Penelope was irritated by all of them at the moment. Bree always started sentences vaguely: Don’t you think it’s strange? Doesn’t it make you wonder? And made whomever she was speaking to ask, What, Bree? What’s so strange? Usually Flynn complied, but Penelope felt herself stubbornly resisting, just to see if Bree would continue anyway.
“What’s strange?” Flynn sank down into the thick leather couch, a cup of coffee in one hand. Grace had started to make them all coffee from a french press every day, and Penelope thought it tasted like charred toast, black and bitter. Everyone else seemed to adore it—Willa had started calling it Grace’s special brew, so Penelope stubbornly switched to tea.
“Grace and Willa look more like sisters than Grace and Talia,” Bree said, a soft smile on her face as she gazed out to the kitchen where the two were bent over the island, heads together, looking at something on Willa’s phone and laughing.
Flynn swiveled around to get a better look and let out a short, quiet laugh. “Goddamn, you’re right.”
Both had girl-next-door features: blonde curling hair, apple cheeks, pert noses, long lashes, friendly white smiles. Grace was taller than Willa by almost a head, and broader, thought Penelope with some satisfaction. Her shoulders were wider, and she was muscular to Willa’s soft curve. But something about Grace was more striking, magnetic. Simply put, Grace was gorgeous.
Jack appeared at the railing, shirtless and smiling, and they all looked up at him.
“Grace looks like Willa,” Bree said conversationally, and from the kitchen Willa called, “Oh God, shut up.”
“I never noticed that,” Jack said, stretching his arms up, resting his fingertips lightly against the ceiling beam, and Penelope looked away, conscious of the mesh shorts that hung loosely from his hips. He called down to the kitchen, “I must have a type!” and Bree made a hocking noise from the back of her throat, in disgust. Jack grinned down at her and said, “Don’t be jealous, Bree baby.”
Penelope watched the whole exchange, her stomach rolling with nausea as she sipped her tea and focused on the book she’d brought up from her bedroom.
Grace’s presence every day was starting to eat at Penelope. She found herself stomping around the house, angry at empty egg cartons and too-full trash. Finding fault with all of them—Bree was too messy, Flynn too particular, Willa too loud (God, her laugh cut right through you), Jack too cocky. The running litany of faults in her mind was making her completely miserable, and she dreaded the after-dinner games she couldn’t get out of.
They’d moved on from Risk to go, tournament style.
“You should get a pool table,” Grace had suggested that night, and Penelope must have made an awful face because Willa burst out laughing. She shook her head slightly, and Penelope flushed at being caught. Grace looked at both of them, confused. “What?”
Penelope, feeling embarrassed and irritated, stood up and went to the kitchen under the guise of getting another drink but, once there, realized that the idea of any liquor made her feel sick and instead found herself just leaving them upstairs and going to bed. She hadn’t meant to and paused to rethink it in the stairwell. She knew she was acting like a brat—she couldn’t seem to help it. Her mood was so vile, and she felt heartsick every single day.
It seemed completely unfair. Jack had treated their tryst like a complete one-night stand, and the only time he brought it up was once, a few days later, in the kitchen. He crept up behind her, smacked her lightly on the butt, and she’d yelped, swatted at him.
“Ahh, no, you like that kind of thing. I should know.” And he winked at her. When her face burned bright, he laughed again. “Pip, you’re so sweetly uptight.” And kissed her cheek before strolling into the great room with his coffee in hand.
And that was it. That was the only conversation they’d had about their one night together. No one mentioned the blouse left in the kitchen—Penelope had just found it folded nicely on her bed, with no idea who’d done it.
“Don’t you think she seems on edge lately?” The voice was hushed but unmistakable. Definitely Bree.
Penelope stood, frozen on the second step, the door to the great room cracked just enough to hear the conversation clearly.
“Oh, who knows,” Willa said. “Penelope is always a little bit of an enigma. Holds everything in and barely lets her hair down, that girl. We should spike her drink with Molly one night, just to see what she’d do.”
