I keep walking, sure that my distress shows on my face. I was photographed, without my knowledge, at the neighborhood pool. I remember the day well. The morning after we moved all our furniture and boxes in, Leah knocked on the door and introduced herself and Ava. Come to the pool, she said, explaining that although there was a seven-year wait list to become a member, we could be her guests. It’s going to be a hundred degrees.
“I love the Vannier house,” Priya says. Her long, thin face and black eyes remind me of a Modigliani painting. “It’s so funny,” she adds, “I’ve seen you at drop-off, but I figured you were a nanny, you look so young.”
Priya reaches out a slender hand and touches me, sending a shudder down my forearm. I move my arm away, shoving my hands into my coat pocket.
“I want you to know that you should pay no attention to what people are saying about you and Rob Avery.”
I stop short. “I’m sorry, what are people saying?”
Priya looks nervously to Daisy for guidance. “Oh, I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I’m not upset,” I say through clenched teeth. “I just don’t know what you mean.”
“Well, some people are saying you were having an affair, and now that there’s attention being paid to his death, you’re claiming he sexually assaulted you.”
I gasp. “What? Who said that?”
“I don’t believe it for a minute.” She holds her hands to her chest.
“Priya is a counselor at Georgetown.” Daisy wears an earnest expression on her round face. “Isn’t that right, Priya?”
Priya nods. “Yes. I run the sexual assault survivors’ program there. I always believe women.”
“In fact, Priya’s the one who found us a therapist for Gabriella.”
“Is that working out?” Priya asks.
Daisy lets out a little guffaw. “Don’t ask me. Gabriella tells me nothing. Although, I heard her throwing up in her bathroom last night, so I wonder if the bulimia is back.”
“I’m sorry, ladies, but I have to get to work.” I turn and continue walking. Ridiculous. Every woman in this neighborhood appears to know what happened at Daisy’s party, and they seem to feel entitled to pick at my experiences the way little boys gleefully pick the legs off insects. And as sweet as Daisy is, it is obvious she cannot keep a confidence—whether it’s about me or her stepdaughter’s problems.
“Bye, Allie!” Daisy calls. I turn and wave goodbye.
A mucky sense of unease envelops me as I drive down Mass Ave. toward D.C. Things are spinning out of my control. I’d rather be a nobody to the moms in the neighborhood than a topic of gossip. What happened at Overton scarred me. How quickly everyone turned against me.
The whispers of Sexy Lexi.
The police showing up during math class.
I shake the awful memories away. Maybe I’m just not used to having girlfriends. Take Daisy: while she overshares, she is also kind and loyal and clearly knows how to make and keep friends. I will try to stop reacting so negatively to everyone’s concern. I want friends. I need them. The kind of support network you read about in books, a group of women who show up for each other. And that begins with me giving people the benefit of the doubt.
The car speaker shrills with an incoming call startling me. It’s Mark.
“Hey, hon,” he says. “I’m heading into a meeting, but I wanted to let you know that I talked to a guy from law school who’s now a criminal lawyer—”
“You did? Why?” The words criminal lawyer immediately trigger a sense of guilt.
“Hold on, I was just running the scenario by him. What happened to you at Daisy’s party and what you should do.”
“Let me guess. He says that I should tell the police everything.”
“Actually, yes. You have nothing to hide.”
A tiny laugh escapes me, not loud enough for Mark to hear. As if having nothing to hide has ever helped a woman who’s been assaulted.
“He strongly recommends that you lay out the facts as soon as possible. He knows a criminal defense lawyer who can go to the police with you if that’s what you want. The lawyer’s name is Artie Zucker. I think we should call him.”
“Right, because nothing sends the message that you have done nothing wrong like hiring a criminal defense lawyer.”
“I know you don’t want to talk to the police. And I don’t blame you. If it were just a matter of what happened at Daisy’s party, it would be one thing, but Allie, a guy is dead. Murdered.”
“I’m not guilty of anything, Mark.”
“This is D.C. Everybody has a lawyer. It’s like having a dentist. Tell you what, I’ll call him.”
“No. I can do it. Just text me his info.”
We say goodbye just as traffic slows to a halt outside the vice president’s residence at the Naval Observatory. A caravan of black Lincoln Navigators emerges like a giant snake from the property onto Mass Ave. I know Mark is right, but I can’t shake the sense of unease, a sort of dark, swampy feeling in my gut that I am being pulled into some dark vortex that is going to swallow me whole.
Those detectives are probably getting all kinds of “tips” about my supposed affair with Rob, and it would probably be better just to tell them what happened. Not that I’m looking forward to it.
And then I see it.
The black Audi with FCS on the Virginia plates. It’s right behind me.
17
At Dupont Circle, I take a different route than normal, winding my way through the neighborhood. The Audi falls back, but never out of sight.
A flash of red before my eyes. I slam on the breaks just inches from a woman pushing a stroller across a marked intersection.
The woman stops and wags her finger
