CHAPTER 74

  PERLA

  I stood at my sink and spread an antiaging serum across the planes of my face. Humming softly to myself, I squeezed out a dab of under-eye cream, then patted it under each eye.

  On the opposite side of the bathroom, Grant flossed. After dropping the first string of floss into the trash can, he pulled out a second. “You seem happy,” he observed.

  “Oh, I just love parties.” I pulled open the large top drawer and selected my lip moisturizer. I unscrewed the cap and looked in the mirror as I swiped it over both lips.

  He put down the floss. “What do you mean?”

  It was such an odd question that I turned, meeting his gaze in the mirror. “What do you mean, what do I mean?” I laughed. “It’s a party, Grant. Who doesn’t like them? Sophie seems to be having a great time.”

  “Well, maybe I’m sensitive, but we don’t have a good track record with birthday parties, especially twelfth ones.”

  I grimaced, then crossed the wide expanse and wrapped my arms around his torso. Squeezing him, I rested my head against his chest as I inhaled his scent. “Well, this one is our chance at a do-over.”

  It would be a do-over. An improve-over.

  He pushed me away. It was so unlike him that I gawked, shocked at the rejection. “Let’s just get through the night. I’ve got a ton of work I need to get back to.” He yawned. “And I’m suddenly exhausted.”

  I grinned, surprised the Ambien had taken this long to work. Granted, he was a hundred pounds bigger than Sophie, which was why I’d used three pills instead of two.

  I followed him into his closet, leaning against the doorframe and watching as he changed out of his work clothes. “You should text Paige and thank her for all of her efforts. She really worked her butt off, getting everything set up.”

  “Yeah, I’m not going to do that, Perla.”

  I stared at him, trying to understand where the attitude was coming from after fourteen years of compliancy. “What’s wrong with you?”

  He unbuttoned his shirt and said nothing, yanking it off his shoulders before dropping it into the hamper and selecting a clean white V-neck from the stack. “I just feel like you never think about it.” His words slurred a little, and I tried not to grin. Hopefully, he’d make it to the bed before he fell out.

  “Think about what, the birthday party?” I asked.

  He shot me an irritated look as he unbuckled his belt and pulled it through the loops. “Yes, Perla. The birthday party.”

  “I think about it all the time,” I said, and it was probably the most truthful statement I’d ever given him.

  “Well, you don’t act like it.”

  “What’s with you?” I glared at him. “Is it a crime to enjoy our daughter’s birthday?”

  He sighed, and it was like watching a balloon deflate. “I’m sorry. I’m just stressed out about work.”

  “Well, don’t take it out on me,” I warned him sharply. “Come on, let’s get you in bed before you fall asleep on your feet.” The girls’ movie was already over, and they were getting into their pajamas now and crawling into Sophie’s giant king-size bed. I’d spiked their ice cream with the pills, so they’d all be asleep within minutes. I’d give everything a few hours, just to be safe, and then the house would be my personal playground. I looked down at my smartwatch, which was set to vibrate, and set the alarm for 1:00 a.m.

  Moving to my side of the bed, I crawled under the covers and rolled away from him. “Night.”

  “Good night.” He shuffled into the room, the mattress shifting as he got on his side.

  I closed my eyes and, within minutes, fell asleep.

  CHAPTER 75

  GRANT

  I lay in bed next to Perla for hours, my mind whirring through possible scenarios for escape. If she needed to, all our cars likely had the ability to be tracked, except for the vintage Porsche, though she had put one of those Apple AirTags in it somewhere. That was okay—I could probably find and disable that from my phone. And I could turn off my phone’s location, which I did every time I went to the prison, so that was already second nature to me. I’d toss Sophie’s phone or leave it behind. In fact, I should get rid of mine, too, and just start fresh with new phones.

  A light buzzing sounded, and I froze in place as Perla sat up on her side of the bed and stretched, then eased out.

  I closed my eyes as she came around the foot of the bed. There were the soft sounds of an approach, and then the blanket shifted and her hair tickled my arm as she leaned over and loudly whispered my name. “Grant.”

