Page 105 of You Know Why

“You don’t talk about Chloe enough. If you ever want to, I’m here.”

I nod. “It’s just so hard. Every time I think of her, I’m immediately thrown back to the night she died. It was so sad, Margot, seeing her like that. If I’d gotten there a few minutes earlier, I could have stopped Andrew from murdering her.”

One of the FBI agents comes into the kitchen. They’ve been so good at staying out of the way, guarding us but not being obtrusive. Not scaring the children . . . at least not too much. But now that Brooklyn’s home, the coterie has doubled, and today, unlike the previous week, one or another has been underfoot. They are big, and they are loud, even without meaning to be.

This one’s name is Juan Andrade. He’s been especially kind to me, his flashing white teeth appearing from his thick mustache every time I’m near. He gives me that heart-stopping grin now. “There’s a friend of Mrs. Locke’s at the door, with a casserole. Should I let her in? I don’t think she’ll insist on seeing her, but . . .”

This has been a regular occurrence. Though I’ve been keeping everyone fed with fresh homemade food, there’s been a steady parade of friends and neighbors wanting to help. It’s kind of nice. Reminds me of when I was young and Dad had a tumor removed. The whole town seemed to stop by. Word must be out that Brooklyn is home.

Margot shoots me a look, whether derision or humor, I can’t tell. “I’ll intercept. Be right back.”

The house is small enough that the acoustics from the foyer reverberate. If you’re in the hall outside the kitchen, you can hear conversations. The FBI agents love to talk, gossip, compare notes. They are all football fanatics; the Titans are making headlines. There’s been much ballyhoo about their young quarterback and the team’s chances at winning a Super Bowl.

It’s not that I’ve been eavesdropping. I can’t help but overhear.

The woman in the foyer is a master of upspeak, her voice lilting at the ends of the sentences, making each a question, rapid firing at Margot in a delicate Southern accent.

“I heard Brook was home? So I wanted to bring you over a lasagna? The kids must be so thrilled to have their mommy back? You just need to put this on three hundred and fifty for about fifteen minutes? You look so good, Margot? Tell me how you’re doing, really? And where did you find this divine nanny everyone’s talking about?”

That last is a true question, and it takes a second for me to realize she’s talking about me.

“Oh, Eden isn’t our nanny. She’s a . . . new friend. From Atlanta. We just met a few days ago.”

“Days? Months, you mean.”

“No, that’s not right,” Margot says, and my heart rate starts to increase. “She and Brooklyn met the day of the accident.”

“Oh. I could have sworn I saw her at school? The pickup line, around Halloween? Am I losing my mind? She hasn’t been working for you this whole time and Brook’s just keeping her a secret?”

“Definitely losing your mind, Stephanie.”

But the woman won’t stop. “Can I at least . . . talk to her? I mean, I know how hard it is to get good help, but with the boys turning six and all of my charity work gearing up, I’m a little overwhelmed. If she’s not full time—”

“Eden’s not help. She’s a friend. I’m sure it was someone else you saw. Come on in, you can meet her. She’s not a nanny, though.” Margot calls my name, and I plaster on a smile and bustle into the foyer like I haven’t heard a word.

“Dinner’s ready,” I say, wiping my hands on the starched apron I found in the pantry. “Do we have guests? I can set another plate. Hi, I’m Eden.” I shove my hand into the woman’s space, and she shakes it automatically. I can tell she’s searching her memory banks, trying to match me up with her memory, and I smile even wider.

There’s no chance.

Margot smiles, too. “Stephanie brought us a lasagna.”

“Oh, thank you. That’s so kind. We haven’t had Italian all week, the kids will be thrilled. I’ll just pop this in the fridge. It’s nice to meet you. You’re local?”

I take the casserole and wait. The woman squints, then shakes her head. “Just down the street. If y’all need anything, you just let me know?”

She shoots Margot another glance, then vamooses out the door. The agents set up their defensive scrum again. Juan winks at me. He knows I will bring them all a plate of dinner after I’ve fed the family. I’ve done it every night. It’s expected.

Margot holds out her hands for the casserole dish. It’s on two pot holders and scorching hot.

“I’ll take that. Let’s have some wine.”

There is nothing in her tone, nothing in her look but warm brightness and stars, the same way she’s been looking at me since we met. Nothing alarming. So I hand the dish over with a sigh of relief. “That was very kind of your neighbor. Since we’re having French, how about a Saint-Émilion?”

“Perfect.”

“I’ll get it from the cellar. I know just the one.”

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