It’s a common sentiment in Plumpton—this wasn’t supposed to happen here. This sort of thing happens in bad places, not in a town where all the locals know each other and attend the same church.
Norma gives me a few Plumpton tips when I check into my hotel. She’s a friendly woman in her fifties, and she works the front desk until six in the evening every weekday.
Norma:??????????And don’t go to the bar on Franklin, that’s where all the tourists go to get sloppy. A bachelorette party was throwing around penis confetti last time I was there, if you can believe that. I was finding penises in my hair for hours.
Ben:???????????????That’s … unfortunate.
Norma:??????????Go to the bar down the road a bit, on Main. Bluebonnet Tavern.
Ben:???????????????I’ll keep that in mind, thank you.
Norma:??????????You’re from California?
Ben:???????????????Yeah, Los Angeles. Well, San Francisco, originally. I live in L.A. now.
Norma:??????????That whole state is going to break off into the ocean after a big earthquake, you know.
Ben:???????????????I’ve heard that.
Norma:??????????You know Lucy Chase lives out there too? Horrible woman. Savannah was an absolute peach. Just the sweetest girl you ever met. I hope you nail Lucy’s murderous ass to the wall.
This, I should note, was a common theme in my first few days in Plumpton.
CHAPTER FIVE
LUCY
The house on Clover Street is the same house I grew up in. I sit in my rental car, parked on the street in front of the house, for several minutes and just stare at it.
They’ve painted it a new color—a subtle shade of peach that’s an odd choice for the exterior of the house—but otherwise it’s the same. There are bushels of purple flowers planted along the porch. A nicely trimmed lawn. A front porch swing that you can’t sit on six months out of the year because it’s too damn hot.
I finally muster the strength to step out of the car. It’s six o’clock in the evening, still light out, and still hot as balls. The heat’s relentless this time of year. It was a real dick move on Grandma’s part to be born in August.
I grab my bag and trudge across the grass to the front door.
Dad opens it before I can knock. His smile is wide, friendly. Dad’s so good at that Texas thing where you act polite to people’s face and then talk shit behind their back.
“Lucy!” He steps forward and embraces me briefly.
“Hi, Dad.”
“I’m so glad you’re home, finally. Come in!” He steps back, sweeping his arm out dramatically.
I step inside. It’s cold and dark inside, as always. The house has never gotten good light downstairs.
He shuts the door behind me. His dark hair is grayer than last time I saw him. Dad’s eyes are deeply set, giving him a soulful appearance that is always more pronounced when he looks at me. There’s disappointment in every line of his face.
“How was your flight?” His gaze is on my suitcase.
“Fine.” Lies. I ate too much chocolate, we hit turbulence, and I almost puked. I spent the last fifteen minutes of the flight clutching the vomit bag.
He nods, briefly meeting my eyes, and then quickly looks away. He still can’t look at me, apparently.
I turn away and survey the living room. The furniture is mostly new. Or new to me, anyway. There’s a plushy brown sofa, and an uncomfortable-looking chair with ugly pink-and-orange-striped upholstery. The frame of the chair looks old, but the upholstery brand-new, like someone recently did that to the chair on purpose. Mom has always had questionable design taste.
On the table next to this awful chair is a picture of me and Savvy, with a few other women. It was taken at a wedding, not long after I moved back to town. We look like a photo shoot for Southern Living, a bunch of white ladies in pastel dresses with perfectly wavy hair.
The picture seems in incredibly poor taste to me for two reasons—one, most people think I murdered Savvy, and maybe they have a point; and two, she died after going to a wedding. Not that wedding, but people who come over don’t know that. Do they react with horror and say, “My god, was this taken the day she died?” And then Mom has to launch into the whole story.
Actually, I just realized exactly why she chose that picture. Most people wouldn’t want to talk about their maybe-murderer daughter, but not Mom. She knows how to work a room, and there is no better way to command attention than to tell the worst fucking story in the world.
“Your mother is in her bedroom. I think she was taking a nap, but she’s probably up now.” Dad smiles and takes a step back so there’s a wide swath of space between us. “Why don’t you go on up and say hi?”