by Sara Shepard
But the meeting isn’t about North. It’s about their children. Actually, more specifically, it’s about them. You’re watching each and every one of them, looking for inconsistencies, looking for cracks in your perfect façade. And then, you notice something. A few somethings. And a shiver runs through you.
You nudge Carson, and he slides over, standing just behind you so you can speak quietly without raising any alarm. “Look,” you say quietly. One is your kindergarten teacher’s way-too-sexy girlfriend. The other is the tall blonde with the enviable cheekbones.
Carson is dubious, even after you explain your case. “You think they know?” he asks.
“Did you vet them?”
“I didn’t think I had to.”
But maybe their newness is preferable, you think. At least they aren’t as ingrained in the community, with tons of friends and connections.
Carson is shifting behind you. “You want them out?”
You nod. You’ll let Carson handle this. He’s always gotten his hands dirty for you.
But you continue to watch them as the tall one passes the coffee mug back to Lane’s girlfriend. They’re standing with that third woman, too, the blowsy one who made you uneasy in a way you didn’t quite understand. Something irked you about her as soon as you met. The way she thought North was Carson. There is something else about her you can’t put your finger on.
You tip back to Carson, who no doubt is already laying out the chess moves to execute a plan. “Actually, her, too,” you murmur, gesturing to Lauren as she knocks back her coffee.
“Because she’s talking to them?” Carson is dubious.
It’s warm in the loft. The air smells pleasantly of coffee and powdered sugar. You can smell Carson’s soap, too, a sporty blend you gifted him from Kiehl’s. “We can’t be too careful,” you tell him.
Carson nods. “Whatever you say, boss.”
You shoot him a smile, and he slips from the loft, and then you feel better. Plans are in place. Weeds are going to be pulled. You’re this close to coming out of the woods, to reclaiming your kingdom. And you’re not about to let it slip between your fingers.
Nineteen
One, two, three . . .” Andrea looked at Arthur. “What comes after three?”
“Shoe?” Arthur asked.
“Ha-ha, very funny.” She wrote the number three on the piece of construction paper. “What’s after three?”
“Four!” Arthur cried triumphantly.
“Yes! Good!” Andrea pulled her little boy in close. He smelled like sunshine and shampoo. This was lovely. Maybe she could just teach him full-time. She thought of how her mother said homeschooling was a selfish travesty and that children grew up socially deranged and ill-equipped for the real world, but what the hell did Cynthia know?
But as though reading her mind, Arthur whined, “Why didn’t I go to school today?”
“Well, because it’s Saturday,” Andrea said, deflecting. She capped the marker and popped it back into the pencil box. “Are you sure school is a happy place for you?”
“My room has cool diggers. I want to play with the car carrier.”
“Yes, but . . .” How to talk to a child this small? What could she say? What should she leave out? “What would happen if the kids started making fun of you because Mommy’s . . . you know? Different?” She took a breath. “We’ve talked about how we’ve—I’ve—gone through some changes. How I’m not like other moms.”
That drawing was burned in her brain. That X through her body. She’d described it to Jerry. He’d been quiet about it—the same kind of dazed quiet as he’d been the other day, which made her wonder if his mind was starting to jumble. He’d repeated that the drawing Andrea had found was horrible and insidious and perhaps indicative of something very, very wrong happening within the school . . . but it also gave her great motive to hurt Piper. He promised to dig in more. He’d also mentioned that he hadn’t yet found a reporter who’d figured out Andrea’s identity. “Is it possible someone else told your mom?” he asked. “Maybe someone posing as a reporter?”
But who would that be?
Arthur shrugged. “All people are different. Miss Piper says that. Everyone is neek.”
“Neek?” Andrea frowned. Then she got it. “Oh. Unique. Piper said that?”
“Miss Piper. Mr. Carson, too.”
Andrea hadn’t been aware that Piper visited classrooms and gave talks about acceptance. Carson was even more surprising. Wasn’t he just an administrative assistant?
“Do Mr. Carson and Miss Piper seem like they’re friends?” she asked Arthur. “Like really good buddies, like you are with some of your buddies at school, or Reginald?”
Arthur thought about this for a beat, then said, “Uh-huh.”
Andrea thought about how Carson kept popping into Piper’s office when she was meeting with her. And how he seemed invested in the documentary—proud of it, even. Maybe he was more involved in the school than she thought. Maybe he was closer with Piper, too. She thought of the empty office they’d passed on the way to Piper’s that day. On the Facebook group, it had been reported that Carson, along with the rest of the staff eventually, had been interviewed about their whereabouts when the attack went down. Carson had been near the playground, tending to the new garden the kids had planted. He only came running when he heard the bellowing security guard.
But had anyone seen him? Could he have something against Piper? Only, what would his motive be?
“Baby, I’ll be right back,” she said, ruffling Arthur’s hair and walking to her laptop, which was open at the kitchen bar.
