I lifted my gaze to meet his eyes. He looked nauseous, and I didn’t think it was over anything I’d done.

  “I have to tell the police,” he said faintly. “She killed Lucy . . . Kitty . . . what, your wife?”

  “I don’t know that for sure,” I said flatly. “But you’re not going to go to the police. Or rather, if you do, they won’t believe you. What I’ve told you . . . think of it as a favor. From one man to another, a warning. I won’t tell it to the police, and even if I did, they wouldn’t believe me. No one ever believes the man on death row proclaiming his innocence.”

  He wasn’t an idiot. He understood what I was saying, but it took a minute for him to digest the fact that he wouldn’t be getting justice for his sister. He fell silent and stared at the table for a long moment, then shook his head. “Fucking hell.”

  Yeah, fucking hell was about right.

  CHAPTER 70

  JOURNAL OF SOPHIE WULTZ

  I found out about my dad’s sister. Someone at soccer sent me the link to a podcast interview where they were talking about a really old murder. Turns out, my dad’s sister was one of the victims, which is like the most uncool way that someone can be famous.

  I’m really bummed, both for my dad and all that—but also because I’d pretty much been certain that she was like actually famous and would take me in and I’d end up being one of those Hollywood nepotism babies who always acted like she wanted to stand on her own but would be grasping at every leg up my last name could possibly get me.

  Anyway, I’ve listened to a few other episodes, and some of them are really interesting. Like, there’s this other one where a girl pretends to disappear but is actually hiding in her parents’ attic the whole time and watching to see who really cares about her being gone. The two hosts are funny in this kind of macabre way.

  Anyway, I guess it’s cool that Rachel and Gabrielle—those are the show hosts—know who my aunt is. It’s like them knowing who I am, in a way.

  So that’s cool, even if it sucks that Lucy’s dead.

  CHAPTER 71

  GRANT

  I’ve worked with alcoholic stage moms that were easier to deal with than Perla Wultz. She was so insistent that everything be perfect and that everything was about her. We did a one-hour birthday shoot for Sophie that turned into a four-hour event.

  —Lance Gretchen, photographer

  I sat at our small dining room table, a plate of food in front of me, and tried not to stare at my wife. She sat on the other side of Sophie and cut into a piece of lamb, her expression serene, her face even more beautiful after the surgery on her nose. I used to gaze at her with reverence, but now I studied every movement in horror, wondering how much I actually knew about the woman I had married.

  I thought of the annual memorial we did each December, when we drove over to East Los Angeles and brought roses to Lucy’s grave. We would each spend a stretch of time alone with Lucy, talking to her and sharing updates on our life and memories with her. At least, that was what I did. Now a new vision of Perla popped to mind—her standing in front of Lucy’s grave, her hands tight in the pockets of her cashmere coat, a thick scarf covering her neck scar, speaking to the dead girl she herself had killed.

  My wife placed a piece of the fish in her mouth and chewed, her expression content.

  I would bet the large diamond on her hand that she hadn’t spent any graveside-visitation time apologizing to Lucy. Not Perla, the woman who went on a two-week letter-writing spree to every upper-level employee of the Los Angeles County Post Office until she got Barry Goldstick, our carrier, fired because he’d leaned our packages against the gate instead of ringing the bell, waiting for us to open the gate, and then bringing them down the drive and to the front porch. When Perla succeeded in getting the man fired, she printed out the email from his manager, tracked down his home address, and hand-delivered it to him, a smile on her face.

  No, Perla had not been sharing fond memories and updates with Lucy. Most likely, she had been taunting her. Crowing her victory.

  I tried to swallow the piece of potato in my mouth but couldn’t. My stomach rolled and I half stood, clutching my stomach as nausea swelled.

  “What is it?” Perla asked suspiciously.

  “My stomach. I need to . . .” I half crawled, half tripped over the chair. “I’ll be right back.”

  I needed to leave her and take Sophie with me. But how? When?

