Page 4 of The Wrong Family

Winnie had a tendency to just go for it when she wanted something, and if she were honest with herself, that was probably where the trouble started. She’d wanted the Turlin Street home, and they’d paid a huge amount of money to live in a house he hated. Winnie knew that if it weren’t for her, Nigel would be living in a place downtown, something new in one of those buildings that reflected the sky and had a Starbucks and a gym attached. Nigel hadn’t grown up like Winnie, in a large rambler with her twin brother and three sisters. His mom had been of the single variety, hardworking and bone tired. They’d rented rather than bought, always something small and modern.

The house had almost seemed to fall into their laps—or perhaps Winnie’s lap. After months of bidding wars, failed inspections, and schlepping from one model home to another, Winnie had gone for a run around Greenlake, without Nigel, to clear her head. They’d been fighting about houses nonstop. She’d been parking her car along the curb as the owner drove the spikes of the For Sale sign into the front lawn. She’d hopped out of the still-running car and ninja-sprinted across the lawn in her New Balance sneakers.

“I’ll buy it,” she’d said, barely out of breath. “Your house. It’s sold.”

And as the former owner recounted later, Winnie had pulled the sign out of the ground and put it in the trunk of her BMW. They’d closed three months later.

Winnie’s memories of those twelve weeks were hazy. There had been a lot of back and forth until finally the offer was accepted, and then all of a sudden, they were owners of a very old, very large house. Prime location. “Seriously, Nigel. Who doesn’t want to live on Greenlake.” Winnie had said those words as they walked arm in arm toward their new home, just twenty minutes after the closing. Her eyes were as wide as the day Nigel had proposed.

They’d lived in the house for less than a year when the roof sprung a serious leak. Nigel had to cash out his 401k to replace it. Then, right after they brought Samuel home, they’d discovered the attic had black mold and had to be gutted. They lived in a hotel for a month with their new baby while the repairs were made. Years later, Nigel had wanted to add an apartment that could be locked off from the main house by a door in his den.

“But why does it need its own entrance?” she’d countered. He was growing impatient with her; if she dug her heels in it would cause a fight.

“We can rent it out if we ever run into trouble with money—which, frankly, after all we’ve sunk into this house, might be soon,” Nigel had explained, even as the color drained from his wife’s face. And then he’d added, “It will also increase the value of the property.” Like Winnie cared. Her insides pinched together at the mention of money. Her only relationship with it was to spend it.

“I’ve taken a look at our finances and—”

“Just do it,” Winnie said. “I’m sure you know what you’re doing.” She called Amber right away.

“He’s right.”

Winnie heard a car door slam on Amber’s end. She was a real estate agent now, probably arriving at a house for a showing.

“It will add value to the property, and yeah, you could also put it on Airbnb. Earth to Winnie, it’s a thing now.”

“Not a thing I’m comfortable with,” Winnie snapped.

But she let Nigel win that round. And she supposed itwasa good business decision. It’s not like he was aching to let a stranger move in, but there it was—the option.

When Winnie got out of the bath, Nigel was downstairs unpacking groceries from two recyclable bags. She looked through his purchases, hoping to find a card or a box of candy, but there was nothing exciting except for a new can opener. She suddenly felt disappointed in herself. What had she been hoping for? Fireworks and champagne? Nigel was a good man who loved her; she was content with that. She threw a smile his way as she helped him put everything away. Later, when they were in bed and he reached for her, she didn’t stiffen up, even though part of her wanted to—she’d already given up on the evening. She let him, and he innocently fell asleep minutes after, oblivious to the crying Winnie did well into the night.

Because now, all these years later after the horrible thing that had occurred inside this very house on Turlin Street, she didn’t know if anything would ever be enough.

4

JUNO

Juno had moved to Seattle from Albuquerque, New Mexico, four years ago. She’d lived one life there and another in Washington, the two starkly different. New Mexico Juno had a career and a family, a husband and two little boys. She was plump and full breasted, and she wore paisley as a fashion statement. Her practice had started in a storefront she shared with two therapist friends. Five years into their little triad of mental health, Juno had enough clients to warrant her own building. She bought an old Burger King on the outskirts of town that had gone belly-up and converted it intoSessions, a family counseling facility. That was before she more or less burned her life down and ended up in Washington.

She’d heard that the weather didn’t try to kill you with heat or cold, and that was just fine for her. The most damage Seattle could do was a misty rain that made you feel a damp sort of sleepiness. Juno hadn’t taken much with her when she’d left Albuquerque, only what she could carry in her thrifted suitcase. Just a handful of memories, among them Kregger’s reading glasses, which she occasionally used.

She ended up moving into the Turlin Street house fifteen years after Winnie and Nigel purchased it. By then, all the renovations had been finished and the downstairs had a small apartment with its own entrance. The first time she saw the house—red brick in front of a backdrop of purple-gray clouds, like some sort of painting—she’d sighed. She wasn’t there to see about a place to live, just to admire the house in its Gothic beauty. But then the opportunity had presented itself, and Juno had taken it. She was in deep need of change, and the house on Turlin had beckoned her. Juno had stood rooted to the sidewalk as someone drove by blasting music. She took the first steps toward her new home as the singer sang “I knew that it was now or never…”

Their son, a lean bean with sandy hair and blond eyelashes, seemed equally as puzzled by his parents as Juno was. She often spotted him shaking his head at them when they weren’t looking, like he couldn’t believe the stupidity. She suspected that Samuel scored high on the Wechsler, higher probably than both Winnie and Nigel combined. Juno had seen it many times over the years, parents bringing their children in for Juno to fix like they were appliances instead of complex individuals. You couldn’t fix a child—they didn’t need fixing right out of the box. Kids just needed a healthy example of love to thrive beneath. He found her sitting on a bench by the water just yesterday, and they’d had the biggest and best of heart-to-hearts. She was certain that she was the only person with whom Sam could discuss his interests, as disturbing as they may have been to anyone besides Juno. And she had told him that as they sat next to the lake—the lake that she had described as “Calm as rice.”

“Calm as rice?” he had laughed, grasping at his abdomen and rocking his head side to side.

“That’s right,” Juno said. “Calm as rice.”

“I’ve never heard that before.”

When he had sat down next to her, his eyebrows were drawn. He looked more like an unsure child and less like the opinionated boy she’d grown to know.

“You know some of the most famous serial killers of all time are from Washington?”

Juno had leaned back on the bench, frowning up at the yellowing sky. “Let me think,” she said. “Ted Bundy!” She looked at Sam, who nodded enthusiastically.

“The Green River killer…what was that fellow’s name? Gary something…”

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