Carol Parker is an underdog. Goddamn it.
Now, I press on, knowing I have to find a way to reach middle ground with her. “I understand why you wouldn’t be so inclined, but I think you have something that will help me prove Beau didn’t do anything wrong.”
The second time I mention Beau’s name, her expression wavers just barely. It’s a fraction of an opening, but I’m hoping it’s enough to get her on my side. “You’ve probably heard he’s being held in jail right now. You could be the key to his innocence.”
“I do have a soft spot for your husband. He’s always so kind to Art. They bump into each other at the driving range often. Has he ever told you that? And whenever they see each other, Beau sits down to chat with Art about what’s left of his golf game.”
Beau never mentioned it, but it sounds like him. Thoughtful. Unflashy. Kind.
“But let’s get one thing clear,” Carol warns. “I never said you weren’t my favorite person. In fact, I would have been perfectly happy to coexist. But you seem to take exceptional glee in poking at me and the rules of this place.”
“You’re right,” I offer, and Nora chokes a little. “And I’m sorry. I was going to apologize for the TPing incident immediately after it happened. Polly was feeling left out of her friend group—but that’s no excuse. After Gemma was found, I was distracted. I’d be happy to pick up the tab for the damage. Lawn care, conciliatory chardonnay. Whatever I owe you.”
It’s the smallest concession. But I think Nora’s eyes might pop out in shock.
Carol smirks, satisfied by my acknowledgment, so I press on.
“I imagine you’ve heard about Simon Avery,” I say. “Beau’s in a lot of trouble right now.”
“Word does travel fast around here.”
“Then you probably know how bad it looks.”
She nods. The simper on her face makes it clear she really does enjoy having the upper hand.
“Right.” I take the hint and try to hurry things along. “About your security cameras.”
Once we explain hers were the only working cameras in the neighborhood during the storm—and that we think whatever happened to Simon had something to do with Gemma’s murder—Carol appears to be torn.
Rule followers don’t break easily.
“I’m sure the police are going to be asking for the footage, too. But I have to see it. Please,” I say softly, thinking about her and Art. And the work she put in to find acceptance here. If she understands anything, it’s loyalty. Carol clawed her way into this community and holds tight to Art like he’s her anchor. Maybe she’ll understand that Beau is mine. “Beau’s my home. Everything I have. I have to prove he didn’t do this.”
Without another word, Carol stands and walks toward the hallway. I look at Nora.
What just happened? Are we about to get thrown out?
“Aren’t you coming?” Carol calls over her shoulder.
We fumble off the sofa in a rush to catch up, following Carol down the hall to her office.
“Welcome to my she-shed,” she announces as we step over the threshold of a pastel dream. Beach whimsy comes alive in the office of Carol Parker—driftwood on bookshelves, sea glass in jars, and a bouclé sofa. And in the corner is a desk with dual monitors.
Carol shakes the mouse to wake up her screen and sits down at her desk. It’s like a little command station.
Someone plowing through Carol’s prized fence last year really did a number on her.
She clicks a few buttons, and suddenly the screen is cut into quadrants of camera feeds.
“I have every corner of the exterior of the house. I can even zoom in on faces,” she says proudly. “What do you want to see?”
“Can we see your view of the Isle of Sicily the night of the hurricane, starting from about eightp.m.?”
Carol nods and clicks on the history icon. She runs the footage back, going all the way to the night Polly and I TPed her house. On the screen, toilet paper rolls fly toward the sky, swaying on a breeze as Polly and I shower the tree between fits of laughter. “Whoops. Went a little too far back.” She turns to me, knowing she’s finally bested me.
I very much did the thing I denied doing.
Nora’s giggling so hard she has to turn in to my shoulder to hide her face.