  I made it to the small bathroom off the kitchen and shut the door, isolating myself in the space. Placing my palms on the counter, I breathed in deeply, trying to calm the panic ripping through my gut.

  Okay, I’d call an attorney tomorrow. Set a meeting, find out my options. Move heaven and earth to do whatever was needed to protect Sophie—protect us both.

  My knees felt weak, and I moved over to the toilet, closing the lid and sitting down. It wouldn’t be easy. Perla was smart, and as Leewood had pointed out, no one would believe me if I suddenly accused her of a decades-old murder.

  But Sophie’s birthday was in two days. Maybe after the party, I should just take her and disappear. Let Perla hunt for us while I figured out a course of action.

  That plan sounded insane, and as someone who prided himself on organization and foresight . . . the idea of going on the run, incognito, gave me a fresh round of hives.

  I stood, my stomach heaving, and flung open the toilet’s lid, then bent forward and retched into the bowl.

  From: tfk@hotmail.com

  To: info@murderunplugged.com

  Date: August 16, at 7:17 AM

  Subject: it’s a good day for murder

  look alive, ladies. it’s going to be a good day.

  CHAPTER 72

  PERLA

  Day of the party

  9:30 a.m.

  I moved quickly through the first floor, mentally checking off to-do list items. My stomach was in a knot of excitement and nerves, and the feeling was both familiar and nostalgic. After tonight, I would likely never kill again. This would be so iconic, so sensational, it wouldn’t be wise for me to attract any additional attention for a long time. But also, I wouldn’t need to. I’d finally have what I wanted from the start—a distraction-free relationship with my father and the recognition and fame I deserved. The glow from this . . . it would follow Perla Wultz forever. Maybe I’d even change my name back to Jenny Folcrum. I’d wait until things started to die down and then do it as a powerful tribute—a phoenix rising from the ashes, wanting to shed her tragic past and reclaim the life she had been forced to surrender.

  Yeah, I liked that. That could definitely spin. Tomorrow, or maybe the following day, I would hire a publicist to brainstorm and coordinate these sorts of things with. You had to be smart with your media positioning and opportunities. An expert would know how to best capitalize on that.

  I started up the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. I’d given Paige detailed instructions on how to decorate Sophie’s door and room, and I checked my watch now, anxious about her progress.

  There were boxes of supplies strewn across the second-floor hall. I pressed my tongue against my teeth and carefully stepped around the items. Up ahead, she was standing on a stool and stretching up to tape a banner above the doors. She was barefoot, in conservative gray capris and a white button-up shirt, the sleeves rolled to her elbows. So far, she had affixed the H and the A. She had already wrapped the doors in birthday-cake wrapping paper and set out two marble plant stands with balloon bouquets on either side of the doors.

  “This looks great,” I said, meaning every word.

  “Thanks,” she said brightly, stepping off the stool and looking at her handiwork. “There’s going to be a balloon arch also. Balloons are really big right now.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen them.” I looked around, spotting the balloon pump and boxes of latex. “Guess that’s what all this is for.”

  “Yeah, I found a video that shows how to build one. I haven’t done it before, but it seems pretty easy.”

  I nodded. “Good work.”

  I peeked into Sophie’s room, but it was the same. I gave it a quick once-over, satisfied that the dolls were still in the closet and that Madeline had cleared some of the clutter off her counters and surfaces. There were fresh flowers on each bedside table and in her bathroom.

  “You’re decorating her room also, right?” I returned to the hall, ducking around Paige’s ladder.

  “Yep, but not as much. Like you said, streamers and maybe a balloon arch around the balcony doors. I have to see how many I have left.”

  I nodded. “If you don’t finish in time to pick her up from soccer, come find me. I’ll go and get her.”

  “’Kay, but I should be finished no problem,” she said, a white balloon in hand.

  With the room in progress, I went into our bedroom, closing the door behind me and locking the bolt. I went into the closet and pulled out a big Neiman Marcus shopping bag. It was a high-quality paper bag, big enough to hold all my items.

