I grabbed his face with both hands, forcing him to look into my eyes. “Go and work,” I ordered. “I can just feel you thinking.”

  He smiled and I returned the gesture, an automatic motion set to On. “Okay.”

  When he was out of the room, I locked the door, then returned to my desk, my own ideas churning.

  I moved to the second column, still crudely labeled as Fake. I needed a better moniker, but for now—for this mental exercise, which I would destroy at completion—it was fine.

  This section was for the story I would create with evidence, misdirection, and testimonials for the press and the police.

  WHO: The original Folcrum Party killer, who wants his rightful place in the limelight and another round in his cat and mouse game.

  I read the line and liked it. Rachel and Gabrielle and their million-plus Murder Unplugged listeners would love it.

  I quickly filled in the same details as before in the What, When, and Where sections. Then, the Why.

  WHY: Because he’s bored, wants the chance to kill again, and to pin this crime on a new scapegoat.

  I laughed out loud, reading that over, because someone, somewhere, would try to poke holes in that and say it wasn’t a valid motive, but I was proof positive that it was. This entire event would be proof positive that it was. Even if I was the only one who understood the true irony of it.

  I sat back and twisted right, then left, in my seat, thinking. It took a while to put the various pieces together in my mind, but then I sat straight up, buoyed with clarity.

  I leaned forward, scanning the faux scenario I would be creating, then printed neatly in the space beside the Who section: Grant.

  Grant. He could be the killer, both then and now. But what would his motive be? I frowned as the legitimacy of the idea started to crumble. I crossed out his name and moved my pen down to the Why section, rereading my note.

  Because he’s bored, wants the chance to kill again, and to pin this crime on a new scapegoat.

  Beside scapegoat, I wrote Grant’s name.

  Why not? If the first Folcrum Party pinned the crime on the father, wouldn’t the recreation do the same?

  Excitement thrummed through me, and I set down my pen and let out a silent shriek of happiness at the sheer genius of it all.

  It would be difficult, the most complicated thing I’d ever set up. Brutal, given that the main victim would be my daughter. Tricky, because if they didn’t see the setup, Grant would be convicted of the crime.

  But I could do it, and if I did it right . . . Leewood would be free. We’d be connected, and then who knew what would happen. With my money and his freedom . . . anything was possible.

  I underlined Grant’s name, cementing his fate in my mind. It didn’t really matter whether he’d be convicted of the crime. Most marriages didn’t survive the loss of a child. Grant and I would part ways, due to his incarceration or our divorce. I’d been toying with the idea of an exit for a while, and this would give me an opportunity to take care of a bunch of to-do items at once.

  Closing my eyes, I quickly went through the execution and then took my time with the aftermath. The attention. The sympathy. A warm glow traveled through my chest at the vision of the crowds that would line our street, the media vans, the pile of flowers and mementos, the front-page articles, the trending hashtags, the soft voices and concerned faces of the interviewers. I would only do one, maybe two. Very high-profile sit-downs, with perfect lighting and a line in the contract that would grant me control over the final edit.

  A small smile tugged at my lips, and I allowed it to come. After all, this would be the cherry on top of all this. I would be wrapped in a warm embrace of the entire nation. How many people were lucky enough to experience that? Only a handful, and I would be one of them.

  Of course, I would need to get rid of my mole before then. I opened my eyes and swiveled in the chair, looking in the dark reflections of the dual computer screens mounted above my second desk. The mole, which sat on the far end of my right cheek, just beside my ear, was my biggest flaw. That, and the hard bridge of my nose. I had considered fixing both in the past, but the surgeries had always been pushed aside for this reason or that.

  But now, looking at my face in the dark glass, it was all I could see. I couldn’t go on prime-time TV looking like this. People were cruel. They became easily fixated on things. I’d be spilling my guts on camera while a fat Kansas housewife laughed at my big nose.

