by Sara Shepard
Something bumped against the closet door as she went to close it. Lauren bent down to move the offending items out of the way, a bunch of books that had fallen a while ago but she’d been too lazy to put back in their proper places. Her fingers closed around one of them, a small hardcover. Italian Cooking Class, Puglia, 2007, it read.
She smiled. This was the book Graham used to make the cacio e pepe; he’d gotten it at that Italian cooking course he’d taken before they’d met. She’d looked through it when they first started dating, but their kitchen didn’t have any shelves for cookbooks, so they kept a lot of books in here.
Maybe she and Graham could take another class together right here in Raisin Beach—Williams Sonoma always held courses. Lauren pictured the two of them standing over a stove at a classroom oven and felt buoyed. In fact, why not start now? If you could read, you could cook. She needed something new to do, something new to be proud of. It would be good to be excited about something again.
She cracked the book open, smiling at Graham’s crabbed notes on the lined pages. Besides cacio e pepe, there were recipes for cappelletti in brodo and ricotta tortelli. She turned the pages, trying to see which dish looked easy.
A few of the pages were stuck together, and she fought to pry them apart. When she did, a Polaroid photograph fluttered out and slid under the bureau. Lauren dropped to her knees to fish it out. She had to shake dust off the photo, too, and watched as motes drifted through the air toward the floor. Then she turned it over.
She’d looked at this photo when they first started dating, but today, it looked entirely new. Graham was in his twenties. He had a beard, which didn’t suit him. He stood against a bright white stucco wall in a sunlit lane. It was a quintessentially Italian scene—cobblestoned streets, leaning bicycles, tiny, thrown-open windows. The same red book of Italian recipes that sat on the bed was tucked under Graham’s arm, and he was smiling. There was a woman with him, too. It was the ex-girlfriend, a woman Lauren knew little about but who had accompanied Graham on this trip. When they’d first started dating, she’d glanced at this photo briefly but then put it away, feeling intimidated. But now, she looked closer.
The woman was tall, with long, silky dark hair and the kind of body that could pull off wearing a strappy sundress with no bra. She had her arm draped casually around Graham’s shoulders, but there was something fake about her smile that Lauren didn’t like. Her eyes were an aqua blue. She had long lashes, a pointed chin, and high cheekbones. But what really did it was the Marilyn Monroe–style beauty mark above her lip. Lauren recalled staring at that beauty mark the first time she’d laid eyes on this person, and watching the mouth beside it move so beautifully as she spoke to all the parents, telling them their children would be safe and sound.
The ground beneath her seemed to shift, then give way. She was staring at Piper Jovan.
Twenty-Five
It was a good thing Clarissa was here all day. And it was a good thing Graham was at work . . . because Lauren didn’t trust herself. If someone were to disturb her in this bedroom right then, flames might shoot from her mouth. This felt like waking up on another planet with a completely unknowable landscape. The lakes were lava. The air was sludge. The sky was purple. The world was unrecognizable, and no life could be sustained.
She stared down at Graham’s smiling face in the faded photo. His smirk made her stomach twist. Was her memory acting up—had he mentioned he’d dated Piper? But no. She would have remembered that.
She looked at Piper’s face. It was definitely, definitely Piper. She looked happy but slightly uncomfortable. How long were they together? How was she just finding out about this now? Lauren’s mind flipped back to the Welcome Breakfast; Graham had come with her willingly . . . and he’d said nothing about the director of their school being an ex. But Graham had remained in the car during the breakfast. Claimed he had a work meeting. Had he hid out to avoid seeing Piper?
It hit her like a punch to the throat. Lauren had made him read the school literature. She’d leaned over him as he perused it on his laptop, scrolling through all the pictures of the staff. Piper’s name, her picture—she was everywhere on the site. And yet Graham hadn’t let on. This place looks great, he’d told Lauren. I’m in.