  I didn’t move, attempting to keep my breathing regular and wondering what she was doing.

  “Grant,” she said, louder, and then she poked me in the shoulder. Despite every instinct to open my eyes, I didn’t.

  She left, and I waited until I heard noises in her closet, then peeked. She reappeared in the doorway of the walk-in, dressed in all black, a large shopping bag in hand.

  Maybe I didn’t have to leave her. Maybe she was leaving me.

  I heard the bedroom door open; then she left our suite. I counted to ten before I sat up and reached for my cell. It wasn’t on the bedside table, so I groped for the charging cord, then followed it, looking for the phone.

  My search came up empty. Perla had taken it. Not good.

  I snuck out of bed, then crept to the door and eased it open, looking into the hall.

  Perla was coming toward me from the direction of Sophie’s room. I jerked backward and was about to hurry back to bed when she turned at the staircase and headed downstairs.

  Sticking my head out, I listened to her jog down the stairs. Easing out into the hall, I tried to track her movement on the lower floor. Perla had come from Sophie’s direction, and I softly moved forward, wanting to look in on the girls. She had only been down there for a moment. Too quickly for anything to happen, yet I had to know my daughter was okay.

  Approaching Sophie’s room was like the opening act of a horror movie. The happy streamers and balloons around the double doors, the HAPPY BIRTHDAY sign . . . I halted halfway down the hall and realized the decor was eerily reminiscent of the front door to Jenny Folcrum’s house on the night of her party. Similar banner, streamers, and balloons. Of course, Sophie’s were elaborate and well done, while Jenny’s had been hand-drawn letters on construction paper, affixed to the trailer’s walls with Scotch tape. Her balloons had been half-deflated, the single strand of streamers limp and sad by the next morning, when the crime scene investigators photographed the house.

  Perla’s bag was in the middle of the hall, and I crouched beside it and looked in.

  It was a collection from hell, most of the contents present at my sister’s crime scene. A Ouija board, cupcakes, cards, and there . . . I saw a long knife blade and backed away from the bag. There was no reason for any of this to be here, and my stomach knotted with a nausea-inducing blend of fear and rage.

  From downstairs, I heard a noise and froze, listening as the front door swung open. What the . . . I quickly walked back to the landing and peered over the railing just in time to see Perla exit through the front door and pull it shut behind her.

  CHAPTER 76

  PERLA

  Everything was going perfectly, and I hummed a little under my breath as I pulled the front door tight and skipped down the front steps. The girls and Grant were zonked out, my props were all un-documentable or linked to Grant or Paige, and now I just needed to set the final wheels into motion. I spun on one heel, looking back toward the dark house, my gaze drifting over the security cameras installed in the eaves—all turned off a few minutes ago with Grant’s phone app. A shiver of excitement ran through me at how brilliantly I had orchestrated all this. It was like the final twists and turns of a Rubik’s Cube. Click. Click. Click. Everything finally matching up, confirming my superior level of intelligence.

  I pulled out Grant’s phone as I started down our driveway and made a call to Paige, hanging up as soon as she answered. Then I composed and sent a series of rapid-fire texts.

  Everything is going wrong. I need you to come to the house.

  Did you get this?

  Come A.S.A.P.

  The front door may be unlocked, if not, use your code.

  Please be quiet and meet me in Sophie’s room. Perla is asleep. Hurry.

  In ten minutes, I’d send a follow-up text. Something along the lines of . . . Nevermind. I handled it. Go back home, we’re in the clear.

  I had originally thought that an entry of Paige’s gate code close to the time of death would be enough to implicate her, but without knowing where she was or what she was doing tonight, it was too risky. With my luck, she was currently live streaming on social media, with a thousand online idiots able to verify her alibi. So getting her headed this way would help negate or excuse that possibility.

  I also sent an email to tfk@hotmail.com. Just one line, but enough to hang my husband.

  Everything is in place.

  Maybe it was overkill, but maybe it wasn’t. I’d never seen someone get off because there was too much evidence against them.

