By Megan Mostyn-Brown

The Need

Del Rey

An imprint of Random House

A division of Penguin Random House LLC

1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019

randomhousebooks.com

penguinrandomhouse.com

Copyright © 2026 by Megan Mostyn-Brown

Penguin Random House values and supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader. Please note that no part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems.

DEL REY and the CIRCLE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Mostyn-Brown, Megan author

Title: The need / Megan Mostyn-Brown.

Description: First edition. | New York: Del Rey, 2026.

Identifiers: LCCN 2026008271 (print) | LCCN 2026008272 (ebook) | ISBN 9798217093984 hardcover | ISBN 9798217093991 ebook | 9798217377312 international edition

Subjects: LCGFT: Horror fiction | Paranormal fiction | Thrillers (Fiction) | Novels

Classification: LCC PS3613.O79 N44 2026 (print) | LCC PS3613.O79 (ebook)

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2026008271

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2026008272

Ebook ISBN 9798217093991

Book Team: Production editor: Cindy Berman • Managing editor: Paul Gilbert • Production manager: Angela McNally • Copy editor: Melissa Churchill • Proofreaders: Kate Hertzog, Kristin Jones, Judy Kiviat • Ebook production manager: Kyle Madigan

Cover design: Regina Flath

Cover photograph: Getty Images

The authorized representative in the EU for product safety and compliance is Penguin Random House Ireland, Morrison Chambers, 32 Nassau Street, Dublin D02 YH68, Ireland. https://eu-contact.penguin.ie

ep_prh_7.5a_157683634_c0_r0

For my mom and dad

Your love is gonna drown.

—Death Cab for Cutie

Part I

On the Run

1

Rosie

I’m at Carolyn’s house getting ready for homecoming when Sam calls. “It’s really fucking bad, Rosie. Like real bad.” His voice is hoarse. I can tell he’s been crying. “I did it again,” he whispers.

The back of my throat feels thick, soupy. Sam doesn’t have to explain. I know exactly what he did.

The pool of blood creeping across the ground.

His chin stained.

Bits stuck in his teeth.

Ugh. I’m too stoned for this.

Carolyn glances over at me, mouths, Are you okay? I nod. A lie. She believes me. Why wouldn’t she? She only knows what I want her to know about my mom and brother. Which is close to nothing. We haven’t been friends for that long. Only a year. But it’s the longest I’ve ever been friends with anyone.

Carolyn goes back to painting her nails. I think the color’s called Space Cadet. She picked it out because it matches both of our dresses. Her dress is silver. It’s tight with skinny little straps. My dress is covered in purple sequins. I feel like a normal kid when I wear it. That’s why I chose it.

“Rosie, you still there?” I can hear the train going by in the background. Wheels screeching on tracks. The horn blasting. Sam must be somewhere on the other side of town. I wish I’d just let my phone go to voicemail.

Carolyn wiggles her fingers under the lamp. Her nails shimmer purple. She grabs tweezers and carefully places a silver rhinestone in the center of each. I thought they were pretty before, but now they’re perfect. Carolyn wants to be a nail tech someday. Not in a strip mall. But for celebrities like the Kardashians. Carolyn has it so easy.

“Rosie?” He sounds like he did when we were little. Scared.

It’s a trick.

“It’s homecoming,” I say, trying to stress how important tonight is. How much I want to go to this dance. Silence on the other end. I look down at my nails. Half-moon nubs. Cuticles picked to shit. I flick off a scab. Blood rises to the surface. A tiny murder scene. I wonder how many coats of Space Cadet it will take to cover up the damage.

“I tried to call Mom, but she didn’t answer. Please. I swear to God, I’ll never do it again.” We both know there’s zero truth to that statement.

I sigh. “Drop a pin.” Click. He’s gone.

“You’re leaving?” Carolyn asks, eyes wide. “The dance is in like an hour. I still gotta do your nails.” I tell her I’m sorry. My brother freakin’ lost his keys. My mom’s at work.

“Can’t he come here?” Carolyn has a crush on my brother, but he’s seeing some senior.

“You know my brother,” I say, rolling my eyes. The truth is, she doesn’t. Not like I do. No one does. They think they do. He’s good at that, making people think they know him. We both are. Mom made sure of that.

God, I hate him.

I grab my hoodie off Carolyn’s bed. Tell her I’ll meet her at the dance.

It’s a lie.

I’m not gonna meet her. This is the last time I’ll ever see Carolyn. Or this town.

That’s what happens when Sam fucks up.

Sam

I light a cigarette and wait for my sister. Fuck, she needs to hurry up. There’s a murder of crows circling above. They can smell what’s left of Gary.

I didn’t plan this. It just happened.

An hour ago, me and Gary were getting high behind the 7-Eleven. He’s babbling about some comic book about twins who know everything the other one is thinking. He asks if me and Rosie are like that. “You guys did share a…a…”

“A uterus, Gary. It’s called a uterus.”

“Oh yeah,” he says, relighting the joint with his Zippo and then handing it to me.

I take a hit, let the weed burn my lungs. “Not all roommates are psychically linked.”

He laughs, even though what I said wasn’t that funny. Gary’s like that. A good audience. He takes a hit off the joint and then tells me he gets it. What it’s like to live with someone you barely understand. Then he says his dad kicked him out. Found his stash. Said he was a loser because he gets high and likes video games and reads those dumb fucking comic books.