She clicked to the Silver Swans website. Carson Dillard, office manager, read his name in the directory. Below his name was a headshot of Carson giving a slightly snooty half-smile. Andrea had typed his name into Google; up came a few social media profiles. On Facebook, Carson posted pictures of himself with two small, fluffy white dogs; all the likes came from other members of his family and people who, through more clicking, had gone to high school with Carson in a very tiny town in Idaho. Andrea dug deeper. Carson’s parents were lumpy, badly aging people with troubling dental hygiene. His father wore a lot of camo. His mother sold Young Living essential oils. Some of their posts were political. They seemed . . . poor, actually.
But the image Carson was trying to present of himself in Raisin Beach was far from that. There were posts of a groomed Carson next to Piper at school functions, dinners, conferences. Sometimes, in his captions, he described himself as a “deputy director” of the school, or the “marketing director,” or once, simply “VP.” He was inflating his duties there, Andrea thought. Trying to make his life out to be even better than it was. Distancing himself from his roots.
More recently, there were other photos of Carson posing in front of an Audi S-class, sleek with fresh wax. How does one pay for an Audi S-class on an office manager salary? Andrea wondered—but maybe he was heavily in debt, again to reinvent himself into someone from a different class. He was also really into mirror selfies and posting how many reps he’d done in a newly acquired boot camp routine. Andrea clicked on the groups he belonged to: Louis Vuitton Fan Club, Audi Enthusiasts of America, and Triple-L Farms, which, Andrea learned upon clicking, sold cuts of Wagyu beef for $99 a steak.
She texted the other women. Carson Dillard’s family are bow-hunting Trump supporters. Then she included a picture of Carson posing next to his Audi.
If that was my family, I’d want to escape them, too, Lauren wrote back.
And Ronnie said, How does an office assistant afford an Audi?
Exactly! Andrea replied.
Andrea wished there was someone else in the office to call for questions, but as far as she knew, Carson and Piper ran Silver Swans as a two-person team. There was a parent-heavy board of directors, but they seemed to only step in for audits and approvals—half of the people didn’t
even live in Raisin Beach. Could she call another teacher, maybe? But what teacher would even tell her anything at this point, especially if they had an inkling she’d been one of the moms found in that hallway?
She looked up Piper’s social media, but Piper’s Facebook and Instagram—she didn’t have a Twitter account—were carefully curated to the Silver Swans brand. On Instagram, Piper posed with teachers, parents, students, and quasi-famous people who popped in to give lectures. She ran parenting groups on Facebook. Andrea scrolled back through her account, curious if Piper had always been so polished and together, but both her accounts had been created five years before, right around the time she started at Silver Swans.
Who was Piper before that? There were a few posts of her son, but they were mostly school pictures, nothing candid.
Her phone beeped, and her heart jumped as it had done regularly since she’d been at the police station. Lauren had sent another text to both Andrea and Ronnie. So get this. I think the Jean from Piper’s email is a dude. Jean, like Les Miz’s Jean Valjean.
Interesting, Andrea wrote back. Did you find out anything else?
He’s an exec at Hulu. The documentary is still happening. But Hulu etc. dropped out.
A text from Ronnie appeared. Wow. Because of Piper being attacked?
Nope. It happened before the attack. This producer I talked to says Hulu etc. left because of some sort of issue with Piper.
Like what? Andrea typed.
I don’t know what. Also, when I asked how the doc was being funded, the producer said that Piper was paying for it herself. But don’t documentaries cost a lot?
Andrea popped her head back into the living room to check on Arthur—he was looking at something in a heavy Richard Scarry picture book. It wasn’t unthinkable to produce a documentary yourself. People in her father’s circle put up cash to make films all the time. One had gone on to become a quasi-important producer, handing over tons of money until he finally got a film that did modestly well at the box office. Perhaps Piper was just drawing from private savings. What was weird, though, was that she hadn’t been honest with the parents about Hulu dropping out. You’d think they would have gotten an email, something.
Had she pretended that Hulu was still involved because there was more cache? Maybe. Yet if they’d dropped out because of something simple—funding problems, a change higher up, scheduling conflicts—you’d think Piper would explain that away.
Her phone pinged. Ronnie had asked Lauren, Have you found a way to contact Jean? Do you think he has something to do with this?
Lauren wrote back: Not sure, but the producer did say Jean spoke with the cops. You’d think they’d have interviewed him about his alibi.
Yes, Andrea thought, but did that police station have the bandwidth to follow up? The three of them seemed to have gathered more clues at this point.
“Mommy?” Arthur called out.
When she turned, Arthur was behind her. Andrea tousled his hair. “What’s up?”
“Door,” Arthur said.
“Door?” She cast her mind back to what they were thinking about. “No, four comes after three, honey. Remember?”
“No, someone at the door.” Arthur’s face brightened. “Reginald!”
“Wha—?” Andrea murmured, rising to her feet. And then—oh. The date they’d arranged in the bookstore. It felt like a million years ago. Reginald shifted behind the glass.
“I’m sorry,” Andrea blurted when she pulled the door open. “There’s been some crazy stuff going on, and I completely forgot.”
“Reginald!” Arthur said at the same time, running for him.
“Hey, buddy!” Reginald opened his arms, and Arthur ran straight in. “How’ve you been?”
“I cut my finger today, and I got a Star Wars Band-Aid,” Arthur said with great importance.