  I set it on the floor in the closet; then I moved to the section that housed my winter suits and blazers. I slid the hangers to the left side and removed the back panel of the closet. There was a hidden cavity there, one of many I had created during the build. And there, for the last few weeks, I’d been accumulating items for tonight.

  A white blanket like the one my father had stretched out for us to have a picnic on.

  A deck of playing cards and a Ouija board.

  A knife from the kitchen, one I’d picked up after Paige had used it to cut up an apple for Sophie. I’d sharpened it, then placed it in a Ziploc bag to keep her fingerprints intact.

  A pair of gloves to keep my own prints from contaminating the scene.

  The plastic poncho.

  I placed everything in the bag, then replaced the cavity door and put the bag behind the suits. Pulling the hangers back into place, I arranged the clothing to make sure it was hidden.

  Satisfied, I put on a smile and went downstairs. Less than three hours to go before the girls arrived.

  CHAPTER 73

  GRANT

  The girls drifted on the surface of the pool, each on her own float, their bodies silhouetted by the brilliantly lit water. In front of them, the new version of Mean Girls played on the big screen I had stretched across one end of the pool. I’d connected the projector to our exterior surround sound system and couldn’t help but flinch when one of the characters’ voices would come from the rock speaker behind me.

  My fear of Perla was increasing by the hour. I could only stall out here for so long before I would have to go back inside, where she was waiting with a hot drink. Clingy was not a word I would have ever used to describe Perla, yet that’s suddenly how she was acting. Maybe suffocating would be a better adjective.

  I was paranoid—I realized that—but I was also suddenly seeing things I’d been oblivious to before. The pause before she smiled, like she was processing what reaction to deliver. The manipulation of the girls, of every single aspect of this party, even the minor details that didn’t matter. The way she ordered me to do something and didn’t wait to see or hear my reaction or opinion. Like now. I was supposed to be adjusting the sound crackle that occurred when the audio hit a certain frequency. The girls hadn’t noticed it and neither had I, but Perla did, and she told me to fix it, so I got up and went outside and spent twenty minutes checking the audio connections and settings, listening to the movie, on alert for this sound that I was beginning to think she’d made up.

  I turned toward the house, our home, which suddenly looked ominous—lit up against the dark California sky, almost every room ablaze in light. It was like a dollhouse in its perfection. She’d made it that way, and I always appreciated that about her—how every item had its place and was picked for a specific look and purpose—but now it just seemed psychotic. Like that guy in that Julia Roberts movie . . . Sleeping with the Enemy. That’s what I’d been doing. Sleeping with. Living with. Loving . . . the person who’d murdered my sister.

  I’d told Leewood just a few weeks ago that I didn’t have the ability to kill someone. I spoke of the line of morality, how a good person wouldn’t cross it and that only someone who was broken in some sense would intentionally take a life.

  Maybe I was broken, but I was suddenly looking at the act of murder in a new light. I could suddenly imagine killing this woman . . . this beautiful carcass of a person with a rotten inside. What kind of woman married the brother of the little girl she’d murdered? What kind of woman let her father sit in prison for decades for her crimes? What kind of woman did I marry?

  Maybe she’s changed.

  There it was, that little voice that wouldn’t be silenced. The one who thought I wasn’t a complete idiot, that I could judge someone with some degree of accuracy, that maybe I—and Sophie—had healed her broken soul. Maybe the woman I loved was not the same person who’d done those horrible things as a child. Maybe that person had died in Leewood’s arms, and her life with George and Janice, and then with me . . . it had changed her.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out and checked the screen. A text from work, the fifth so far this evening. Like the others, I ignored it. Our project deadline, which had occupied the majority of my focus for the last eighteen months, no longer mattered. I wouldn’t be returning to the office. I wouldn’t log into my email, or check my voicemails, or do anything in the next forty-eight hours that wasn’t directly tied to Sophie and getting her and me to safety.

