“There wasn’t a complete set of teeth in that building,” I said dryly. “You think there were doctors eating at that shithole?”

  “Swear jar!” Sophie sang out. “Mom, you owe me a dollar.”

  I ignored her. “You’re just mad because they all clapped.”

  “I’m mad that you preened. And you let them buy our lunch. We should have bought their lunch—hell, the whole restaurant’s lunch—for having to be pawns in your stupid little game.”

  “Swear jar!” Sophie clapped. “Dad, you too!”

  “This is ridiculous.” I capped the lipstick and tossed it back into my purse. “I did something nice for someone. I don’t deserve to be treated like a criminal for it.”

  Grant’s jaw worked as he changed lanes to pass a slow car. He stayed silent for a minute, and when that one minute stretched into two, I reached down and fished my wallet out of my purse. After unzipping the white leather satchel, I withdrew a five-dollar bill and passed it back to Sophie. “Give us a credit for the next few, will you?”

  “You got it.” She beamed at me and folded the bill in half, then quarters, and stuck it in her journal.

  “So . . .” I checked my watch and did a quick calculation of how long it would take us to get home. “What do you guys think about dessert at Café Perla and then a movie night in the theater?”

  Sophie let out a whoop of approval, and I glanced over at Grant. If there was a key to my husband’s heart, it was carved out of labors of love and family time. He had spent an insane amount of money on the theater room in the basement, and movie nights were an easy shortcut around his anger. His fury would weaken with a few hours of quality time with Sophie, capped off by a steamy session between the sheets. I’d pay that penance. It was worth it for the moment when the diner had burst into cheers, everyone’s eyes on me.

  Saving a life had been thrilling. Too bad it couldn’t compare with the inverse.

  CHAPTER 4

  Perla’s home always looked like a magazine shoot. Even in the crime scene photos that were leaked online, you could see how meticulous and beautiful it was, despite all the blood.

  —Kennedy Wells, neighbor and interior designer

  Eight years ago, we built our home, using an architect to create a custom floor plan that took our dreams and brought them to life. We analyzed the school districts and picked a private gated community in Pasadena that offered estate-size lots. We picked one of the bigger ones on a cul-de-sac that backed up to conservation land.

  I had thrown any budget out the window and used my inheritance to fund the project. The result was a nine-thousand-square-foot home that paired twenty-two-foot ceilings with an all-cream interior, eight fireplaces, walls of bookshelves, fine art, and bold wallpaper prints.

  We designed an expansive first floor with double living areas, a massive kitchen and pantry, dining halls, and his-and-her workshops and craft rooms. On the second floor was our giant primary suite, complete with a steam shower, spa, and three walk-in closets. Both our offices and a laundry room bisected that level, with two guest rooms and Sophie’s room on the other side of the floor. The basement level held the theater, a gym, an extra guest suite, a wine cellar, and storage.

  I kept the home in order—a place where dreams could come true. The problem was that some of our dreams were the stuff of nightmares.

  I set one oven to 350 degrees and the other to Warm. Sliding open one of the island’s wide double drawers, I surveyed the perfectly organized grid of long-stemmed silverware. After selecting a beverage whisk and coffee spoon, I placed them on the counter, then turned to Sophie. “Is your phone in the box?”

  “Yep.” She nodded toward the small wooden box where she surrendered her cell each evening after dinner. It was a halfhearted attempt to protect her from social media, predators, and the vacant soul suck created by an addiction to constant entertainment—but also provided a level of control that I relished.

  “Have you gotten your father’s order?”

  “Oh yes.” She pressed her palms together like she was praying. “He wants brownies and milk with a . . .” Her forehead crinkled as she tried to remember. “With a . . .”

