We can’t stay here.
Lena had reached into her bag, bit a Xanax in half, and held it out to Rachel in the backseat. Rachel had leaned forward to accept it in her open mouth like a baby bird.
That night, Rachel had slept on the sofa, hands flung defensively over her face. The directive returned, tapped Lena on the shoulder.
We can’t stay here.
But Lena’s mind felt scrambled and frantic. Where would they go? How could she take that first step? She’d watched the sun dip behind the mountains. The realization advanced cold and slow as a glacier.
Lena was an infection that must be quarantined. What Rachel needed most of all was to be free.
She can’t stay here.
Melanie’s cousin was a trustee at a New Hampshire boarding school with a decent reputation. The next morning, Lena called him and recited an early version of The Story, that she needed to put miles between Rachel and the gossip about her father. A sizable donation helped secure a spot.
Out of all the possible paths forward for Lena, she had chosen the one that gave her nothing but space and time to think, a self-imposed house arrest.
It might not be state-mandated punishment, but she had suffered. At heart, Lena was drawn to festivity, was a lover of parties and noise—and she had not allowed herself to enjoy any of it. （It was slightly pathetic, how she was treating Laurel Perley’s graduation like a coronation.）
Now, Lena forced herself to focus on the thumbnail images of clothes on her computer screen. Her mouse hovered over a magnificent Pucci caftan, its print an echo of a minidress Lena had worn to one of her parties a billion years before.
It was a shame she’d donated that dress, which would have looked great on Annie, who dressed too sensibly in fleece pullovers and yoga pants. She’d probably wear overalls to Laurel’s graduation.
Annie would look great in the caftan, too, though. Lena’s blood warmed as she pictured it: Annie, hair straightened, with a dramatic cat eye.
Annie didn’t mind Lena’s fussing the way Rachel would have. She would tilt her smiling face upward, sit patiently and wait for Lena to apply that cat eye.
Better to focus on the caftan than that unanswerable question: Have I suffered enough?
Two swift clicks, and Lena had bought the dress.
I noticed the outfit right away. It was old-fashioned, and I heard some people fussing over it, but to me that type of thing always comes off costumey.
I remember specifically thinking the choice in footwear very impractical, given that the ground was still wet from the spring snow.
After the body was found, the detective said as much, that the shoes may as well have been banana peels. Anyone foolish enough to hike in them on wet rocks, he said, was basically asking to slip.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“Why haven’t they caught him yet?” Jen’s mother whispered into the phone. “I don’t understand.”
“Because there are bigger crimes than a busted side mirror, Mom.”
Jen had accidentally told her mother about the vandalism last week, and it had been their primary topic of discussion since.
“I worry. And Paul won’t be there to help. He’s never there.”
“Because he’s working, Mom.”
Jen’s mother probably couldn’t stop her unhelpful worrying any more than Jen could stop her skin itching in response to it, any more than Abe could help his outbursts or the vandal his—or her—midnight destruction.
And if everything was chemistry and genes and drive, should people even be punished for their malfeasance?
（Dear Senator: Attached please find my thoughts on a Criminal Justice Reform bill. Xoxo, Jen.）
“Mom, the doorbell just rang.”
“Maybe it’s the police,” her mother said excitedly, “with news that they caught him.”
“Abe met a friend at the basketball court. I’m pretty sure it’s her.”
“A friend.” Her mother’s voice had become sugary. “Well, good for him.”
“He’s had friends before.” Jen felt immediately defensive.
“Of course he has, honey.” Her mother’s voice was an unctuous syrup. Jen was grateful to hang up and answer the door.
“There’s good news and bad news,” Jen said to Laurel Perley.
“I can take it,” Laurel said. She smiled, mouth full of braces.
“Colin won’t be here with the pizza until later, but we have some of those amazing cookies from Breadman’s? Or I could run out for something?”
“Oh gosh, no,” Laurel said. She followed Jen into the kitchen. “Any kind of fruit would be great. But only if you have it already.”