Unexpectedly, Flynn cackled at that. “I’m not endorsing that, but it would be wild to see her unclench a little.”
“You’re all terrible people, you know.” Jack.
“It’s why you love us.” Willa.
“Come on, Willa, quit yapping and take your stupid turn,” Grace said, and they all laughed.
Later, in the middle of the night, Penelope, wide awake, stared at the ceiling, a burning in her chest that felt like fire, bile in her throat. She padded to the little bathroom at the end of the downstairs hall, feet cold on the wood floor. She splashed water on her face, feeling cold, then hot, her T-shirt in a limp sweat.
Oh, God. She was cracking up. This is what it felt like to die of a broken heart. Your body didn’t just quit, your heart stop, your lungs leaking out their final breath. It was gradual, almost unnoticeable, the sapping will to keep getting up, walking to the kitchen, eating a meal, getting dressed, walking to town to work. Walking, walking, walking. Living required so much movement, and movement felt so heavy.
She was thinking about the sheer heaviness of her legs—thick and unwieldy—when the nausea came on, so sudden and violent that she turned and vomited right into the toilet. A rush of bile and hot water, purging and purging and purging, and then there was Bree.
Opening the little window. Letting in the cool night air. Lifting her hair off her neck, blowing softly, until all the little hairs on Penelope’s arms stood up straight.
Soothing sounds into Penelope’s ear, clucks and coos and baby noises, and Penelope rested her forehead on the lid of the toilet and fumbled around for the handle, the swoosh of rushing water.
“Here, eat this,” Bree said, a little coo into her ear. Penelope opened her mouth, a baby bird, and tasted the sharp sweetness of a ginger candy.
“This is awful—what is this?” asked Penelope, eyes closed, the chilled porcelain like heaven on her cheek. The candy had an acrid aftertaste and made her tongue tingle unpleasantly.
“Shhhh,” said Bree, her hand deftly caressing Penelope’s hair, her scalp. Penelope drowsily thought it was the most wonderful thing she’d ever felt in her whole life. “My sister ate them all the time when she was pregnant.”
Penelope sat up, blinking, feeling as though she’d been doused with cold water.
Bree’s face was placid, serene. “Oh, darling girl,” she said. “You must have known. Didn’t you?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
February 25, 2020
Penelope drove home on autopilot. Parked the car in the circular driveway, stared up at the house—imposing and white, flat front with landscaping that she used to think was minimalistic but now looked sterile and featureless. Square, sparse boxwoods; pea gravel and flagstone, all shades of gray and white. Before: easy, maintenance-free, clean. Now: completely and utterly devoid of personality. What had changed? The only answer: her perception.
Inside, she heard whistling from the kitchen. Willa.
Penelope pressed her thumbs against her eye sockets to stave off the oncoming headache.
Six months. Six months. Six months.
Did Willa leave Grey, with his earnest eyes, and have an affair with an abusive mechanic named Trent? That could explain the post office Houdini act. Trent’s truck idling outside, a sweaty promise to take care of you, baby. But who could leave their child—a four-year-old, old enough to remember her mother, old enough to miss her? It seemed a particular brand of cruelty to leave a child who could remember your smile.
She’d fled the house quickly after Grey asked about Grace—makin
g excuses about dinner—saying only that Grace was the girlfriend of a housemate, you know how that goes. She didn’t know if her behavior seemed strange or not to the poor man, but she could barely think. She spent the entire ride back trying to come up with what she would do next, and failing miserably.
Could she tell Brett? Given how he’d reacted to the knife, maybe not. But this was different—there was Facebook evidence that could not be erased.
“Oh, good, you’re back!” Willa called gaily before Penelope could decide what to do. Confront her? Where did you go for six months? By the way, your husband and child are heartbroken. Where’s the knife? Did you leave pictures in my room?
Penelope wondered if she was truly starting to lose her grip on sanity.
“I’m back,” Penelope said noncommittally. She watched Willa hum, sway around the kitchen, season chicken breast, chop a pepper, a carrot, celery and toss it all into a pan.
