I looked at the small ceramic angel on the table, then back at her. The answer came to me with the cold clarity of a clinical diagnosis. She hadn’t invited her father and mother here out of holiday spirit. She had invited them because she wanted a house full of people, a noisy distraction, so they could search every inch of Hawthorne Lane while I was busy playing hostess.
“We don’t like surprises here, Melissa,” I said.
She didn’t answer, turning back to the sink to run the tap until the pipes rattled in the wall.
I drove to the grocery store on High Street just after three, mostly to get out of the house. The air inside the store smelled of damp cardboard and floor wax, a dull, familiar scent that usually calmed me. I kept my handbag zipped tight and tucked under my arm as I steered my cart toward the baking aisle.
A man in a stained canvas coat bumped his metal cart against mine near the bags of flour.
“Excuse me,” he muttered, his voice a gravelly, slow murmur that I recognized instantly.
