Page 2 of Circle of Strangers
Questions I can’t answer ... yet.
“Jackson, if you’re finished, please take your plate to the kitchen. Go pick out some pajamas and a bedtime book.” He doesn’t question the fact that it’s still light outside. Fortunately he’s too young to grasp a broader concept of time like his sister does; he only knows the order of his routine. Since time is of the essence, I’m skipping his bath tonight. If I don’t wash and detangle Georgie’s hair, it’ll be a rat’s nest come tomorrow morning. If it weren’t for that, I’d skip hers, too.
I imagine gracefully straddling the line between domestic normalcy and the dire situation in my garage isn’t something the average person could do, but to me, it might as well be an ordinary Wednesday.
Yawning, Jackson questions nothing. I silently thank the chewable melatonin gummy I gave him half an hour ago. It’s not something I do often, but I have to protect them from this, and that means ensuring they’re out cold and won’t accidentally walk into a scene that could traumatize them for life.
With the kids preoccupied for a moment, I box up leftovers for Will and make a mental list of all the things I’m going to need. Bleach and a tarp. Gloves—leather or latex. A mask. It would be much easier if I could simply google this.
Thirty minutes later, the children are out cold, tucked into their beds in neighboring bedrooms across the hall from the primary suite. I stand in their doorways, watching and listening as their breaths steady and their chests rise and fall. Closing their doors, I trek to the laundry room to grab a gallon of Clorox before heading to the garage. With a damp palm wrapped around the doorknob, I draw in a deep, slow breath and prepare myself for the work that lies ahead.
With enough effort and a bit of adrenaline coursing through me, I should have no problem doing what I need to do. My plan is to get the body onto a tarp, roll it into said tarp, then place it onto another tarp in the trunk of my car. I’m not sure what I’ll do with it, but I’ve got a few ideas mentally marinating that I’ll need to finalize as soon as possible. There’ll be logistics to work around, but I’ll figure it out.
I always do.
Squeezing my eyes tight, I draw in and release one last deep breath, flip the dead bolt, and meet my fate.
Except something’s amiss.
There’s no metallic tang of blood hitting me like a wall. No trace of early decay lingering in the air. No lifeless, human-shaped lump in the northwest corner of the third stall.
With my heart inching up my throat, I smack the light switch on the wall, missing it on the first attempt. The overhead light buzzes, casting a sterile glow over spotless concrete.
The butcher knife is gone.
The blood is gone.
And so is the body.
1
Five Weeks Earlier
Reaching my hand into the dark recesses of our mailbox, I exhale with relief when I retrieve nothing but an electric bill and a political mailer. Only Lucinda could turn such a monotonous task into something that fills me with a little ping of dread on a daily basis.
It’s been several weeks since she sent that letter welcoming us to our new home, the one addressed to my birth name, Gabrielle. I’ve yet to figure out how she got our address—and so quickly. I could see Will’s scheming mother, Jacqueline, playing a part. Being locked in a jail cell gives that woman entirely too much time to think, but I’d rather she do her thinking behind bars and not in a world where her cell phone and bottomless bank account gives her free rein to wreak havoc on perfectly happy families.
The kids are under the impression that Jacqueline fell ill and went to live in a retirement home.
They’re too young to know the truth—that Jacqueline stole my therapy records, learned of my horrific childhood, and that I was living under an assumed name—and used it against me. Never mind that everything I did was to protect my family from a psychotic mother who’d not hesitate to harm us if she could.
My diabolical mother-in-law was singularly focused on removing me from the picture completely, going so far as to hire someone to fill my daughter’s head with stories from my childhood, stage a kidnapping in an attempt to make me snap, and push for Will to have me committed to a psychiatric hospital.
In the end, it backfired—landing her in jail on attempted kidnapping charges.
If my mother-in-lawissomehow behind these letters, I’m not sure how she obtained our new address in the first place. Will hasn’t even shared it with his father or sister, and we’re renting, so our name isn’t attached to any public sales records or tax documents.
It also makes no sense that Jacqueline would risk the safety of her son and grandkids by giving up our location. The woman had a copy of my therapy file. She read all the notes. She knew exactly what kind of person Lucinda was and the kinds of things she’s capable of. The psychological games. The emotional neglect. Feeding me raw-meat sandwiches. Pretending I was invisible. Attempting to sell my virginity. I grew up in a special kind of hell with the devil himself—or herself—for a mother.
“Hey, hi!” A voice much too chipper for a Monday morning calls out from the other side of my driveway gate. A moment later, a hand flies in the air, frantically waving, followed by a grinning brunette bouncing on her tiptoes. “You guys just moved in, right? I’m Sozi Hahn. I live in the two-story next door.”
I paint a smile on my face, tuck my mail under my arm, and brace myself for some soul-sucking small talk as I make my way closer.
“Camille,” I say, punching in the gate code. The door swings open and she steps through in head-to-toe white—yoga pants with a matching sports bra and sneakers the color of undriven snow, a bold choice for this desert landscape.
“I’ve been meaning to introduce myself. I’ve seen you all coming and going. You have two little ones, right?” she asks.
I bet in high school she volunteered to give tours to all the new kids. I immediately imagine her in show choir and serving as chair on the prom committee.
