, carefully adjusting it to the exact angle it was before. Grant would notice if it had been moved. He always did.

  CHAPTER 48

  PERLA

  I studied the line of dolls along Sophie’s shelf. “You’re too old for these.”

  “I am, but I still like them.” She sat cross-legged on the floor of her closet, an American Girl catalog open on her lap, and flipped through the pages. “Look, this one is new this year.” She lifted the magazine and turned it toward me.

  The featured doll was a pop star with a microphone in one hand, cell phone in the other, wearing a sparkling bikini top and matching hot pants. I’m not sure when American Girl dolls had become so . . . untraditional, but I wasn’t crazy about the example they were setting for my daughter.

  “I think this is the one I want,” she decided, dog-earing the page.

  “I just don’t know what you’re going to do with all of them,” I said, counting the line of lifelike dolls on the shelf. Each themed doll stood eighteen inches tall and came with intricate outfits and props. While I had understood Sophie’s interest when she was eight, I didn’t understand her still wanting one now—or the desire to keep them all.

  “They’re collector’s items, Mom.” She flipped the page. “They’re going to be worth money.”

  I grimaced at the thought of dealing with the pile of dolls after she was gone. “Well, I think it was a good idea, moving them into the closet before the party.” I glanced back at her bedroom, their prior home—the long shelf above her desk—now empty.

  “Yeah, Mand thinks they’re babyish.” She made a face. “I mean, not that I’m moving them for her. It’s just to make more room for us to hang out.”

  Mandolin was right. I looked down at the page she’d flagged in the catalog, annoyed by just the thought of going to the website and placing the order. At this point, we were Berry-level loyalty customers and got a free gift in the mail on her birthday and Christmas. Again, mortifying.

  “You think there’s enough time for this to arrive before my party?” She held up the magazine page and tapped her finger on the doll.

  “I’ll check. If not, we can just give it to you a few days later.” Never. “We already have a lot of great gifts, sweetie.” Grant had been on a buying spree for her birthday, including a new bike, hiking boots, some perfume she wanted, and two bags full of clothing from the downtown boutique that all the preteens frequented. Everything still needed to be wrapped, and I made a mental note to have Paige do it.

  Having a nanny was fantastic. I should have gotten one a decade ago.

  I took the magazine from her and studied the page, then nodded, folding it in half and sticking it under my arm. “Bridget and Mandolin confirmed? They’re coming?”

  “Yep.” She moved onto her knees, then stood. “And you said I could have some more friends stay over the next weekend for a sleepover, right?”

  “Right.” I was loving how easy it was, being able to put off and promise things for a later date that would never happen. Yes, you can have this ugly doll. Yes, you can invite the entire school over if you want. Yes, we will talk about your father’s sister. Yes, yes, yes—all after the party.

  “Have you thought about what you want to do the night of the party? Maybe a movie in the theater?”

  “Dad said he could set up a screen out by the pool. That would be cool.”

  I nodded. “Okay, sure. I’ll let him handle the tech. Just let me know what you want for dinner.”

  “What are my options?” She followed me as I walked toward our side of the house. When we’d designed the house, I had specifically created a floor plan that would provide as much space as possible between her bedroom and ours while still keeping us all on the same level. In between hers and ours was the catwalk that journeyed past the vaulted areas of the foyer, library, and living rooms, plus the upstairs laundry, our two offices, and the guest rooms.

  I hadn’t been thinking of murder when I created the plan, but the configuration meant that even if they screamed the night of the party . . . Grant wouldn’t be able to hear it from inside our bedroom. He’d sleep through it all, especially with some pills crushed into his after-dinner drink or inside the vials of his Metamucil.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes?” Someone had left the light on in Grant’s office, and I stopped at the door and reached inside, flicking off the switch.

  “What can you make for dinner at the party?”

  “Whatever you want.”

  “Anything?”

  “Pretty much.” I stopped at the door to our suite and turned to her, waiting.

  She bit her lip, thinking. “Pepperoni pizza,” she said. “With the stuffed crust. And breadsticks with the alfredo sauce.”

  I had raised my daughter on the finest food money could buy, and pizza . . . that was the last meal she’d ever have. The same thing, coincidentally, Jenny Folcrum had eaten with her father on a regular basis.

  I hadn’t had pizza in years, not since I realized how many burpees it took to burn off a single slice.

  “Okay.” I smiled down at her. “Pizza it is. Now, go find your father and make sure he’s aware that he’ll need to put a screen up by the pool.”

  “’Kay.” She headed for the stairs, and I waited until she was halfway down them; then I pulled the American Girl catalog out from under my arm and dropped it into the trash.

