And as we clear the hedges that lead to the McGinnis house, Ford’s backyard—dressed up for a party—comes into view. The pool deck is cleared of any furniture that could blow around inthe storm, but beneath a pergola near the pool, string lights are straining against the wind, and a buffet of cocktails and finger foods is lined up as golf plays on a TV in the background.
Nothing like drinks and canapés while the world is trying to blow itself apart.
It’s a small crowd, limited to the people living within a few houses.
Carol Parker is perched on a wicker sofa, clutching a glass of sauvignon blanc like she’s taking communion. Shep hovers nearby, booming with some story I’m sure he’ll never finish. Across the space, Polly darts between adults with a handful of tortilla chips, and Ford stands at the grill, spatula in hand, wearing what I believe to be the only kind of clothes he owns: khaki shorts and a polo shirt.
A golfer is a golfer is a golfer. He probably sleeps in a Nike quarter-zip.
Beau is standing near the grill, holding a bottled IPA and talking to Ford. If it weren’t for the looming murder charge, he’d look positively suburban.
But we have never really fit in here. I used to think we were above the petty swipes and frivolous party invitations, but my smug attitude toward the meaningless politics of this place feels like a farce now. They stay worried about their Garden Club catering and designer wardrobes while I am trying to outrun secrets and accusations that could end my life as I know it. Their social politics—and the ability to worry about such small details—are the highest form of privilege.
Shame on me for misunderstanding that simple fact.
As I step onto the deck, all I can think is how lucky I would be if my only concern was the country club events calendar right now.
Beau looks up, and his jaw twitches at the sight of me.
“Hey,” he says first as I reach the pergola.
“Hey,” I answer, my voice flat.
Carol and Shep offer a chorus of polite welcomes, and a breeze comes off the lake, sweeping up the lawn and tugging the loose strands of my hair away from my face.
“Este.” Ford turns, that headline-grabbing smile on full display. “I’m glad you made it.”
And I’m glad I’m allowed on your property after I was caught breaking into your garage.
Carol must be likewise stunned there isn’t a court order keeping me off Ford’s lawn, because she clears her throat at a volume that rises above the hushed commentary of the Golf Channel.
Glancing between Carol and Ford, though, it appears no one has told him about my misbegotten recon mission.
Surely Ms. Dowling has had the chance. Through the kitchen window, I can see her at the sink, posture straight as a ruler, still very much employed. She doesn’t look up, but the sight of her makes me feel uneasy. She could have told him. Sheshouldhave told him.
Yet here Ford is, smiling at me like no one has ever caught me red-handed pawing through his sporting gear.
Either Ms. Dowling has decided to keep my secret. Or, like Carol, she’s waiting for the perfect moment to use it.
Beau reaches me, touching my arm to pull my attention away from Ms. Dowling in the window.
“We should talk,” he says.
“I don’t think here is—”
But he’s not taking no for an answer. He puts a hand under my elbow and guides me a few steps away from the crowd, so we can whisper without being heard.
I can see the urgency in his eyes. He can’t wait. Can’t stand there being conflict between us. “I want you to know I’m sorry. For all of it. Redwood. The security footage. I wanted you to be happy. I didn’t want anything to get in the way of that.”
“You should have told me. About the Redwood hack. It wasn’t fair, leaving me in the dark like that.”
His jaw flexes once, twice. “I know.”
“But Marcus showed me the footage.”
“Good.” He takes a step closer. “Then you know I couldn’t have killed her, because—”
“What did you fight about?” I stop him. “You and Gemma?”