The table was set for six.
“Oh, right,” Penelope said. “A guest.”
Willa whipped around. “I hope that’s still okay. I can cancel if it’s not! I should have reminded you.” Her big eyes were pleading.
“It’s fine. I just forgot. No big deal.” Penelope rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I just have an awful headache.”
She waited for Willa to comment like she had all those years ago—You never get headaches. That had been her go-to excuse then. It felt right now too.
“Oh, go upstairs and rest. Relax!” Willa shooed her away. “Take a shower, and come down whenever you’re ready. Do you need Excedrin?”
Penelope let herself be shooed, paused in the living room, listening to Willa’s soft hum, the patter of bare feet, quick on the kitchen tile. I’ve looked at love this way.
Upstairs in the bedroom, Penelope heard the shower. So, Brett was home. She paused to listen and then quietly crept to her dresser. After pulling open the top drawer, she felt around underneath all the satin until she found what she’d been looking for. A single sheet of loose-leaf paper torn out of a spiral-bound notebook. Scrawled with a black pen. She stuck the note in the back pocket of her jeans, to look at later. Grey had said six months. She wanted to compare the dates. Call it an instinct—something felt wrong about the whole thing: the letter, Willa’s disappearance. Later, if she and Brett went to bed at the same time, maybe she’d be able to sneak a few minutes of privacy in the bathroom. Either way, she had the note.
When she was done, she retrieved the false book from the top of the bookshelf. She pushed open the bathroom door, closed it behind her, and sat quietly on the toilet. When the water shut off, she said, “It’s me; put the water back on, but come out here—I want to talk to you quick.”
Brett poked his head out the glass shower door, alarmed. “What? Why?”
“Please, okay?”
He reached behind him, flicked the water back on, and emerged from the shower. He tied a towel around his waist and dried his arms and torso with a second towel. When he was done, he propped himself up on the bathroom counter, between the dual sinks, and gave her a pointed look. “Okay, what’s up? What now?” He gave her a smart-ass kind of smile, but she didn’t return it.
“I want to show you something,” Penelope began, keeping her voice low, above a whisper, but barely. She remembered how badly this conversation had ended last time.
“Okay,” Brett said, his voice edged with caution. This whole conversation was a repeat of the day before. From her nightstand, Penelope had retrieved the image of her and Tara walking to the bus stop and held it on top of the false book.
“Remember this picture of Tara and me that I showed you the other night? I found a bunch of them. Photos of our life together. Eight-by-tens. Taken with a long-range lens or something.” She held the book in her lap, knowing that one particular image inside was likely to blow her marriage apart. Did she want to do this tonight?
Maybe it would have been better to show him the Facebook page. She didn’t have time, not right now, to show him everything. But she was starting to feel a sense of urgency—like all the different pieces of the puzzle were adding up, filling in. Like maybe they were all in danger? From who, Willa? With her cheerleader smile? From Grey, with his sad eyes? No, that was silly. From Trent? Did Trent actually exist? She had no idea, but none of the events of the past few days felt coincidental. Not anymore.
“Okay. Do you think it’s related to Willa?”
“I have no idea. But I’m freaked out. The necklace, the knife, the cell phone, now these pictures—” She omitted any mention of Grey, Violet. It was too much to tell him so fast, so quietly. She just had to focus on the facts—right in front of her. She lifted the lid off. She could hear Brett behind her, breathing. She could smell his shower soap.
She let out a small cry of shock and put a hand to her forehead. Penelope stared at the empty book in front of her, the dark-green felt interior. The whole room was starting to pitch, and Penelope sat, hard, on the edge of the tub, the box falling from her hands and clunking on the tiled bathroom floor.
“Again.” Brett’s voice was flat. He didn’t move.
Penelope stood, left the bathroom, crossed the bedroom to the bookshelf. She ran her hand across the top. Dropped to her knees and scanned under the bed, the dresser. Neat as a pin—no pictures. What the fuck?