Then something else hit her, something more sickening. She thought of the impassioned speech Piper gave at the breakfast. The story of how she’d come to Silver Swans after a bad breakup with her son’s father. And the principles she’d instilled and how she wished that her own child could have attended the school when he was young.
Her brain was muddy. She wasn’t sure she was thinking straight. She grabbed a notepad from the bedside drawer and scrawled the dates on a piece of paper. If the kid was thirteen, he’d been born in 2008. Piper and Graham had gone to Italy in 2007.
Her stomach heaved. She rose quickly and made it to the bathroom just in time to vomit in the toilet. She felt her stomach empty, tears springing to her eyes. When she stood, her head whirled. She grabbed the edge of the sink and took a deep breath. The lie felt like a physical wound.
She stared at her bloodshot eyes in the mirror. Her mouth was a slant. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead. Her husband had a secret ex-girlfriend and a secret son. Too many thoughts came at once. Why hadn’t the police dug into this? Did Piper know that Graham was here? Why did the relationship end badly? And had she been in touch with Graham all this time?
Lauren took deep breaths. Graham couldn’t have another son. It was one thing to hide an ex, but a thirteen-year-old boy? Lots of people had children from other relationships. Lauren wouldn’t have lost her shit had she known Graham had a family before her. There was nothing to be ashamed of.
And yet there was shame. Lauren could feel it oozing out of her pores. And then another pinprick blinked in her brain—weak at first, but then stronger. Shame came with a whole lot of complicated, heavy feelings. Shame could make you do irrational things. Shame could make you hide things. Shame could make you want someone gone.
No, she told herself. She was overreacting. She was having an episode.
She stood and walked back to the bedroom. She found her phone on the nightstand, all at once determined to know for sure.
She dialed the number for Jenny, one of the PAs on Ketchup. Jenny had been Lauren’s point of contact the few times she’d visited the set and was friendly but distant, seemingly without any personal ties to Graham. “Uh, I think Graham’s in the writers’ room right now,” Jenny said when she answered and Lauren identified herself. “But I can see when they’re going to break.”
“Oh, don’t bother him,” Lauren said quickly, surprised at how calm she sounded. “I was just wondering—there’s this Uber transaction on my credit card, and it could be from Graham—I know he Ubers around LA sometimes, for lunches and things. But I have such mom brain, and I can’t figure out this day from the last. I just want to make sure it’s not fraud, you know?”
“Ohhh,” Jenny breathed in. Nothing like the threat of credit card fraud to lower a person’s guard. “I can look at the schedule, sure.”
“Thank you!” Lauren cooed sweetly, astonished at how easy this was.
Jenny asked Lauren the date, and she was careful to keep her voice modulated as she told her that it was last Thursday, the date of Piper’s attack. Graham was supposed to be on location for his episode, but he’d come back to get her at the police station.
“The charge is for midafternoon,” Lauren added. “It could be a lunch, something like that?”
Lauren heard typing on the other end. Jenny let out a breath. “Uh-oh, Lauren. You’d better call your card company. We didn’t need Graham that day.”
“What?” Even though Lauren had been the one to make the call, even though it had been her intuition that had been pinging, this announcement still startled her so much that she had to sit down. She remembered Graham that morning. He’d been excited to go to wo
rk. It had been his episode they were working on.
“What do you mean?” she said in a near whisper.
“I mean we were off that day. We didn’t need any of the writers. Graham definitely wasn’t here.”
Piper
September
You can’t believe your stupidity. There he is, the Asshole, the man you’d left, now a parent in your inner circle. You’ve been so careful, and yet this has slipped by you.
You pore over the paperwork; it’s hard to believe this is the same guy. Married. Working. And a new baby? What happened to his disdain for children? You think of North, how Graham backed away from parenting, washed his hands. The memories fill you with searing fury. Then it occurs to you that if he had any interest at all where his child was going to daycare, he already knew you were here.