  From: tfk@hotmail.com

  To: info@murderunplugged.com

  Date: July 15 at 1:22 PM

  Subject: 3 little girls

  Three little girls

  Three little girls

  See how they run

  See how they run

  I slashed the girls on birthday night

  Poor Leewood had a terrible fright

  I thought it killed my appetite

  But now I need another delight

  Three little girls

  CHAPTER 49

  “I just don’t know what to do.” My words were rushing together, and I forced myself to pause and take a deep breath. I started to brush back my hair, but my hands were trembling, so I fisted them and put them in my lap. Dr. Maddox noticed it all, her gaze twitching from each tell like a pinball in motion, finally landing on my face and sticking.

  She had warmed to me in the more recent sessions. Each visit, she sat a little straighter in her chair, her dismissive manner slowly replaced by an eager interest in whatever I had to say. The hook, as my father used to say, was set.

  “Okay, just take a deep breath now.” She gripped the top of her notepad with both hands as if it were a stroller handle. “Tell me what happened.”

  “I don’t know where to start.” I swallowed. “I mean, if you met Grant, you would never think—he is such a gentleman in person. And so handsome. I mean, everyone says how nice he is. Everyone.”

  “Did something happen?”

  I turned my head, looking out the window. It was starting to rain. I had left my umbrella in the car. This cashmere turtleneck would be ruined.

  “Perla, pay attention. I want to make sure we have enough time to discuss this before today’s session ends.”

  “Yes, I have to pick up Sophie at two thirty from school,” I said faintly and adjusted the band of my watch. “Grant will be furious if I’m late.”

  She nodded and leaned forward. “Okay, so what is it? You’ll feel better once you say it aloud. I promise you will. Then we can examine it together, in a protected space.”

  I took another deep breath, letting the air fill up my lungs in a deep inhale before releasing it slowly, making sure I had all the pieces of me in place and perfect before I spoke. She was watching every move, and so far, she was following my breadcrumbs perfectly.

  Glancing at my watch one more time for good measure, I cleared my throat.

  She almost fell forward in anticipation.

  Giving her an apologetic look, I wet my lips. “I was in Grant’s office, just straightening things up, and I found this file he had. It was filled with photos of dead little girls.”

  There. Even Barney Fife wouldn’t pass that one up.

  She frowned. “What do you mean? What kind of photos?”

  “Crime scene photos. Close-ups of the blood and their bodies . . .” I inhaled and put one hand on my stomach as if I were going to be physically sick. “Really gory things. They were all from that old crime—you know, the one I mentioned in an earlier session. The one that was on the television the first night when we had sex.”

  “Oh yes.” She nodded. “The Fokeman Gala or something like that.”

  “The Folcrum Party,” I said tightly.

  “Okay, but these aren’t photos he took. These are police photos?”

  I nodded.

  “Why would Grant have photos of that?”

  “He’s become obsessed with the event,” I said bluntly. “There was a podcast that recently covered it, and it has just lit this fire in him. I try to talk to him about it, but he gets really scary whenever I do. I can’t let him know that I found this folder, he would . . .” I shake my head roughly. “I don’t know what he’d do. But twice I’ve come in and found him watching interviews with the killer. And you know, Sophie is the same age as the victims.”

  “Do you think Sophie’s age has triggered a fatherly concern that something similar might happen to her?”

  “No.” I shook my head once more. “See, this is why I shouldn’t have said anything to you. You’re just like everyone else—you see Grant as this perfect father and husband, and I’ve been trying to tell you . . . this is something else. Something dark and twisted. Something that terrifies me.”

  She looked bewildered. Maybe I was sharing too much. I should be giving her bite-size amounts, not trying to stuff a porterhouse down her throat.

  “I’m sorry, Perla.” She reached out and patted my knee. “I’m just trying to understand how all of this connects. You both found out about this event on the night you met, right? Do you think that Grant feels some tie to it because of your initial history with it?”

  Oh my word. She was chasing fleas and ignoring the mangy dog. At this rate, it would be next year before she found my next breadcrumb. I let out a huff of irritation, and wondered if telling her about Grant’s sister would help or hurt the situation. Probably hurt. She’d dismiss the evidence, find a way to turn it around into being caused by “environments of doubt.” That was what she had already done with Paige—pushed my concerns to the side faster than vegetables off her dinner plate.

  “No, that’s not it.” Standing up, I tucked my purse underneath my arm. “Look, I have to go. I’m having surgery next week, so I won’t be able to make the Thursday session, but I’ll let the receptionist know the dates.”

  “Surgery?” She stood quickly and almost knocked her iced coffee over. “I hope everything’s okay.”

  “Oh, I’m fine. Just something minor.” My swollen face and bruising would give away the nose job, but maybe I could do a few telehealth appointments to cover it up.

  “Okay,” she said faintly, and I savored the look of worry that crossed her face. Later, she would rehash the conversation and see her failure to acknowledge my fears. She would be concerned that I was upset and that she had damaged our relationship and trust. She would call me and apologize, and I would be gracious but cold, and in the next session, she would play the proper part. I didn’t care how it happened, only that it did.

  I exited on that note and with that expectation, but I didn’t like the taste it left in my mouth.