  Maybe my wife was healed and maybe she had changed, but we would have to explore that idea somewhere far away from Perla.

  Another text lit up my phone, this one from Perla.

  Don’t worry about it. Just come inside and have a drink and relax.

  I looked back at the house, and I could see her through the second-story window, standing there, cup in hand, watching me. And I thought about that morning, when I was getting ready and had snooped through her side of the bathroom, which I’d never done. But in my new life, I was plotting to run away with our daughter and I was terrified of my wife, and so the status quo must change. In one of the drawers of her sink had been her bottle of Ambien, and I’d counted the pills, then cataloged the information along with a few dozen other statistics I was now keeping track of. Anything that could be a weapon or used in conjunction with one. The problem was, the house was huge, and it was her castle, with secrets in places I didn’t even know existed.

  Twenty-two pills of Ambien.

  Eight gallons of bleach.

  Two boxes of rat poison.

  Twenty-six knives.

  Two axes.

  One BB gun.

  One chain saw.

  The list went on, and the problem was, when you started looking at things that could harm someone, everything started to look suspicious. Latex gloves under the sink. Gasoline. Matches. Rope.

  Perla waved at me, gesturing for me to come inside, and I stood, then looked at the girls. Sophie had her head resting on the pillow of her float, a wide grin on her face, one of her feet dangling in the water. Mandolin was propped up on her elbows, laughing at something on-screen. Bridget was cross-legged on her float, a bright-red bowl of popcorn in her lap.

  Only two friends at Sophie’s party. Perla had been insistent on that, and insistent that I lay down the rule as my own. Why? Last year, she’d had more than a dozen. I had accepted it without much argument or thought, just like everything.

  A twelve-year-old’s birthday party. Three girls, spending the night together.

  I didn’t like it.

  Inside, I forced myself to approach Perla and gather her against me for a kiss. She tasted like whipped cream, and I pulled away as soon as it felt long enough.

  “Here.” She held out the cup, and I knew without looking that it would be an Irish coffee, made just how I liked it.

  “Give me just a sec. I need to run upstairs and get one of my heartburn pills.”

  “Sure.” She settled in on one of the couches in front of the windows, tucking her bare foot underneath her as she picked up her own drink. Outside, there was a view of the pool, and from that spot, you could see all three girls and the movie screen.

  “I’ll be right back. You’re watching them?”

  She scoffed. “Yes, Grant. I’m watching them.”

  I didn’t even know why I’d asked. I’d probably feel better if she weren’t. I took the steps two at a time upstairs and grabbed my antacid medication. On my way out, I stopped, then crossed over to her side of the bathroom and pulled open the lowest drawer, withdrawing her Ambien and twisting open the cap.

  I counted it once, then twice, the burn in my chest increasing at the total. Thirteen pills.

  This morning: twenty-two pills. Now: thirteen.

  I returned the bottle to the drawer, being careful to place it exactly as I had found it, then hurried back downstairs.

  Nine missing pills. Where the fuck had nine pills gone to? I thought of the cake and ice cream that the girls had yet to eat, and of the drink that was downstairs, waiting for me.

  Maybe she had tucked the pills away for a special occasion. Or maybe she was doing something with them tonight. But what? And why?

  The number echoed in my head as I took the spot on the couch next to Perla and allowed her to curl into my body. I sipped the Irish coffee, which tasted off, and as soon as I finished it, I excused myself to the bathroom, where I stuck my finger in the back of my throat and vomited it all up.

  Nine missing pills. I sat on the toilet and searched the internet to see how much Ambien it took to kill someone. It was, apparently, the wrong thing to look up, generating a slew of suicide-prevention alerts and websites to click on for help.

  I flushed the toilet, aware that I was taking too long. I checked my watch: 9:47 p.m. Nine probably wouldn’t kill anyone, just knock us all—or at least one of us—out.

  I shouldn’t wait until Monday. Tomorrow, as soon as the girls had been returned to their parents, I was taking Sophie and getting the fuck out of here.