Page 42 of Perfect Wives
They’ll try but a lot of security equipment isn’t registered nowadays. Could be anyone.
Dan (No. 9)
Whoever killed Jonny will be on that footage.
Susie (No. 11)
Unless the person who installed the camera also killed Jonny.
Beth (No. 3)
Let’s wait to see what the police say today. It won’t do us any good to start accusing each other.
Ryan (No. 9)
There’s no point pretending one of us didn’t put that camera up. We should be talking about who!
Marc (No. 12)
Does anyone know if the camera had audio?
TWENTY-TWO
GEORGIE
By Friday, Jonny’s murder is all anyone can talk about. The Magnolia Close WhatsApp group is humming with tension and accusations. The gossip from the school gates isn’t much better. I thought being at work today would offer a distraction, but with Jonny’s murder still the top story on the local radio’s hourly news bulletin, it feels like there’s no escape. Especially with the police statement released this afternoon suggesting they’re pursuing strong leads. What does that mean? Every time I try to think about who did this, it’s like a vice squeezing my chest. A murder in our community…
Now all I want is to collect Oscar and go home. Shut ourselves away for the weekend.
My eyes land on the clock for the tenth time in as many minutes – 2.57p.m. My daily mantra circles my thoughts, and for once it feels taunting instead of reassuring.
I have all the time I need.
Three more minutes. That’s all. I try to focus on the computer screen and the new property listing I was supposed to finish an hour ago that’s barely started. I manage a line of words before my gaze is back on the clock.
2.58 p.m.
Benton’s Estate Agent’s is a small, dark-green shopfront on a smaller stretch of the high street, away from the main strip of restaurants and chain shops. Family-owned and with a reputation for finding buyers and selling fast, it’s always busy. I usually love my three afternoons a week. It’s mostly admin and house listings, helping walk-ins, but sometimes I show the homes too. The pay is terrible, but Tim Benton is kind, and the other staff are fun. I pride myself on knowing exactly what a person is looking for the moment they step through the door. Sometimes I think I know it better than they do. A forever home. A renovation project. People think houses are about status and comfort, but they’re about so much more. Our homes are part of our identity. They mean so much to us. Like Magnolia Close. At least, it used to feel that way before Jonny’s murder three days ago and the discovery of the secret camera. It isn’t just the WhatsApp group that feels toxic now.
In just a few short days, Magnolia Close no longer feels like the inviting haven it once was. I’ve seen my neighbours hurrying in and out of their homes, no longer stopping to say hello and chat about the weather and plans for the weekend. Packages left on doorsteps instead of being taken in by one of us.
Not even Andrea gave me a wave from her window earlier when I left for work, and it was me who helped her from the bathroom floor last year after she slipped getting out of the shower and twisted her ankle.
The police presence has become suffocating. Their unmarked cars come and go at all hours, headlights flicking across bedroom windows at night.
3 p.m.
‘Thank you,’ I say to the universe as I shut down my computer. I grab my bag and call a hurried goodbye.
Outside, the cool October air makes me wish I’d replaced the gloves I lost that night in the pub. I walk fast, taking the roadthat borders the park, barely registering the crunch of leaves beneath my boots. The sky is grey, but it’s not wet, and I know Oscar will jump at my feet and beg for a trip to the park. It’s what we usually do on Fridays, always followed by a playdate at mine with Henry and the girls. Bags, coats and shoes piled high in my hall. The house filled with noise and laughter.
Maybe I should suggest it. Do something that feels normal. But I know we’ll all want to talk about Jonny’s death and Keira’s appearance this week and that strange comment. The way she smiled when she said it.
There’s still a dread in me I can’t shake when I think about Keira. The hum of something not right. We’ve all tried to keep our distance in the playground, but she’s hard to avoid. Hard to miss with her red lips and charcoaled eyes that seem to flash trouble. She doesn’t belong here. Not in our quiet little world of PTA meetings and park trips and coffee mornings. I think she knows it too. I think she likes it.
Maybe Oscar will be happy to snuggle together and watch a film this afternoon. We could make a den of blankets and pillows on the floor.
One of my heels has rubbed into a blister in my new boots as I round the corner and the school gates come into view. The playground beyond is already filled with parents standing in clusters. I see one mum looking up, catching my eye before nudging her friend. A second later, the whole group is staring. A flush rises on my neck. I shake it off, but the sensation clings like static.