  CHAPTER 50

  The problem with that email we got from the TFK guy was, we didn’t know if the S thing was accurate. It took us calling the police and nagging them until they went into evidence and pulled the autopsy photos. But then they stopped treating us like we were kids and immediately initiated a forensic trace and alert on our email account. After that, we took anything we got from TFK very seriously. And go figure that that was when he shut up. We didn’t hear from him for almost a month.

  —Rachel, Murder Unplugged

  I’d planned Sophie’s birthday party every year, and each one had seemed bigger and like more of a pain in the ass than the last. Everything nowadays had to be impressive enough for social media, which meant the women in this neighborhood were one-upping each other to a ridiculous degree. I had played along halfheartedly while rolling my eyes and hating every painstaking detail. But this party would be different, with a planning process I was excited to embrace.

  My inspiration was simple. The Folcrum Party had started out as most twelve-year-old birthday parties did: a sleepover with cake and ice cream, songs and presents. A limited guest list, with only two attendees. The scant attendance was a detail that had prompted countless internet debates, theories, and opinions. It was widely documented that Jenny Folcrum was an unpopular child. There had been plenty of interviews with her teachers and acquaintances who were frank in the fact that while Jenny was an extremely intelligent child, she was also a loner who could be difficult to befriend.

  A loser. That’s what Jenny was. Bright and intelligent but also poor and weird. Kitty Green’s mother said that Kitty hadn’t even wanted to come to the birthday party, that she’d wanted to cancel the morning of, but her mother refused and said it would be rude.

  Being rude would have saved Kitty’s life. Bet her mother stayed up late at night over that one.

  What had added fuel to the internet fire a few weeks after the death was all the preteen girls who had produced invitations to the event. As it turned out, Jenny Folcrum had invited seventeen classmates to the party. Seventeen invites and only two had shown up. Even now, twenty-three years after the snub, I was irate and embarrassed on Jenny’s behalf.

  Had it not been for the seventeen invitations, the public might not have found the two-person attendance odd. As a grown woman, it was hard for me to generate the names of two people whom I’d be willing to share a hotel room with, much less engage in a sleepover, with all the social gymnastics that involved. But I could also concede that the person I became after George and Janice was different from the girl I was before I joined their life. Difficult to befriend? Yes, that could have accurately described me.

  I felt a tenderness for Jenny Folcrum and her sad little life. No mother. No money. No substantial role models other than her father—an alcoholic electrician who would eventually slice her open like a deer.

  That wasn’t my impression of him; it was the internet’s. I understood that Leewood Folcrum was a complex individual who had been put in a unique position and acted without thinking through the consequences.

  For example, staying at the scene was idiotic. The thin walls of their trailer had done little to contain the little girls’ screams, and the police had arrived before Jenny had finished dying, catching Leewood holding her on his lap, her blood spray all over his shirt and face.

  He could have run, but he didn’t. He held on to his child, and when the police asked what had happened, he kept his mouth shut. He let them lock him up and then went through months of an investigation and trial . . . all while staying mum, except to say that he was innocent and someone else had broken in and committed the crime.

  No one in the history of ever believed his story. At his trial, the jury deliberated for less than an hour before returning the guilty verdict. I’d watched the sentencing video repeatedly, focusing on his face as the judge lectured him on his actions and the impact on the other families.

  His face had never changed from its flat canvas. Nothing when the parents started to sob from the front row of the audience. Nothing when the sentence—eight consecutive life sentences, without the possibility of parole—was read.

  It was incredibly attractive, his quiet strength. I loved that he wouldn’t tell them anything. I loved that he didn’t take the stand. He only did one interview—and the rumors were that he had sent the payment for that to Lucy’s and Kitty’s families.

  A noble gesture, though I’m sure they didn’t appreciate it. I know how Grant feels about Leewood. His name was tantamount to the devil’s in our home, which was one of the reasons I kept my affection and respect for Leewood to myself.

  There were certain elements of the Folcrum Party that I wouldn’t be able to recreate in Sophie’s birthday event. The shitty trailer. The way the floor was soft in some places and the wallpaper bubbled in others. The tiny, cramped bedroom where the girls had been found. Sophie’s room would be used for accuracy, but it wouldn’t have the same feel. It wouldn’t have the same impact.

  Poverty produces empathy. There wouldn’t be the same emotional tug from the public, seeing our crime scene photos. All of middle America can relate to a cheap preteen’s bedroom. The posters of pop stars on the wall. The overflowing hamper. The worn-out sneakers. The saggy twin bed with a Walmart comforter set.

  Sophie’s room, with its floor-to-ceiling windows and polished hardwoods, wouldn’t play nearly as well. The king-size Sleep Number bed, custom built-in bookshelves with hundreds of hardcover books, and desk. Her kitchenette by the bath, with her own mini fridge, microwave, ice machine, and water-filtration system. The spacious walk-in with countless racks of designer clothes.