Page 1 of Circle of Strangers
Prologue
Present day
I wipe my hands against my linen apron and inspect my ruddy palms as the oven timer chimes. The clock reads 5:45 PM, proof that the last two hours have been a dreamlike blur.
“Georgie, Jackson,” I call into the next room. I reach for my phone and close out of my cooking app. I’ve made this meal a dozen times and know the recipe by heart, except today. My mind has been ... preoccupied. “Dinner’s ready.”
There’s a break in my voice as I realize these are somehow the first words I’ve spoken in the last two hours, since I discovered the body in my garage.
The soft trounces of little socked feet against tile pull me from my moment, and I paint a motherly smile across my face while plating their dinners and pouring milks and conducting myself as if there currently isn’t a fresh corpse twenty feet away on the other side of the wall.
The life drained out of those bulging eyes is an image I couldn’t forget if I tried.
I don’t know who did it, when—or why.
But I intend to find out.
“It smells funny.” Jackson picks at his balsamic-glazed chicken. I’ll admit it’s on the dry side, but there’s no odor.
My heart stops. Dead bodies don’t turn malodorous that quickly, do they?
I compose myself. “You’ve eaten this plenty of times. I made it the same as I always do. I promise you’ll love it.”
He pokes at his garlic-parmesan risotto next. The contemplative look on his serious little face tells me he’s two seconds from asking me to make chicken nuggets, but to my surprise, he thinks better of it and takes a bite.
Beside him, Georgie cleans her plate and polishes off her milk in record time. Since we moved to this quiet gated neighborhood in a cozy Phoenix suburb a couple of months ago, she’s hit a growth spurt. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s grown three inches already. Every time I look at her, it’s as if her cherubic face has suddenly lost a little more roundness, a little more innocence. I can only hope that everything that transpired in San Diego doesn’t leave any lasting marks on her. She isn’t old enough to comprehend what happened, nor do Will and I ever intend to tell her, but losing her relationship with her beloved Nana has to be taking its toll.
“May I be excused?” Georgie asks, blinking up at me with her wide eyes framed in silky dark lashes. For a moment, I see my daughter as a teenager and then a woman. If I could stop time, I’d do it in a heartbeat. This world is full of horrible people who do horrible things—though as of two hours ago, there’s one less of them.
“Yes, you may. Please take your dishes to the sink. I’ll be up to run your bathwater soon,” I tell her.
While scooting her chair out, she pauses. “But I wanted to ride my bike.”
Her bike is in the garage—along with the body.
“Not tonight, my love.” I inject as much compassion in my voice as I can in an attempt to quell the storm brewing in her eyes. Ever since moving here—to a home with a gated driveway in a gated community, I’ve loosened my reins ever so slightly in the form of allowing her to ride her bike in the driveway in the evenings.
Baby steps.
“Why not?” she asks.
“We’re going to bed early tonight.” I slice a chunk of chicken and drive the tines of my fork into its flesh. It slides in, and my mindwanders to the purple-red stab wounds all over the body. There had to have been at least a dozen, if not more.
Whoever killed them wanted them deader than dead.
“But, Mommy,” my daughter protests. “Why do we have to go to bed early?”
Will gets home from teaching his night class in three hours and I have a crime scene to clean up, but I can’t tell her that.
“We have an early morning tomorrow. Your father and I are taking you somewhere fun. It’s a surprise.” I’m not sure what we’re doing yet, but I’ve got to get us out of the house for the day. I need a breather, distance from what transpired, and a side of normalcy. Clearing my throat, I sit straight and fix my attention to my son. “Jackson, how’s your risotto?”
His mouth full, Jackson gives me a thumbs-up and an energetic nod.
With heavy stomps, Georgiana takes her plate to the sink, then trudges down the hall to her room. Slamming the door in protest. Ordinarily I wouldn’t let this slide, but tonight I’ve got more pressing things to deal with than a kindergarten tantrum.
Glancing toward the garage entry, I let my gaze linger a little longer than usual on the dead bolt in its locked position. My mind needs extra reassurance that everything is exactly as I left it.
I’d have called the police, but with the murder having taken place in my home and my recent text exchange with the victim being quite heated, they’re going to have questions.