  I waited, already certain of what Grant would want. My husband was a man of order, precision, and consistency, which was how I knew that at that moment he was putting on his dark-navy pajama pants, gray socks, and a soft white T-shirt. Then he’d take a heartburn pill and brush and floss his teeth, despite the fact that he’d eat dessert and popcorn and have to do it again before bed. After sex—which would occur on top of the blankets, missionary position, followed by me on top—he’d shower, then dress in silk-blend boxer briefs and a fresh white T-shirt. No socks, because he enjoyed the feel of our mattress’s heated footer function, which he set for two hours each night, on medium. He’d place his phone on the charger at least six feet away from his pillow before getting under the covers.

  The predictability had annoyed me early on. Now I appreciated it. The ultimate power in a marriage is the manipulation ability of knowing how and when your spouse will act and react.

  “Crap. Be right back.” Sophie spun on her heel and darted toward the stairs. I got to work on the brownies, my preparations quick and efficient as I mixed the batter and poured it into a mini pan that would produce four brownies. The rest of the batter, I scraped into the trash. That was the last thing I needed—an extra plate of sugar and calories, tempting us all. Tonight would be bad enough on our diets. I pulled a tub of vanilla bean ice cream from the freezer and placed it on the counter to thaw.

  Sophie, whose dessert order was also predictable, would want s’mores and a Coke. Grant would gripe at her over the negative effects of caffeine, all while sipping his own heart attack in a cup.

  With the brownie pan in the oven, I created Sophie’s s’mores, using the microwave to melt her marshmallow-and-chocolate sandwiches. By the time she returned, I was arranging the first one on a white china plate.

  “Okay, he said he wanted brownies and milk and an Irish coffee.”

  “Got it,” I said. “Do me a favor and whip his cream.” I opened one of the island’s lower fridge drawers and pulled out the whipping cream with one hand and a jug of milk with the other.

  “He’s pissed about what you did at dinner.” Sophie took the items, her movements quick, the chore one she had done dozens of times. “Told me it was inexcusable.”

  I unscrewed the cap to the whiskey and poured an ounce into a glass. “And what do you think?”

  “I don’t know. I think it was pretty cool. Everyone clapped for you.”

  “Dad just doesn’t want you to start lying.”

  “Yeah, but you did.” She peered into the bowl, focusing on her task.

  “Well, sometimes lies don’t matter. I told them I was a doctor because I felt confident that I could help that woman and that the risk of side effects was low.” I returned the liquor to its cabinet. “If you told people you hated math—”

  “But I like math.” She licked the end of the whisk, then stuck it back in the bowl.

  “Okay, but let’s say you told me you didn’t. What’s the potential side effect?” I scooped out a spoonful of sugar and added it to the cup, then placed the glass under the Miele spout and held down the button, releasing a stream of hot espresso.

  “I don’t know. I guess people wouldn’t ask me math questions.”

  “Do people ask you math questions now?”

  “No.”

  “See?” I pulled the steaming glass away from the machine. “So why does it matter if you lied?”

  “Okay, so you won’t be mad if I lie?” She was so opportunistic, this daughter of mine. Always looking for an inch, a shortcut, a permission. She shouldn’t be asking; she should be taking. She’d learn that soon enough. If you waited for life to give you something, you’d never get half of what you deserved. If I had waited around, I wouldn’t be married to Grant. I wouldn’t have become George and Janice’s daughter and eventual heir. I wouldn’t have a life that looked anything like this.

  Of course, you couldn’t take everything. Sometimes there was interference, which was why Sophie was standing next to me when she should have never been born.

  I used the spoon to move a dollop of fresh cream onto the top of Grant’s coffee and tried to remember where our conversation had ended. Oh, right. Would I be mad if she lied? I cleared my throat. “Well, that’s why your dad is worried. Because he’s worried that you’ll see me lie without repercussions and it will cause you to lie about things. Some things which might be really important and might have serious side effects. And I agree with your dad on that.”

  “Agree with me on what?” Grant entered the room with a warm smile. Maybe he’d forgive me quickly this time. Joining us at the island, he took the coffee from me. “The brownies smell good.”

