I lean back into the soft, white cushions and will myself to relax. Leah has been nothing but a good friend. Not every time someone talks about you are they trying to hurt you, I tell myself.
“No, seriously, enough with the chitchat,” Daisy says. “Let’s discuss Disheveled. Janelle? I know you’ve got some opinions.”
Heather titters.
“Well, I hated this,” says Janelle. “Do we really need another novel about how hard it is to be alive in America in the twenty-first century?”
“Big surprise,” Pam mutters. “You only like books about the Holocaust. Or slavery.”
“At least they have something to really complain about.” Janelle sips her wine. “This is the worst kind of self-indulgent garbage.”
People start chiming in. I scan my memory for some salient detail from the book that I can contribute to the discussion, but all I can think about is who knows what about me and Rob Avery. Was it one of these women who told Daisy we were making out at the party?
I grab the bottle and fill my glass again.
“I’m sorry,” Pam says. “Are we just going to ignore the elephant in the room?”
The energy seems to shift.
“I mean, hello!” Pam continues. “A man was murdered in our neighborhood.”
“I heard he was drugged,” Janelle says. “A friend of a friend works at the county pathologist’s.”
“What?” Heather gasps. “Drugged? What in the world does that even mean?”
“I think,” Janelle says, “it means someone drugged him, Heather. And those drugs killed him.”
And the conversation is off and running. I pull further into myself, focusing on the terrible manicure Sharon gave me, until something Daisy says catches my attention.
“—most certainly was not a good guy. He may have looked the part, but he did some shitty things. And I mean really shitty.”
The room falls silent. I straighten up, on high alert.
“What the hell are you talking about, Daisy?” Pam asks.
“Let’s just say he got drunk at my party and assaulted one of the moms in the neighborhood.”
A collective gasp erupts.
“When?” Janelle demands.
“At my party. Saturday night.”
“Right before he died?” Janelle asks.
I glare at Daisy, trying to silence her with my eyes. She stares straight ahead, impervious, her blond curls like a halo around her head. This is happening at warp speed, right in front of me. I thought they’d at least have the decency to talk behind my back. I look at Leah, who seems shocked.
“Is the poor woman okay?” Heather asks.
“Who was it? We need names, now.” Pam leans forward in her chair like a puppy panting for a treat.
“No names,” Leah says. I shoot her a grateful look.
“How do you know about this, Daisy?” Janelle asks.
“I just do.” Daisy pops an almond in her mouth, pleased with herself.
Panic rises within me. I do not know what to do. I don’t want to say a word or move a muscle, afraid my voice or my body might betray me. I am certain the truth is written on my face, were anyone to bother to look over at me. But all eyes are on Daisy. I pray for someone to steer the conversation back to the book.
“Do the police know this?” Heather asks.
“Lisa Bratt,” Janelle says. “She was a hot mess Saturday night. I saw her puking in the azaleas.”
Leah shakes her head. “Stop guessing, Janelle.”
“Wait, Leah knows? How does Leah know?” She pivots toward Daisy. “Is it Karen Pearce? I saw her yelling at someone.”
“You heard Leah,” Daisy says. “You can stop guessing, because we’re not telling.”
“C’mon, Daisy. Seriously. Do the police know?” Pam asks. “Because maybe the husband, I don’t know, got angry and attacked Rob. I mean, my husband would go ballistic if someone assaulted me.”
“Did he hit on you, Leah? When you first moved here? Before you and David got together?” Janelle asks. “I feel like he hit on all the divorced moms.”
“That poor girl,” Pam says. “What’s her name? Tenley?”
“And now she’s going to hear that her dead father was a rapist,” Heather says.
I can’t take it anymore. “No one’s accusing anyone of rape.” All eyes turn to me. I put my wineglass on the table and misjudge the edge. It tumbles. I manage to catch it, but not before the wine splashes on the rug. “Oh, shit!”
I fall to my knees and dab at the stain with a few pink-and-green napkins that read: Today’s Forecast: 100% Chance of Wine.
“Don’t worry.” Leah runs out of the room. In a moment, she is back with a moist rag, kneeling beside me and dabbing the rug. “It’s white wine. Do you have any idea how much wine this rug has absorbed over the years? Its blood-alcohol level would get it arrested.”
A scattering of nervous laughter fills the room.
I scoot back out of Leah’s way. Little bits of the paper napkin I used have wedged into the carpet like specks of green-and-pink confetti. I’ve made things worse. “I should go. I need to get home.”
“Don’t go,” Leah says, standing up. “You’re upset.”
“We’re on your side, Allie,” Daisy says. “No one blames you for what Rob Avery did.”
“Oh my god.” Heather’s voice reverberates in the room. “It was you? Are you all right?”
I shove my book into my bag.
“Is this you and Rob?” Janelle passes her phone to me. I take it from her as Leah and Heather crowd over my shoulder to peer at the small screen.
It’s the same photo the detective showed me—with Rob and me almost touching foreheads in Daisy’s kitchen Saturday night. I scroll down and see it has been posted on the Eastbrook Neighborhood Facebook page.
There are dozens of comments nested below.
I toss the phone onto the coffee table with a clang. I’m halfway to the front door when someone, maybe Pam, calls after me, “We won’t tell anyone.”
I twist and pull on the front door locks. The door won’t budge. Leah reaches from behind me and pulls it open for me.
“Allie, please don’t be upset. We want to support you. We all have our own stories—hashtag MeToo,
