“Hey, there,” Tate called with a hand on one hip, “can you believe this?”
Tina shook her head once. Though I couldn’t see her expression, I couldn’t imagine Tina saying anything negative. Tina—What would I need a security camera for, Officer?—was a saint, perpetually optimistic. She seemed to be the only person in the neighborhood the Truetts had liked, someone less frivolous than the rest of us.
Tina was a registered nurse and worked at the college. She had brought both of her parents to live with her the year after Aidan and I moved in, was the type who said, It’s a blessing to get to spend this time with them. Her father was in a wheelchair. Her mother wasn’t able to care for him alone. Tina’s model home had a master downstairs, so, she said, Truly, it was an easy decision.
I had never heard her complain, never heard a negative comment. I believed that her demeanor was authentic after the murders. She never had to look at the people who lived with her and wonder what they were capable of. She never had to account for their time line. When the police came to investigate, she said there was no need for surveillance because someone was always home.
I waited until they were out of earshot and then locked up behind me, following the rest of my neighbors to the clubhouse.
* * *
THE MEETING COULDN’T BE held in the clubhouse, which was just a series of three doors set in a low building directly off the pool deck, accessible only from inside the pool gates. It amounted to nothing more than two bathrooms and a meeting room, the last of which doubled as the lost and found. That was where the neighborhood board met, but the space wouldn’t hold more than fifteen people or so. Our neighborhood meetings always spilled outside, onto the pool deck, where we sat on loungers and vinyl-strapped pool chairs, their metal legs scraping against the concrete as we settled in.
But the people in charge always filed out of that meeting room like they had come from some pregame briefing, deciding what to share with the masses. Whenever the door swung open, we could briefly see into the room: the edge of a table and a large gray bin filled with an assortment of floats and goggles, unclaimed items that had accumulated over the years, now available for residents to borrow when needed.
Charlotte Brock was the president, Tina Monahan was the secretary, and Margo Wellman’s husband, Paul, was the treasurer. They’d held their positions for years. No one was interested in the extra work or the grief.
Even though this gathering wasn’t board-sanctioned, Tina was standing beside Charlotte outside the meeting room door when I arrived. I looked around for Paul Wellman—the business-casual attire he always wore, regardless of the fact that we were outside, at a pool, while the rest of us were in cover-ups and athletic apparel; the prematurely salt-and-pepper hair that gave him an air of responsibility—but he was nowhere to be seen. Margo was here, though, sitting at one of the round pool tables, moving the stroller back and forth with her foot as Nicholas fidgeted. I took the chair beside her, though she didn’t seem to notice. “Hey,” I said, scooting the chair a little closer.
Her eyes widened as she looked at me, and she peered over my shoulder like she might see Ruby. Just like Molly had done earlier in the day.
“It’s just me,” I said, and she nodded. Up close, her nose was burned and starting to peel, and her lips were chapped. In her thirties, Margo had a round face with soft features and large blue eyes; between her wide eyes and her hair, which was never fully contained, she always looked caught slightly off guard. She and Paul were a contrast in demeanor, but they seemed to balance each other.
“About yesterday,” I said. “I didn’t know Ruby was coming. I followed her to the pool just to make sure nothing happened—” I checked the crowd behind me, lowered my voice. “Between her and Chase.”
Her shoulders relaxed, and she leaned closer. “I had no idea she was back,” she said. “She talked to me, and I froze.”
“Well, she walked in my house, and I froze.”
That got half a laugh, at least. I needed to work my way back like this. Make sure they knew I was on their side.
When I was called to testify in Ruby’s defense, I had put myself on a definitive side of the line. The neighborhood had grown tense in the lead-up to the trial, when we knew who was testifying and who was not. But after Ruby was convicted, it didn’t seem to matter anymore. We had all just presented a piece of the truth, and no one could fault me for that.
Afterward, everything was surface-level fine and polite smiles and waves from the car. But look deeper, and you could find the divide. The texts I didn’t receive; the invitations that weren’t extended. I wasn’t always in on the secrets anymore.