  “They’re almost ready. I was just saying that I agree with you, that lying is bad and something that Sophie shouldn’t do.”

  She arched an eyebrow at me, and I winked at her.

  “Well, that’s something I can drink to.” Grant took a small sip of his coffee, then did the loud lip smack that he always did when he really enjoyed something.

  I hated that lip smack. I hated the sound of it, the tight pucker of his lips that preceded it, and I really, truly hated that I waited and looked for that smack of approval.

  I had been the same way with my father, so desperate for his blessing. I learned back then how dangerous that trap was. I had held on to him so tightly, I’d lost him forever.

  Sophie wrapped her arms around Grant’s waist and smiled up at him.

  Anger flared in my gut, and I turned away, unable to stomach the view.

  CHAPTER 5

  JOURNAL OF SOPHIE WULTZ

  They worry that I don’t understand when lying is acceptable, but I know more than they think. I’m smarter than both of them, and I’m smart enough to realize that I should keep that knowledge to myself.

  CHAPTER 6

  LEEWOOD FOLCRUM

  INMATE 82145

  I was here the day they brought him in. It was a big deal because the child killers always had to be kept out of general pop, otherwise they get roughed up too much. And everyone already knew who he was, even on the inside. So, uh, yeah. Twenty-three years I’ve known the guy. He ain’t bad. Wasn’t doing too well, this last year.

  —Carlos Zurate, Lancaster Prison corrections officer

  Prison loves rules. It’s like the fucking walls were built from them. Nest inside those walls long enough, the rules started to feel like they mattered. Like they were the bones of this place, keeping everything standing. Like without them, your organs wouldn’t stay where they should. You’d try to step forward and just fall apart. I’d gotten so used to the rules, it was like I needed them. Not just the big house’s, but my own. The longer I was in here, the more rules I created for myself.

  Don’t let nobody in my cell.

  Don’t make friends. Period.

  Finish a fight if it’s brought to you, but don’t bring that shit to anyone else.

  Don’t appeal. I’m in here, so I’m in here.

  Don’t talk about what happened on December 6. Ever.

  Only read and write letters on Sundays.

  I had a bunch more rules, pages of them, but that’s the major ones. The ones I reminded myself of the most, especially if I was tempted to break them. The Sunday one, that’s the one I came closest to breaking, because who really gave a shit if I opened up a piece of mail on Wednesday instead of waiting around till the end of the week?

  I cared. I cared because I didn’t have much to look forward to, and I learned a while ago that anticipation and hope were half of the enjoyment of life.

  Maybe this was the week that she’d write to me.

  Maybe that letter I was just handed was from her.

  Maybe I was just a couple of days away from having some of my questions answered.

  In here, the maybes could kill you, but they could also keep you alive.

  By the time Sunday hit, four letters waited in a neat stack at the top-left corner of my desk. When I got back from lunch—fried rice, beans, and corn bread—I went to my desk.

  Everything in my cell was designed to keep me safe, including the hard plastic stool that matched the wall-mounted desk. They both looked like something out of a kid’s playroom. I sat on the stool and flipped through the envelopes, taking my time and savoring the handwriting on the outside of each one.

  I always took the letters face down, letting my hope get a chance to live until this time each week.

  Back when I was free, I used to buy a lotto ticket every Thursday and wouldn’t check it until three days after the drawing for the same reason. In the anticipation, anything was possible.

  The hope was what got you through the agony.

  Three of the four letters were from regulars. I glanced over those, recognizing the familiar items in the top-left corner. Some of my pen pals used a discreet address and didn’t put their names on the bottom of their letters. Others vomited out all their personal details and locations, like they hoped I escaped and showed up at their door, either to screw them or kill them. Maybe both.

  I held the third envelope for a moment. No sender name and only a PO box for their address. Anonymous in one way, but I knew exactly who this neat handwriting belonged to, and I knew this box number by heart.

  It was close by. Within an hour or two’s drive, which was interesting but not surprising.