You feel sick. In all likelihood, he has been closing in for weeks. Stalking your moves. Driving by your house. Breaking into your house. And, surely, calling up Jean at Hulu. Wrecking your dreams. That’s how it works with him. He doesn’t want you to be happy.
Next to his name on the application, he listed a separate cell phone number from Lauren’s, and that’s what you dial. He picks up right away, as if he already knew you’d be calling—and maybe that’s why he listed the cell phone, a cheeky little come and get me that he alone will answer, not his wife.
It’s painful to hear his voice—not in a nostalgic way but more with a knee-jerk shudder of revulsion. You tell him you have some things to discuss. You keep your voice controlled. He says he’s able to meet. You try not to sound too grateful. You give him a few time windows, most of them quite early in the morning, before the other parents—and Carson—arrive. He needs to work with your schedule, not the other way around.
The day comes. There’s a buzz at the office’s main door, but you don’t get it right away. A shiver runs up your spine. This hall is so desolate, the walls so thick. Your security guy hasn’t even shown up for the day yet. All of a sudden, meeting early sounds like a terrible idea.
Finally, though, you hit the buzzer. You hear the latch click and the heavy thump of the door as it swishes closed. Then come footsteps. And as he rounds the corner, you realize he’s not alone.
He’s brought his baby.
“Piper,” he says. He waits hesitantly in the hallway as though he’s as nervous as you are. But you can’t look at him, not really. All you can look at is the child, who is tucked into a little stroller, a blanket over his belly. Your insides go liquid. The kid’s eyes are the same as North’s. His fat little fingers. His socked little feet.
“This is Matthew,” he says, pointing. “Sorry I had to bring him. My wife . . . she was still sleeping. I didn’t want to bother her. We share the responsibilities.”
You want to throw your computer monitor at Graham’s head. There are so many things wrong with what he’s just said. He brought his son here as a tactic.
“Well, come in.” As much as you want to interact with the baby, you resist. “Listen,” you say, once he wheels the stroller through the door and awkwardly sits in a chair. “I believe we need to clear some things up.” You have a script. You aren’t going to let the baby derail you. You are going to plow forward.
“Oh yeah?” Graham asks. “What’s that?”
The baby makes a little coo, and Graham turns to him and grins. That gesture is what does it. Why did Graham get a second chance? Why did things work out for him? You know about his fancy credit on that television show.
“I need you to stop,” you say, losing your tempered tone. It’s not just that he’s smiled at the baby. It’s that he isn’t taking this meeting seriously. He’s distracted, relaxed. “I know you talked to Hulu. You told them. About . . .” You can’t say the words. “You know.”
Graham’s eyes are full of concern. “You can’t keep lying, Piper.”
“What do you care?” You dig your nails into your palm. “It’s my life. So stop, okay? Otherwise, I’ll tell your wife about us. About you.”
A muscle in his jaw tightens. So he never told her. You were right. “You wouldn’t do that.”
“Yes, I would.”
“My life means a lot to me. I have . . .” He trails off and looks at his kid, who now has his whole fist in his mouth. North used to do that, too. “Look, things have changed. I’m different now. And my wife . . . she’s going through something hard.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“She is.” Now his eyes are pleading. “You and me—it was a long time ago. Can’t we just leave the past in the past?”
You cross your arms. “I would have. But you already made the first move.”
“I thought they should know.”
“Well, maybe I think your wife should know.”
Suddenly, he rises over you. You slide backward in your chair and feel your body curl into itself. You hate that this is your response, but it’s an old reaction, etched in your wiring. He seems to understand this, and it fuels his fire. One corner of his mouth curls into a satisfied smile. He rubs his hands together. The sound is like sandpaper on wood.
“Let’s make a deal,” he says. “I’ll stop talking about you, and you won’t talk about me.”
And then he’s out of the room without another word, taking his beautiful baby with him.