  Forget the crime planning. Top priority was surgery. If I couldn’t complete that in time, I would need to pick someone else’s birthday, which would mess everything up in terms of Grant’s setup and Sophie’s elimination. Hmm. I turned away from my reflection before I began to obsess over it.

  I tapped the screen of my phone and checked the date, then counted off the weeks until Sophie’s birthday. Nine weeks away. Was it enough time?

  Nine weeks. I wrote down the timeline, then added a question mark beside it.

  I started a to-do list, these tasks just as important as the first.

  Nose job.

  Mole removal.

  I ran a hand over my once-flat stomach, then added Liposuction as a third item.

  I looked over my list of whos, whats, when, wheres, and whys, committing it all to memory. Once it was completed, I tore off the page and carried it over to the shredder. Feeding it through, I smiled as I watched the crosscut blades easily chew through the page.

  For the first time in a long while, I was no longer bored.

  CHAPTER 13

  The thing is, I’d just listened to that podcast—the one on the Folcrum Party. And I told Todd—that’s my husband. I told him that was the great thing about living in a place like this, that nothing like that will ever happen here. And he said I was going to jinx us. And look, well, maybe I did.

  —Kelly Schwartz, Brighton Estates homeowner

  In our protected bubble of the world, I was a cookie-cutter version of the other wives. It was a classification I both embraced and detested.

  You could recognize us by our cars—Range Rovers were preferred, but any luxury SUV or six-figure sedan was accepted. Our husbands worked long hours; our kids attended the same elite schools; and if the wife worked, it was in a job like mine, something flexible enough to allow for long lunches at the club, afternoons at the spa, and vacations in Italy or Paris.

  The outliers in the neighborhood—the female execs, the single moms, the internet models . . . they never made it into the inner circle, and it was important to me, from the beginning, to have a place there. Not just a place—a throne. I didn’t come to play unless I could win, and I’d won inside these gates a long time ago.

  Which mattered because these women would be vital in confirming my character and situation. In the aftermath of the party, they’d be questioned by the police about our family. When that day arrived, they needed to give the right answers about Grant, and about me.

  While I was still figuring out those answers, I had no doubt they would deliver on whatever I needed from them. Everyone would. I’d spent years building my reputation, and it was impenetrable in its perfection. Still, a qualified expert would be nice. Someone trustworthy, who could speak to the media and be sworn in on the stand. Someone the jury and public would trust in and believe.

  I needed a manipulatable pawn, preferably one with a lot of initials after their name.

  I had a need, so I found a solution.

  Dr. Leslie Maddox.

  After pulling into the Stony Brook Medical Center, I parked in front of a small bungalow with window boxes full of hot-pink roses. I checked my phone. Twenty minutes early. Not wanting to look too eager, I waited in the vehicle’s cool interior, listening to one of Grant’s playlists as I watched the building’s front door. I flipped past a Gin Blossoms song and started “Glycerine” by Bush. My husband had a nostalgic love of nineties alternative rock.

  Dr. Leslie Maddox had been recommended by Laura, who had used her for marriage counseling, and Tracy, who had raved about her willingness to prescribe Ambien. I’d asked enough questions to arouse their interest, written down the woman’s name and number in front of them, and then abruptly changed the subject.

  Breadcrumbs. Lay enough of them down on the ground, and even the stupidest of animals will find their way. I needed a trail of breadcrumbs that would create doubt and suspicion around my husband, for the women in my neighborhood to gobble up like Vicodin.

  We’d see how easily Dr. Maddox took the bait. I almost hoped she was savvy. It’d be nice to have some sort of a challenge in this game.

  When the clock on the dash ticked to five minutes prior to my appointment, I turned off the engine and opened the heavy vehicle door.

  “So . . .” Dr. Maddox tucked one blue-bottomed ballet flat under her thigh. “You’re married, right? You said you were married?”

  “Yes.” I tried not to bite out the word.