  CHAPTER 77

  GRANT

  The minute the front door latched into place behind Perla, I sprinted down the hall and into Sophie’s room.

  The lights were off, the girls in bed, a night-light bathing the room in a gentle peach glow. I ran to the bed and leaned over to examine the girls, then shook Sophie. She was slow to wake up, unnaturally slow, and I shook her harder. “Sophie,” I said loudly. When she finally opened her eyes, they were heavy, her pupils unfocused. Shit. Nine Ambien. Four of us.

  “Wake up,” I said urgently. “There’s someone in the house. Someone bad. I need you to help me wake up the girls and get them onto the balcony, then crawl down—the way we did when we practiced the fire drill, remember?”

  “What?” she said, pushing herself up, then flopping back down. “Dad, I’m tired.”

  I shook her harder, so hard that her head snapped back and she winced in pain. “Sophie, wake up. This is very, very important. Listen to me carefully.” I repeated the instructions, shaking her every time her eyes began to close. “Do you understand?” I asked her.

  “Yeah.” She yawned. “And then what do we do?”

  “Wait for me behind the tree of the tree house. Just lay there on the ground and be quiet. Wait until I come and get you, okay?”

  She nodded and yawned again. “Okay. Go on the balcony, crawl down. Lay behind the tree house.”

  “You need to be very, very quiet when you do it, do you understand? As silent as possible.”

  “Okay.” She leaned over and poked Mandolin in the side. The girl didn’t move.

  I circled to the other side of the bed and roughly shook Bridget, then Mandolin. “Wake up, girls,” I said loudly. “Come on. Now. Get up and hurry.”

  They both complained, and Bridget rolled onto her stomach and tried to pull the comforter over her head.

  “Here, you can each take a pillow. Lay down there and go back to sleep.”

  I opened the balcony door, frantically gesturing them through, and watched, my heart in my throat, as they trudged to the far end of the balcony. Sophie’s room faced the back of the house, but I didn’t know what Perla was doing or how quickly she’d be back. As long as Sophie followed my directions, they should be out of sight, but my heartbeat was still running at full sprint through my chest.

  Sophie swung her pajama-panted leg over the railing and onto the flat roof. It wasn’t ideal, the girls walking along the roof and over to the oak tree, which they would need to climb down to the ground, but it was doable. We had made a game of it when we’d practiced the fire drills, and Sophie had done it in less than a minute.

  Our eyes met and she looked more alert. “Be careful,” I said quietly.

  “I got this, Dad. We’re good.”

  “I love you,” I whispered, aware that it might be the last time I had the chance to tell her.

  “Love you too.” She gestured for me to go, and I hurried back inside. Her bed was glaringly empty, so I snatched at the pillows, stuffing them into body-size shapes under the covers.

  Perla would be coming back. Whatever she was doing in the front yard—Disabling the gate? Hiding the keys to our cars?—she would be back, and then . . . what?

  I already knew the answer to that. I’d seen the knife in the bag. The props she planned to use. She hadn’t changed. She had just grown older and smarter.

  There was a sound downstairs, and I froze, then carefully sprint-walked to the bedroom door and put my ear to the open crack, listening. The front door clicked shut.

  She was back.

  It was interesting that my wife, even as she navigated this descent into hell, took the time to remove her shoes. I heard the entry bench creak as she sat down on it. I knew exactly what she was doing. Removing the right, then the left. Pulling the laces tight and tucking them into the shoes before she opened the door to the coat closet and placed them on the appropriate shelf.

  That gave me a minute, at most. I moved frantically around the room, making sure that the balcony door was closed, its curtains drawn, the bed realistically full. I considered bolting out of the room, but I needed to see whatever it was that Perla was about to do. My gaze ping-ponged around the room, looking for a hiding spot, and I hurried over to Sophie’s closet, where I eased in, pulling the door until it was ajar just a crack.

  Placing my eye to the opening, I softened my breathing and waited. My heart felt like it was galloping inside my chest, and I placed my hand on it, willing it to slow down.