You’re so riled up you kick a filing cabinet, hurting your toe. And then the tears come, salty and thick. You want to say it’s because of the pain in your foot, or even because of the anguish you’re feeling from dredging up old memories, all that was lost. But it’s neither of those things. It’s fear.
You don’t think this is over. Not by a long shot.
Twenty-Six
Ronnie had no idea how to tell Esme about Vanessa, and so she didn’t say anything. Instead, they went to the park. They ate ice cream—real ice cream, not the almond milk crap Lane tried to pass off as real.
Then they spent the evening with Lane, watching a movie. It was awful, saying nothing to either of them, counting down the hours until their lives were blown apart. She kept looking around the peaceful living room and thinking, Tomorrow, I won’t have this. In a few hours, all this will be gone. And she didn’t just mean Esme would be gone. She meant Lane, too. She’d hid too much. Lied too many times. He would want nothing to do with her.
In a few hours, she’d have no one, nothing.
That night, when Ronnie slipped out of her own bed and curled into Esme’s, taking her into her arms, her fear was so overwhelming that she couldn’t even cry.
On Tuesday morning, Lane asked Ronnie if he could come home early and take them out to lunch. Ronnie made an excuse to Lane that Esme had coughed a lot through the night and that they should take a rain check. Lane’s gaze lingered on Ronnie a few seconds too long, like he thought something was up, but he didn’t argue. Ronnie’s heart broke. She almost said to him, Please make your goodbye meaningful. You’re never going to see us again. I’m so sorry.
But she couldn’t form the words. Maybe she was more terrible for keeping even this from him, denying him a last moment—but actually saying what was about to happen made it so real.
It made her ache to see Lane kiss Esme’s forehead and tell her to feel better. Then Lane kissed Ronnie on the lips and said to call him right away if she got any calls from the police. “We are not going to let them mess with us,” Lane said.
She almost laughed. The cops were the least of her worries—they weren’t the ones wrecking her life. Funny enough, the cops had called that morning—Ronnie saw their number show up on the caller ID. She hadn’t answered. Her brain couldn’t concentrate on two nightmares at once.
Ronnie followed Lane as he headed to the door. Walked him all the way to the hall. He turned and looked at her quizzically, a worried smile on his face. “You sure you’re okay?”
She licked her lips. She could tell him. He love
d her. Maybe they could figure this out.
He leaned against the door. “Should I stay? What is it?”
But then the fear took hold. Ronnie turned away so he wouldn’t see her expression. “I’m fine. Go to work.”
At about 10:45, Andrea called. “We all need to talk.”
“Um.” Ronnie felt so damn exhausted. What was the point of talking? What was the point of anything? “I’m kind of in the middle of something.”
“Ronnie,” Andrea said. “There is fraud going on at Silver Swans. Piper and Carson are in on it.” Her voice lowered. “Embezzlement.”
Ronnie frowned. “They’re stealing from the parents?” Certainly this hadn’t happened to her. Ronnie maintained a tight control over her finances. She knew exactly how much money went in and out—nothing had gone missing.
Andrea said she didn’t want to talk about it over the phone. “But I think this will get us off the hook as far as being suspects. When can you meet?”
“I’m not sure.” Ronnie couldn’t look past this afternoon. “I’m kind of busy.”
“Are you all right?” Andrea asked suddenly. “What’s going on?”
More tears filled Ronnie’s eyes. She let out a little squeak. “It’s nothing,” she said. She wished she could ask for help. Andrea wouldn’t judge. But Ronnie had been so self-reliant for so long, she didn’t have the vocabulary.
As the morning ticked by, she hemmed and hawed and stressed over telling Esme something, anything. She didn’t want to just drop it on the poor kid. And more than that, she had absolutely no idea what to say, and most of all, she feared Esme’s reaction. This was going to traumatize her. She saw Vanessa’s arrival coming, as inevitable as a sunset. And so they sat in the living room, the television on, Esme blissfully unaware, Ronnie in a state of panic. Forty more minutes. Thirty.