  “Oh, that’s right, I wrote it here. ‘Married to Grant.’ Oh whillikers, married thirteen years.” There was a twang of Midwest in her voice, and that, paired with the mousy-brown curls that reached her shoulders, the tiny gold hoop earrings in her ears, and the floral Apple watchband that bisected her chubby wrist, completed the caricature.

  No one had mentioned she was a hick, and while I liked the low-hanging fruit, I wasn’t sure how much confidence she’d invoke on the stand.

  “I do marriage counseling also, just in case you ever have need of that.”

  “Yes, I saw that on your website. Your expertise is one of the reasons I picked you.” That, and her immediate availability. Her calendar had more spots than a teenage boy’s face, and I had been able to book a session for the following day.

  “No pressure, of course—and that’s not why you’re here, right?” She didn’t wait for me to respond. “Now, let’s talk about you.” She adjusted her red plastic eyeglasses with one hand and beamed at me. “What is there to know about Perla Wultz?”

  “Well, I work from home, managing our family’s apartment complexes. I have a daughter, Sophie.” I delivered that idiotic smile parents revert to when they speak of their children. “She’s, um—well, she’s the light of my life. I’m sure every parent says that.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised.” She had her pen out, writing in a yellow spiral-bound notebook. I looked past her to her bookshelf, where there was a long line of these notebooks, organized by color, and wondered what yellow meant.

  “What kind of a girl is Sophie? How old?”

  “She’s eleven. Very smart. She should be, especially with Grant as a parent. Creative. Funny.”

  “Do you consider Grant to be smarter than you?” She tilted her head and blinked at me in an uncanny impression of an owl.

  I weighed the possible answers, taking my time and knowing that the longer I stalled, the more unsure and insecure I would seem. Good. I needed those pieces of the picture to compete with the arrogance I knew could potentially seep out.

  That would be my downfall, if any. My cockiness. Of course, I was already ahead of that train. My confidence in my ability to handle that risk . . . the irony wasn’t lost on me, and I stifled a smirk at the thought. Smirks didn’t belong here. No smirks, no eye rolls. I needed to be a concerned mother and wife, just waiting for this professional to unlock “all” my secrets.

  It was laughable, the idea that Dr. Maddox would scrape anything out of me. For her efforts, I had manufactured two juicy tidbits, ones I would place close to the surface and release easily once prodded.

  The first would be that my husband had a growing obsession with the Folcrum Party murders.

  The second would be that he was displaying increasingly odd and erratic behavior.

  Both had little to no potential blowback for me, but would serve well in complicating the investigation into Sophie’s birthday-party events. And that’s really all I needed. To keep the cops juggling enough balls that they wouldn’t have the time—or desire—to look for another one. I would go unnoticed as a potential suspect while reaping all the rewards of a grieving mother.

  Out of all the roles I had ever played, it would be the most important, and I had no doubt of my ability to perform it.

  “Perla?” Dr. Maddox prodded.

  “Is Grant smarter than me?” I straightened in my seat. “Well, in some areas.” I let my voice warm with pride. “Grant is a genius when it comes to math and computers. Sophie certainly got his aptitude for learning.”

  “In your intake application, you said that your husband was one of the things you wanted to talk about.” She hooked her pen through the notepad’s circular spine and lifted her chin, meeting my eyes. She did have pretty eyes. Bright green—like Kitty, God rest her soul. “What’s going on there?”

  “What’s going on?” I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and realized we might reach the finish line of this to-do item quicker than I had anticipated. Talk about a sledgehammer versus a surgical knife. “That’s a deep well to drop down. I just . . . I have some concerns. Probably silly stuff, really. I guess it finally feels like the right time to talk to someone and see if I’m crazy.”

  “Why are you worried about him?” The pen was staying in place and I had her full attention, which was good. She didn’t realize it now, but I was going to make her famous. She’d end up writing a book about Grant and me, once I gave her permission to share the story. It would become a New York Times bestseller, with copies in every bookstore window.