  The bedroom door eased open, and I watched as my wife stepped into our daughter’s bedroom. She nudged the door shut with her heel and was pulling on tight latex gloves as she approached the open area beside the bed. She had the bag, which she set on the floor, then straightened, a clear package in hand. She unfolded it, revealing a clear jumpsuit, and pulled it on over her clothing, then zipped it up, tucking her hair into its cap and tightening the neckline of it. She had booties also, and my concern bloomed as she pulled them over her socks.

  It was a kill suit. She looked like the serial killer on one of those shows she loved, and as much as my optimistic mind tried desperately to find some other reason for her to be donning this protective garment, only one made sense. She didn’t want blood spatter to get on her, or her DNA to get on one of these beautiful, precious girls.

  The next thing out of the bag was a white blanket, which she unfurled like a flag before crouching to let it settle across the open wood floor. The familiar item made me instantly nauseous. I closed my eyes, trying to breathe as quietly as possible while fighting away the crime scene images I always associated with that fabric.

  Lucy’s hand, outstretched, her palm streaked with blood.

  Her hair, matted and mussed, in a red, sticky pool.

  Her knees splayed, the soft blue sleep shorts gaping open at the legs, showing a peek of yellow underwear.

  Perla straightened out the corners of the blanket, then returned to the shopping bag, where she pulled out a few more items, placing them down on the blanket. I knew what they were, even with the dim light and my limited view. A Ouija board. Cupcakes. Playing cards. She stood, moved the bag to the side, and withdrew the final item, one that flashed in the dim glow of Sophie’s night-light. A long and skinny knife.

  Oh God. She was going to put the girls on the blanket and then kill them all. Maybe leave our daughter’s neck half-intact, just to make the recreation as accurate as possible. But then what? Hope that I woke up from their screams? Rushed in and get caught red-handed, like Leewood?

  Unlike Leewood, I wouldn’t lie for her. Keep a stoic silence and serve decades behind bars. I would crucify her, but she had to know that—which meant I was probably the final victim of this insane plan.

  She crept forward, and if I was going to do anything, I needed to do it now while she was distracted and focused on the bed. Once she realized the girls weren’t there, she’d be on the defense and I’d be a sitting duck in a closet, without a way to defend myself.

  I opened the door and rushed toward her.

  I grabbed her from behind, one arm locked across her chest, the other wrapped in a monkey grip around the wrist of the hand holding the knife. She didn’t release it. She bucked back against me, attempting to free herself as she squirmed in my grasp.

  “Stop it, Perla.” I spoke in her ear, my voice low.

  “What are you—” She sagged against me and let out a strangled cry of relief. “Shit, Grant, you scared the shit out of me. What are you doing?”

  “I’m stopping you.” I squeezed her wrist harder. “Drop the knife, Perla.”

  “Okay, I will, just let me go. Jesus, is this a sexual thing?” she hissed. “Because it seems a little late in our marriage to play a Dom.”

  “You can’t kill them, Perla. I won’t let you do it.”

  “Kill who? Grant, what are you talking about?” She suddenly raised her foot sharply, and her heel hit the most sensitive part of my nuts. The air in my chest released in a sudden oomph of pain, and I staggered back, my grip loosening on her. She spun around and raised the knife, rushing forward, and if I’d ever had any doubt, it vanished in the moment our eyes locked and I saw the dead vacancy there. No emotion about the decision to kill her husband. No torment over the act she had come into this room to commit.

  I grabbed her arm, stopping the downward slash of the knife, then twisted the appendage behind her back, yanking it upward. She gasped out a cry of pain. “Okay, okay, please, please, Grant, stop. That hurts.”

  “You were about to kill our daughter.”

  “I wasn’t,” she protested.

  I closed my hand over her latex-gloved fist, keeping it pinned to the knife. “Tell me the truth, or I will kill you.”

  “You won’t,” she choked out.

  “I will, because I know the truth about Lucy.”

  She went very still at that. There was a full-page confession in that silence.