Page 1 of Deadly Oath

1

SABRINA

Istare down at the clothes on my bed, a despondent feeling settling somewhere in the pit of my stomach, as I tug my bathrobe a little closer around me.

It’s been a little over a month, and I haven’t even started to get used to this new set of circumstances.

Reaching down, I pick up the pair of black denim jeans, one of the pieces of clothing I was taken to buy the first day I arrived here. I need to do laundry, so I’m down to just this pair and a couple of plain long-sleeved shirts.

Laundry. Less than six weeks ago, someone did that for me. Less than six weeks ago, my favorite pair of jeans was a dark-wash, boyfriend-cut pair that felt like butter against my skin from Dior. It paired perfectly with my favorite Chanel silk blouse, nude Louboutin pumps, and a pair of diamond stud earrings my father gave me for my eighteenth birthday. It was one of my favorite outfits, before.

Now—I don’t have a favorite outfit. I don’t have a favorite restaurant, or coffee shop, or part of town to shop in. I don’t even have friends.

“Sabrina?”

Speaking of friends.The chirpy, happy-go-lucky voice of myneighbor two houses down, Marie Woodson, comes through the speaker of my phone and reminds me that I got lost in thought for a minute there. She, and a few other women that I’ve met here, are the closest thing that I have to friends these days.

But friends know personal things about each other. They know secrets and important moments, fears and hopes and dreams. I can’t tell these women any of those things, so I can’t really call themfriends.

Not that I have hopes and dreams either, any longer. The ones I had before—such as they were—are all gone.

“I’m here,” I say distractedly, pulling on the Target-brand jeans and long-sleeved shirt. I grab a hair tie from my nightstand with one hand, scraping my blonde hair up into a loose, messy bun. My hair is my one holdout from my old life still—I had it done right before the night when everything went upside down. The expensive balayage and perfect cut look out of place next to the dressed-down outfit, and every time I leave the house, I can feel people looking at me. Noticing that while my clothing might have changed, the polish that’s leftover from my old life, the way I’ve been taught to carry myself since I was small, the way I speak—it all sets me apart from everyone else in this small town.

“Daphne texted the group this morning with the new title for our book club. Did you see it? Cozy mystery is the theme this month. I was thinking we could go get coffee, and then swing by the bookstore to grab our copies. Unless you can’t get away from work today?”

“No, that’s fine. I make my own hours. I’ve been working more at night lately, anyway.”

“Night owl,” Marie laughs, clicking her tongue. “I’d be the same if it wasn’t for the kids. I used to pull all-nighters all the time in college. Now I’m lucky if I make it to ten before I’m in bed.”

“Yeah, me too.” I can hear how hollow it all sounds. How detached my voice is. Marie must notice it, too, but she’s not the kind of person to point it out. She brought me cookies the first day I moved in. Homemade, with those big chocolate chunks in them. I remember staring at them and crying because I couldn’t make myself eat one.

I can’t remember the last time I ate a cookie. My looks have always been my currency. My hair and my skin, and my figure have always been immaculate. But here, no one cares about that.

They seem to care about kindness. Friendship. Goodwill. Neighborly affection. The people I grew up around didn’t value those things. And what was an elegant, sophisticated distance in the life I remember comes across as cold haughtiness here.

“You sound tired.” There’s a hint of worry in Marie’s voice now. “Maybe you shouldn’t be pulling so many late nights. Sleep is important, you know. I keep telling my son that, every time he wants to stay up late playing video games.”

“I’ve just had trouble sleeping lately, is all.” I sink down on the edge of the bed, reaching for the black ankle boots that I bought last week. They look like a knock-off of a favorite pair I used to own, and I thought that buying them would make me feel better. But actually, it just makes my chest ache, every time I look at them. “I’ve always had trouble with insomnia. I thought being out here in the country would help. That it would be more—quiet, I guess. But it’s been persisting.” That’s my cover story, flimsy as it is—that I moved away from the city because it was getting to be too much. That I needed a break, like a hysterical Victorian woman going to the seaside for her “nerves.”

“Well, if you ever want to see a doctor, and you need a ride, just let me know. Dr. Thompson at the clinic here is good, but he’s older, so he’s skeptical of prescribing things like sleeping pills. I went to a doctor in Louisville when I needed anxiety medication. Fixed me right up.” Marie’s chirpy voice brightens. “Dr. Thompson wasn’t happy when I had to tell him at my next check-up, but at that point, what could he do about it? I already had the prescription.” There’s a conspiratorial note in her voice now, like we’re sharing secrets. “Anyway, if you need a little help getting better sleep, there’s no shame in it. I’d be happy to give you a ride.”

“Thanks.” Not for the first time, I wish I had a car. I wish I knew how todrive. If I want to go anywhere further than the few stores that are within walking distance of my house, I have to get a ride from someone. I can’t imagine actually explaining to anyone here how, attwenty-two years old, I don’t know how to drive. I could pass it off as having lived in Chicago my whole life, I suppose, but it would still lead to more questions.

And questions are something I’ve tried very hard to avoid. Not easy in a small town, I’m finding, where everyone gossips about everyone else, and everyone knows everyone else’s business.

“That’s what friends are for!” Marie exclaims, and I can hear her indrawn breath as she gears up to run off on another tangent. She’s like a small, excitable dog. A Pomeranian, maybe. Sweet and full of energy, and always ready to talk. I interrupt her, quickly, because I need a little time with my own thoughts before I spend the rest of the afternoon with her.

“I need to finish getting ready. But I’m fine with a coffee and book run. Can you pick me up in, say—an hour and a half?” I think that should give me enough time for coffee and my breakfast, quietly, before the day starts.

“Sure thing! I’ll see you then.”

The phone clicks off, and I release a breath that I hadn’t known I was holding. I reach up, rubbing my temples, fending off a growing headache. Everyone here is just so—much. All the time.

I grew up with distance. Private school, where everyone was as stiff and formal as my father and his associates at home. A staff at the mansion I grew up in, who always kept a careful space between me and them. Friends from the same school, the same social circles, who also grew up believing that that kind of distance was the only acceptable way to behave. Even my closest friends and I gave each other air kisses instead of hugs. I can’t actually remember the last time anyone hugged me.

The first day I met Marie, she gave me that plate of cookies. The second day I met her was at the book club I hesitantly attended, where she grabbed me in a full-body hug and told me how excited she was that I’d taken her invitation. I’d gone stiff, unsure of what to do. Marie hadn’t seemed to notice, too caught up in her own excitement, but everyone else certainly did.

It set me apart from the very beginning. But that was always going to happen.

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