  “Well, I’m not even sure I should say.” I looked helplessly toward her door, then at the clock on the wall beside us. Not even fifteen minutes into the half-hour session. “I mean, it’s probably just me being paranoid.”

  “Well now, sometimes being paranoid is a good thing. It causes us to keep our eyes open. To see more.” She smiled encouragingly. “So go on. That’s why you’re here, right? To see if your concerns have validation?”

  Like leading a lamb to the slaughter.

  I cleared my throat and knotted my hands in my lap, my mind flip-flopping over how far to push the envelope in this initial session. “There’s a side of my husband,” I said carefully, “that scares me.”

  From: tfk@hotmail.com

  To: info@murderunplugged.com

  Date: June 15 at 10:34 AM

  Subject: hello

  Thirty days has September

  April June and November

  I framed a Folcrum in December

  The next event all will remember

  CHAPTER 14

  LEEWOOD FOLCRUM

  INMATE 82145

  I was Jenny Folcrum’s friend in middle school. I came over to her house one day after school and her dad was home, working out in the yard. He had this motorcycle, and he offered to take me around the block. Said we could go down to the gas station at the corner and he’d buy me some candy. I did it and he held me really tight the entire time, like pressing me against his body. Jenny didn’t invite me over again after that, which was fine because he had kind of creeped me out. There was definitely something wrong with him. I never told anyone about that, and maybe it’s not important. I just thought that maybe it was.

  —Christina Shutter, orthodontist

  Hi, Leewood,

  Last night I watched my wife sleep and thought of you. I thought of all of the ways that your actions, now over twenty years ago, are still affecting me today. I guess, in some sort of way, you brought her and me together. We have both been through traumatic loss. Bonded over it. Looked into each other’s soul and recognized the sadness there.

  Grief does strange things to people. For some, it weakens them. For others, it makes them stronger. Harder. That’s what my sister’s death did to me. It fortified me with a potent combination of grief and rage.

  I thought it would get easier with time, but the wound has only festered. Because of you, I look for evil everywhere. I doubt the words out of my wife’s mouth, the motivations of a stranger, the supposedly innocent offers of a friend.

  You spent over thirty years on this earth before you killed someone. Thirty years existing without feeling the need to destroy someone’s world.

  Maybe we’re all just psychopaths waiting for our trigger.

  Or maybe you killed earlier in life and no one ever caught you.

  Which is it, Leewood?

  The Arby’s Roast Beef ’N Cheddar sandwich wasn’t hot, but it still tasted like heaven on a bun. I ate it slowly, and when a drop of sauce hit the table, I wiped it up with my finger and sucked on the digit. Dr. Timothy Valden watched, his mouth turning down on one side.

  I didn’t care. I’m not sure my manners prior to getting incarcerated were anything to brag about, but shitting in front of strangers for two decades could make any man lose his inclination to give a damn about manners.

  “So, I thought we’d start with what your life was like that spring. The spring of Jenny’s birthday party.”

  I ignored the statement, holding the sandwich with one hand while I stuffed a curly fry into my mouth. It was limp but salty, and I closed my eyes as I chewed, savoring the flavor.

  “Mr. Folcrum?” he prodded.

  I opened one eye. “I haven’t had one of these in over two decades. Shut up and let me enjoy it.”

  “And then we’ll talk?”

  I took another bite of the sandwich in response. As I chewed, I studied him. Today, he was in a collared cotton shirt, the kind with two buttons at the top. White. I raised up and tilted to one side until I could see the rest of his outfit. Blue-striped pants with loafers. Guy was probably born into money and planned to sit in classrooms until he was fifty, then move to the front of them.

  He seemed old to be in college. Forty, probably. I took a sip of the root beer and swallowed. “You got a job, Timmy? Or do you just go to school full-time?”

  He stiffens. “I’m in finance. Well, I was. I took a break to go back to school. Why?”