Page 125 of You Know Why

“What else can I do? I want my husband home safe.”

“Brooklyn, honey, don’t get pissed, but you aren’t thinking straight. We’ll figure it all out. Let’s just . . . eat dinner and think this through. I’m going to take Bohdi for a walk, then crate him so he’s not begging at the table.”

“Fine. But just leave him in my room and close the door, okay? He doesn’t need to be in his crate.”

With the creepy Eden here, I don’t want to stay in the house a moment longer. And my wish is granted, only not in the way I hoped.

I stash the crypto wallets in my purse and stow it in the closet temporarily, but keep the holster clipped to my waistband. After Margot’s news, I feel safer having it with me. This whole situation feels like it’s spinning out of control. Coincidences are all well and good, but I’m starting to think that maybe all of this is tied together. That Eden wasn’t on the plane to Atlanta by chance, and neither were we. And that scares me to my bones.

I dutifully appear in the dining room, only to see the table has been set as if royalty is coming. All of our mother’s wedding china, the crystal, and the silver are arranged, along with our grandmother’s Belgian lace tablecloth. Most of this was packed away in the attic. When did she even have time to find it? Is there anything she hasn’t gone through in the house?

I’m already furious at this intrusion, so when she sashays into the dining room with my favorite Creuset in hand and starts to sing—“For she’s a jolly good fellow, for she’s a jolly good fellow, for she’s a jolly good fellow . . . I made you coq au vin”—and the kids start to clap, that’s it. My patience has run out.

“No. Absolutely not. We’re eating in the kitchen. This is all lovely, and I appreciate the effort, but that tablecloth is a precious antique, and if we spill something, it will be ruined.”

Eden stops midway into the room with the big Dutch oven balanced in her hands. She’s wearing an apron someone gave me as a hostess gift a few years ago, like she’s June Cleaver greeting us after a long day at work. “But this meal is special—a celebration. You are home, and we’re all so happy. It would be a shame not to eat it with the grandeur this moment is due.”

“And I’m saying no. Back to the kitchen with it.”

The flash of hatred in her eyes is enough to make me gasp. It’s quickly replaced with her more amiable grin, which I can now see is plastic, brittle. “Gosh, Brooklyn, you’re right. I wasn’t thinking. We can certainly set up in the nook. Come on, babies. Let’s go eat in the kitchen.”

The children glance at me, then follow her from the room like dutiful little puppies. I realize I’m squeezing my hands so tightly that my nails have broken the skin of my palm.

“What the hell,” I say to Margot. “She has them trained?”

“No, they’re just trying to be good. They can sense you’re upset.”

“Yeah, umm. This isn’t safe. She’s not safe. Maybe it’s my damaged brain talking, but I am freaking out. We have to get away from her, right now.”

“Where are we supposed to go, Brook?”

“Trey is coming, he’s going to make sure we’re protected. But she needs to leave the house. I do not feel comfortable, and I don’t want to wait any longer. Please, Margot. This is not normal. It’s all wrong. She’s all wrong.”

“You sound a little paranoid, sis.”

“Have you ever known me to be wrong about danger to us, Margot? My instincts have gotten us to this point.”

She looks at me with alarm. “All right. I’ll get rid of her.”

Almost on cue, Eden sails back into the dining room and beelines for the wine. There’s no way she didn’t hear me.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt. Don’t want to waste this.”

I realize there’s an open bottle of red on the table, breathing. The label is facing out—it’s the Château Ausone 2010 I bought at the vineyard in Bordeaux and brought home. That bottle is now worth over $1,000, and we were cellaring it as an investment.

That. Bitch.

A flash and it all comes together. She has helped herself to my world. My house. My things. My children’s hearts. My sister. My entire life seems to be at her disposal.

She’s not trying to replace me. She’s trying to become me.

She’s gotten Trey out of the way, and now she’s going to do the same to me.

“I will handle the wine, Eden. Thank you.”

She looks me straight in the eye, with the edge of a smile on her lips, and I see the back of her hand brush the neck. The bottle starts to tip. I lunge for it, but I’m not fast enough. The bottle goes sideways and crashes onto the table. Glasses tip and shatter, a plate breaks, and the wine glug-glug-glugs onto the precious Belgian lace.

With a cry of dismay, Margot rushes into the kitchen for towels. It’s too late. The mess is made. The lace is ruined. Her point is taken.