“She is trying to make a fool out of me. I know it. Unless you are?” She looked up at her husband, who studied her not with curiosity or concern, but pity. She curled her fist, wanting to punch him. Wanting to throw something very hard against the wall or possibly Brett’s face. “Did you take pictures with a long-range camera for the entirety of our marriage and then place them strategically all over our bedroom recently?”
“What? Penelope, what are you talking about?”
“Don’t you dare,” Penelope seethed. “I am not losing my grip on reality here. I’m not crazy. There was a knife, a cell phone. Pictures. Now they’re gone. Look.” Penelope pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and snapped open the Facebook app. She navigated quickly to Willa’s page. “See? This is Willa. But look, she’s married to a man named Grey Hudson. Look.” She opened the profile’s photos. “See? There’s a little girl.” She clicked on the link to Grey Hudson’s Facebook page to show him.
“What does this mean? Her husband wasn’t named Trent—he was named Grey?” Brett shook his head, uncomprehending.
“And! She has a daughter. A little girl. Brett. I went there today. I met them.”
“What! Penelope, have you lost your ever-loving mind? What the hell is wrong with you? Even if—and this is a huge if—she didn’t give us her husband’s real name, he could still have abused her. Are you so single minded that you could be blinded by someone who appears nice?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “This has gotten completely out of hand.”
“Brett! She has a daughter that she left!” Penelope insisted, touching the phone, the image of Willa with her daughter.
“For two weeks. Maybe she’s trying to figure out a way to get them both out. What are you saying? What do you think is going on?”
“I don’t know. But she’s not who she says she is.” Penelope put the phone back in her pocket. She was overloading him with information, conveying none of it clearly or rationally.
“How long have you been home?”
“Pen.” Brett hawed around the question, his eyes not meeting hers.
“How long?” Penelope knew her voice might carry. She no longer cared.
“I don’t know . . . an hour, maybe?”
“Was Willa here before you?”
“Yes.”
“Were the kids?”
“No. They’re still at Sasha’s and Zeke’s houses.”
“So, Willa was in the house alone?” Penelope pressed, and Brett pinched the bridge of his nose again.
“Yes, but Pen, do you hear yourself?” Brett asked her, his tone soothing, kind. He was placating her. “Honestly, you’re starting to worry me.”
“Fuck you,” Penelope spat and pushed past him out of the bathroom.
In her back pocket, her phone buzzed. She took it out and checked the screen. Willa.
When you guys are done doing . . . whatever (:D) . . . come downstairs. I want you to meet my new friend!
She had assumed it was Jaime coming for dinner. She’d been prepared for Jaime. Willa had made another friend? Penelope turned her phone to face Brett so he could read it.
He sighed and tilted his head up to the ceiling. Penelope left him in the bedroom and found her way downstairs, distracted. She could hear Willa talking animatedly from the living room. She could face Willa, smile pleasantly for the sake of whoever the friend was, beg a headache, and get back to her bedroom.
She envisioned an evening locked in her bedroom, scouring the internet for all the proof she would need. For Brett, for the police if it came down to that. By tomorrow, Willa would be gone. Penelope would have her house back. It sounded like heaven. Penelope took a deep breath, clenched and unclenched her fingers.
A woman sat on Brett’s chair, small and dark, her hair brushed away from her face in a sweep of glossy brown and secured with a turquoise-and-silver comb. Penelope felt a prickle on the back of her neck at the sight of it.
The woman’s delicate hands cupped a wineglass, overfilled with a pink rosé. It took Penelope a moment to realize that she was the same woman from the French café, eating lunch with Willa. She flashed on the memory: Willa’s head thrown back in laughter, a light touch on her arm. They’d seemed to know each other well. But Willa had called her a new friend.
“Oh! I’m so happy you’re here!” Willa stood up and hugged Penelope, giving off a faint whiff of cigarette smoke, her fingertips on Penelope’s forearm like pointed icicles. “This is my new friend, Genevieve. We are talking about how I might rent one of her apartments in town.”
The Spires Page 20
