Piper speaks up. “Stacey’s right, Dad. You told us we’d be fine after we practiced on Saturday.”
Saturday—right. It dawns on Stacey: that was before they’d found out about the triple homicide. But a quarter-of-a-century-old crime wouldn’t have any impact on their commute unless they really are in danger, right?
Stacey thinks of the person she saw—or thought she saw—watching the house, and watching her.
She thinks of her parents’ doubts about her mental well-being; of her own doubts; of her chance, today, to make a fresh start.
That won’t happen if she brings up the watcher. If her parents believe her, they’ll freak out and move them all right out of this house. And if they don’t believe her, they’ll probably haul her off to a shrink.
Two lousy alternatives are enough to convince her, for now, to keep the watcher to herself.
Nora
Nora stands on the stoop watching her daughters head toward the subway with backpacks over their shoulders.
In the end, Keith agreed to let them go as planned, as long as they stick together. They are, and yet not—both plugged into earbuds, lost in their own music and thoughts. Their school uniforms are identical and yet not—Stacey’s white polo shirt is untucked and her pleated powder blue skirt pulled low so that it grazes her knees; Piper’s shirt is tucked in and her waistband is rolled so that her hemline rides halfway up her thighs. She’s wearing white knee socks and black flats; Stacey, black knee socks and black sneakers. She has her old black military parka over one arm, likely as a security blanket since there’s no rain in the forecast.
As they reach the Edgemont intersection, Nora lifts her hand to wave as she had ten minutes ago when Keith departed for the office. But unlike their father, the girls don’t look back before disappearing around the corner.
Well, good. That’s a good thing, isn’t it? Maybe they’re excited about starting their new school. More likely, they’re relieved to escape after so much family togetherness. She can’t blame them.
Alone in the house at last, she turns the dead bolt and after a moment’s consideration, slides the security chain. It’s cast iron and original, according to the listing agent who’d shown off historical door hardware and neglected to mention the historical triple homicide.
She turns away from the door and steps over Kato, the world’s worst watchdog, asleep underfoot. Her eye falls on the marble console table, where the pineapple sage is starting to wilt. She picks up the vase and goes into the kitchen.
No midcentury kitsch or retro earth tones here. No monkey figurines. Everything is sleek, modern, and monochromatic.
Using kitchen shears, Nora trims the bottom inch from the sage stems and fills the vase with fresh water, then sets it on the counter. Bright September sunbeams emphasize the splashy red blooms against the white marble counters and subway-tile backsplash.
In drought-plagued California, she wouldn’t dream of running the dishwasher unless it was filled to capacity. She shouldn’t do it here, either, with only a few coffee things and cereal bowls.
Just this once, she promises herself, throwing in a detergent pod. Because she craves order, and there’s only so much she can control.
As the dishwasher hums into action, she grabs her phone and steps outside.
The soft morning air smells of damp soil. She crosses to a weathered teak bench, moss-slicked brick pavers cool and slightly uneven beneath her bare feet. She sits and dials Teddy.
The line rings, rings, rings . . . voice mail.
“It’s me again. I was hoping I’d get you this time. Everyone’s left for work and school and I finally have the place to myself. I wanted to fill you in on everything, but . . . oh, well. Call me back if you can. Just not after midafternoon here, because I’m not sure what time the girls will get home. They take the subway to Manhattan. Can you believe it? They’re getting the hang of city life. I hope you’re safe, Teddy, wherever you are. Miss you . . . love you . . . Bye.”
She pockets her phone and allows the stillness to settle over her.
Birds chirp and foliage rustles in the breeze. A garbage truck grinds and halts its way along the adjacent block, a plane hums low overhead, and neighboring window air conditioners drone and drip. But in this verdant corner of the world, the morning hush holds the urban clamor at bay.
Anyone in earshot could have heard her on the phone. Had she used Teddy’s name? She doesn’t think so, but even if someone had overheard her talking to “Teddy,” it would be meaningless. She’s surrounded by strangers here.
Surrounded.
She gazes at the walls of windows above the garden. Some are open. Neighbors could be eavesdropping. Watching.
She stands and walks slowly into the house, resisting the urge to look back over her shoulder. Inside, she locks the door after her and gazes out, heart pounding as though she’s just narrowly escaped—
She screams as something grazes her legs from behind.
“Oh, you scared me, you crazy dog!”
It’s mutual, based on startled barking that doesn’t immediately subside. She watches Kato closely, wondering if he’s agitated because there really is someone out there. But then the barks morph into the whiny-whimper that means he needs to go out.
“Now?” She contemplates getting the leash and taking him for a walk. Then she looks again at the dappled garden.
There’s work to be done there. The rental agent had mentioned that a landscaping company comes every Wednesday morning and if they wanted to keep the contract going they could.
“We do,” Keith decided, without consulting Nora. “Just like at home.”
“Wait, I tend to the garden at home.”
“The garden, yes. But you don’t mow the grass or prune the trees. We need someone to do all that on this property.”
On this property, there are no real trees to speak of. Nor, for that matter, is there much grass. But there are droopy dinnerplate dahlias that beg for stakes, faded zinnias that need deadheading, peonies that should be divided . . .
Well, should isn’t the right word. They can be divided, if you’re itching for a reason to get outside and dig.
Nora has been since she arrived.
“Come on, Kato, let’s go out.” She holds the door open and he trots over the threshold without hesitation. He wouldn’t do that if there were an intruder in their midst, would he?
She shoves her feet into her rubber garden clogs and follows him outside.
She begins by trimming the straggly bramble border, where she can keep an eye out for Peeping Toms. She’s put her concerns aside by the time she’s moved on to the zinnias and dahlias, and the sun has ridden over adjacent rooftops. Dog days, but Kato long since retreated back into the air-conditioned house. She should do the same, at least to fetch cold water, a hat, and some sunscreen. But she has one final task to accomplish.