Andrea looked at Reginald. “I’m such a flake. I’m not dressed, I didn’t get a sitter . . .”
“It’s not a big deal,” Reginald said. “Arthur can always come with us.”
It was a beautiful evening. The sunset would probably draw the community to restaurants with patios. Andrea imagined walking into a restaurant and having all those heads turn. Raisin Beach wasn’t that big.
Reginald seemed to sense her hesitation. “Or . . . we could eat in. Hang out with Arthur here. There’s always Postmates.”
“Postmates! Postmates!” Arthur whooped, even though Andrea was pretty sure he had no idea what Postmates was.
The unbridled glee on his face made her burst out laughing, and so she said, “Okay. Sure. Let’s do it.”
* * *
• • •
Forty-five minutes later, they were surrounded by cartons and bowls of half-eaten Thai and a half-finished bottle of rosé. Andrea leaned back in her chair and shut her eyes. “That was delicious.”
Arthur wiped his hands on a napkin and looked longingly at his iPad, which was docked on a charger. “It’s okay,” Andrea said. “Go ahead.” Arthur had bravely tried a spring roll—probably for Reginald’s benefit—and he’d been so good through dinner, not leaping up after every bite and racing around the room. Plus, she was nervous. The conversation with Reginald was flowing so naturally, ranging from games they’d liked to play as children to podcasts they’d recently gotten into to funny anecdotes about Arthur when they’d first moved to California. “I brought him to LA, and he was obsessed with the seediest parts of Hollywood,” Andrea had said. “I tried to tell him that there were far nicer spots in the city, but how does the Chateau Marmont compare to Hollywood and Highland?”
“All those stars on the sidewalk,” Reginald added. “And all those junk shops.”
“And the sex shops,” Andrea blurted, and then felt heat in her cheeks. “Sorry,” she added quickly.
Reginald had given her a sly, almost grateful look, like he was pleased that she’d welcomed sex talk into the room.
Andrea shifted positions. “Anyway,” she went on, “this has been a nice little adventure for us, I have to say.”
Reginald placed his chopsticks back into the foil container. “Adventure,” he repeated. “Does that mean this”—he waved his hands around the large room—“is a temporary thing?”
“It’s working for now,” Andrea said with a shrug. “We needed a change.”
“Change is good,” Reginald said. He looked at her carefully. “Hey, what about that stuff at school? With the teacher?”
Andrea crossed one leg over the other. It was amazing how much could transpire in a matter of days.
“Did you confront her?” Reginald went on.
It was amazing he didn’t know. Andrea was so used to living in her bubble she’d forgotten there were worlds outside it. “Um, sort of,” she said. “I’ve pretty much ruled out that Arthur didn’t draw that picture, that’s for sure.”
“See? I told you.” He hugged his knees. “Who did?”
She couldn’t tell him. The story was too insane. Maybe too scary. Also, she didn’t want to drag him in further, make him some sort of accessory. “I don’t know for sure, but I’m trusting my gut.”
“Well, good for you.” He poured more wine into her glass. “Here’s to instinct. And to making big changes.” After they toasted, he added, “I’ve made changes in my life, too. Not quite so recently, but still.”
“Oh? How?”
He sipped again. “Well, for about ten years, I didn’t speak to my mom. I traveled, stayed as far away from her as I could, didn’t leave forwarding numbers, probably worried her sick.” Then he frowned. “Well, maybe I didn’t worry her sick, actually, because she’s not really the type to worry.”
“You just . . . traveled around?”
“Camped. Made friends, stayed on couches. Picked up random jobs in random cities. I saw a lot of the country. It wasn’t so bad.”
“All to
stay away from your mom?”
“And to calm the noise in my head.” He wiped his mouth. “She’s . . . difficult. My father was a good guy, but he passed away when I was seventeen. But my mom . . .” He sighed. “I just never felt like she really liked me. It was always about her struggles, her pain. I always felt like a disappointment.”
“I’m sorry,” Andrea said softly.
When Reginald looked up again, his eyes had a sheen. Not with tears, exactly, but of contemplation. “God. Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring the conversation down.”
“It’s okay.” Andrea had no idea when someone had last opened up to her—besides Lauren and Ronnie. Was this a date? Well, of course it was a date—she was a woman, he was a man. Andrea had firsthand knowledge; men didn’t usually hang out with women and their four-year-old sons and start talking about their mothers unless they had more intimate motives, no matter how nice they were.
But where did she play in all this?
Teenage Andrea had had sex with girls because it was expected. It had been easy to say yes, and she’d been fascinated with their bodies—but also bereft, in a way, because theirs were bodies she wanted. Once Andrea had begun taking hormones, though, she looked at men differently. Men passing on the street, men gliding into restaurants, men on TV—they all enticed her, and she began to form fantasies. She’d read about how sexuality could flip-flop after transitioning; it was more common than one thought. But still, it felt miraculous, like she’d discovered a new room in her house that she’d never walked into before, complete with furniture and books and wonder and surprises for her to discover.
And Reginald? Here he was, tall and angular and stubbly, with big chapped hands and in a dark blue polo that brought out the color of his eyes, sitting in her living room, listening to her stories, looking at her as she ate her food.