  I placed it to one side and opened up the envelope from Tiffany.

  Hi babe.

  Sit down, because you aren’t going to believe what happened to me at work this week. We had a contest to see who could sell the most of the egg roll appetizer and no, I didn’t win BUT this one guy came in and ordered nine of them. Nine! It was Deb’s table, of course. Whore.

  I have been thinking about what you said, about me taking some community college classes, but I just don’t know. I mean, I feel like only losers go to community college. It’s not like back when you were young. Like, if I put on my socials that I was a student there, my followers would freak. Plus, I’m really gaining traction on my videos. I wish you could see them. It’s so stupid that they won’t let you online. You would be so popular. Keep thinking about my visit, okay?

  Oh, and here’s a riddle for you. What can you put in a bucket to make it weigh less?

  Got it? I bet you do. You’re so smart.

  Big hugs from your girl,

  Tiffany

  PS Last week’s riddle answer was: You don’t have to worry about it, concrete floors are very hard to crack! < Ha! I thought that one was really funny.

  Tiffany was one of the ones hoping for a screw. She was an idiot, but an entertaining one who had stuck around for more than a year. I put her letter to the side. I’d write her back later that afternoon, after I figured out her riddle, which she had probably found on the internet. I didn’t give a shit. The questions kept me entertained, at least for a few minutes, sometimes longer. Hell, one I had thought about for days.

  The second envelope was from Darby, another regular. Her letters were always full of detailed descriptions of what she wanted to do to me sexually and what she wanted me to do to her. I squeezed the envelope, gauging the thickness, and was pleased to feel that it contained a photo. Darby wasn’t my body type—too hard and muscular—but at this point in my life, anything looked good.

  Darby was all talk. She’d never come to visit, and if I ever got out of this place, she’d likely run in the opposite direction. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t getting out, and she enjoyed her fantasies. I’d gotten pretty good at writing stuff back, so I’d write something after my afternoon tug.

  I pushed it to the side, unopened, and picked up the third envelope. A small smile crossed my lips. It’d been over a month since he last wrote, and while this was likely just like all his others, it still always gave me a jolt of energy—some adrenaline before the battle.

  To the man who took away my world,

  Today would be Lucy’s 35th birthday. I should be driving to her house, where we would gather in the backyard and I’d cook ribs on her grill and we’d sip mojitos and spiked lemonade while her kids ran across the lawn and crawled into her lap. Instead, she is rotting in the ground while I sit alone and write to you. I have no nieces and nephews, no extended family to spend holidays with, no sister to ask advice of.

  Like you, I have long stretches of time to think about what happened 23 years ago. Unlike you, I did nothing to deserve this.

  Speaking of birthdays, I’ll be 40 this year. Six years older than you when you did it. I’ve been looking into psychological breaks and it seems that the same kaleidoscope of events that cause midlife crises can also manifest new inclinations in someone’s psyche. At this point, I know you better than just about anyone else in the world. I believe that what you share with me is sincere. You and I, we made a contract a long time ago. A contract written in blood, and while you are a despicable human in many facets, you are an honorable man in others.

  In a letter that you wrote to me six years ago, you said that your first true Valentine was a girl named Kendra. Remember her? Of course you do. I’ve gone through your high school yearbook and there are no Kendras, not in the three years beneath you. There is, however, a Kendra Platt who was nine years underneath you. It took a while for me to find her, and then to track down through the records that her sister was a girl two years beneath you. There’s a photo of you and Courtney, her sister, your arm around her at a football game when you were a senior at Longville High. You were a fall baby, so you were seventeen when you hung out with Courtney. Was it all under the guise of getting close to her eight-year-old sister?

  As I’ve said before, I’m not here to judge you—though I certainly do. I just need to understand what recipe led to the death of my sister. I need to know what happened in those hours of the party. Did she suffer or if it was quick? Did she die first or last?

  I don’t understand why you won’t share these things with me. I am a man in pain, and time isn’t healing anything.