Page 49 of Middle of the Night

“Oh,” Ashley says. “Is it something I did?”

“No, you’re wonderful,” Mrs. Marsh says. “Ethan adores you. It’s just, well, I’m no longer working. And since I’ll be home all day, it doesn’t make sense to also have a sitter for him. I’m sorry for not letting you know sooner.”

In that moment, Ashley sees her short-term plan for the rest of the summer blow away like dust in a strong wind. No more hiding her earnings from her parents. No more Woodstock. Still, she doesn’t want to make Mrs. Marsh feel like shit, so she says, “I get it. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” Mrs. Marsh says. “We made an arrangement for the entire summer, and I’m sure you were counting on that money. I can give you what we would have paid you this week, and if we ever need someone at night, you’ll be the first person we call.”

“That’s nice,” Ashley says as she mentally recalculates how much it’ll take to get to Woodstock. “I really appreciate it.”

“Thank you for understanding.”

Mrs. Marsh then surprises her by pulling her into a hug. Ashley lets her do it, waiting for the awkwardness to end. Instead, it only gets more awkward.

Because that’s when Joyce Marsh starts to cry.

At first, Ashley remains frozen in place, hoping it’ll stop. When it becomes clear the crying won’t end anytime soon and, in fact, is only getting worse, she takes control of the situation.

“Let’s get you inside,” she says, knowing how the wives of Hemlock Circle gossip, her mother included. And the sight of Joyce Marsh weeping on her front stoop will spur plenty of that.

Inside, Ashley leads Mrs. Marsh to the kitchen, sitting her down at the island where she normally serves Ethan his afternoon snack.

“Can I get you something to drink?” she asks, as if her job has changed and she’s now Mrs. Marsh’s babysitter.

“Thank you, no.” Mrs. Marsh takes a deep breath and wipes her eyes. “This is so humiliating.”

“I understand,” Ashley says, even though she doesn’t. Her main source of income, not to mention her summer plans, have just been shot to hell. If anyone should be crying, it’s her.

Mrs. Marsh reaches for a paper napkin and uses it to blow her nose. “That’s sweet of you to say. Still, I’m sorry you had to see that. It’s just, well, I’m upset because I was fired.”

She barely gets that last word out before she starts weeping again, this time in great, heaving sobs that start to worry Ashley. Is Mrs. Marsh having a nervous breakdown? Should she yell for help? Also, where the hell is her husband? He usually doesn’t leave for the university until 12:30.

“There, there,” Ashley says, struck by how useless it sounds. Has that ever helped anyone?

“God, I’m so pathetic,” Mrs. Marsh says between sobs. “I know I should be grateful for what I have. A good husband. Ethan. This house. But I just wanted to contribute, you know? And now I feel so…useless.”

Her tears flow even harder now, and Ashley realizes there’s nothing else to do except be Mrs. Marsh’s friend. So she hops onto the stool next to Mrs. Marsh, puts an arm around her, and lets her cry against her shoulder.

As Ashley watches her neighbor weep in her perfectly appointed kitchen, she renews her promise to herself that she’ll never end up like Mrs. Marsh or any of the wives on Hemlock Circle. She won’t be dependent on her husband. She won’t burst into tears because she feels inadequate. Most of all, no matter what happens, she’ll get the hell out of suburbia.

And nothing is going to stop her.

THIRTEEN

Although only half the cul-de-sac separates Ashley’s house from my own, it feels a lot longer with three shots of straight tequila in me. I sway slightly as I navigate the sidewalk in front of the Wallaces’, almost tripping over the strip of flower bed running beside it. At the driveway, the security light above the garage kicks on, the sudden brightness startling me.

I stand there a moment, trying to gauge the range of the light’s motion sensor. How close does one have to get to trigger the light? To test it, I move backward twenty paces and wait until the light over the Wallaces’ garage clicks off.

Then I take a step.

And a second.

On the third, the light flicks on again.

I estimate that I’m about twenty feet away. Not as close as I thought was needed to activate it. Twice now, I’ve watched the garage lights on Hemlock Circle turn on, seemingly triggered by nothing. But just because I didn’t see anyone doesn’t mean they weren’t there. It’s very possible the lights were set off by someone twenty feet away in the opposite direction, toward the backs of the houses.

But who was that someone?

According to Vance Wallace, it was Billy. “I saw him running through the backyard,” he said—a statement I’d like to dismiss but can’t. Not after sensing Billy in my backyard around the same time Vance claimed to have seen him.

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