His dad’s not wrong. Gary is a loser. But Gary’s dad’s no fucking prize either. He’s the kind of guy who takes up all the air in the room. He owns the local car dealership. They have these cheesy commercials where Gary’s dad dresses up like a cowboy or a robot because he thinks it’ll make people buy a Subaru. Gary claps and guffaws at everything his dad says. Like a circus animal hoping for a treat. Only his dad never looks in his direction. It’s hard to watch. Makes me glad my dad is dead.

Gary looks at his feet and says he has nowhere to go. Then he starts to cry. Quietly. He covers his face. Embarrassed. I suddenly see the rest of Gary’s life. How he’s gonna keep guffawing and laughing, hoping for attention. Only no one’s ever gonna give it to him.

Because, well, he’s Gary.

He glances up. Says he’s sorry he cried. Maybe his dad is right. Maybe he is a loser.

“Fuck, man, what am I gonna do?” He rubs his hands down his jeans over and over. He does that when he’s nervous. I hate it. The sound. Skin on denim. I wanna put him out of his misery. Put us out of this misery. So I tell him I know a place he can stay. I lead him out to the edge of the woods. Near the railroad tracks.

Gary says he’s grateful for my help. He knew he could count on me. “You’re a good friend, man,” he says. I smile. Gary’s such a gullible fuck.

I wait until the train comes. Don’t want anyone to hear his screams. He doesn’t struggle. Just looks at me, bewildered. Lets out a small yelp. I should’ve expected he’d go out with a whimper. It’s Gary, for fuck’s sake.

He’s not my first. Not by a long shot.

There was the babysitter with the boyfriend who yelled at her in front of us. The old man at the gas station who smelled like Natty Light and called my mom a “hot piece of ass.” The cashier at the grocery store who liked red lipstick and popping Oxy. The math teacher who accused me of cheating. That one boyfriend Mom had.

They were all shitty people, living shitty lives. I was like their own personal angel of mercy. I gave them a way out. Frankly, they should fucking thank me.

The crows are closer. They’re squawking. I ash my cigarette and sit down. “This was for your own good,” I tell Gary’s body.

Rosie

Gary’s body is lying near the railroad tracks in a pile of leaves. From a distance, it looks like he’s taking a nap. But when I get up close, I can see his eyes are just sockets and his stomach is a dark cavern.

I used to get twisted over Sam’s victims. Puke. Cry. But then, when we were living in Wisconsin, I went hunting with this friend of mine and her dad. They shot a deer. The animal’s eyes fluttered. It tipped over. It screamed. That’s when I burst into tears. “It’s just food,” my friend’s dad explained. That’s how I think of Sam’s victims now. They’re just food.

After that hunting trip, I became a vegetarian. It drives Mom nuts. She used to make comments about it, which makes me laugh. I don’t judge what she eats.

Gary has fingerprints around his neck. At least Sam strangled him before ripping into him. Sometimes he just…goes for it. I think about what that must be like. One minute you’re having a conversation with my brother, his hair hanging in his face, his fingers constantly making the motion of flicking a cigarette even when there isn’t one in his hand, and the next minute you’re on the ground, his face buried in the soft part of your gut as he rips out your intestines. I wonder if his victims are scared. Or if they’re just like, Wow, plot twist, I didn’t freakin’ expect my day to end like this.

Sam’s sitting next to Gary’s body, smoking a cigarette like nothing’s wrong. He runs his hand through his hair and asks me if Mom is on her way. I say yeah. Then we wait for her in silence. Cuz, what am I gonna say? Fuck you for eating one of our classmates?

Mom arrives dressed in black, her hair pushed up under a baseball cap. She hands me a pair of sweatpants to change into and then immediately goes into what I call “cleanup mode.” She and Sam wrap Gary in garbage bags and carry him out to her car. I’m in charge of getting rid of any bloodstained leaves and dirt. Sometimes I think about leaving just a little piece of evidence behind so that Sam will get caught. So that we’ll never have to do this again. But I know Mom would never forgive me.

Mom hands me a broom and I brush away any footprints in the dirt, erasing that we were ever there. Then we drive to the funeral home where Mom works. Hopefully no one’s there. Once, we had to keep the body in the trunk of Mom’s car for like half a day cuz the funeral parlor was busy with a bus accident. Mom was livid. She locked Sam in his room and told him she should’ve strangled him at birth. It freaked me out. She gets mad at Sam, but never that mad.

Tonight, the funeral home’s dark. We carry Gary’s body into the preparation room. Then Mom moves the car down the block. Parks it on a side road. Tells Sam to stay out of view until we’re done. He usually takes a nap. His ability to snore blissfully after he’s just murdered someone is like baffling.

I keep lookout in the lobby while Mom takes what’s left of Gary to the crematorium and puts him in the incinerator. Sometimes while I’m waiting, I say a little prayer for the person who died. I wonder if their family will realize they’re dead. I wonder if they’ll call the cops. And if they do, will the cops figure out who did it? So far no one has. But we can’t be lucky forever.

Mom comes into the lobby. In one hand she’s carrying a ziplock bag with Gary’s ashes. She’ll scatter them once we’re out of town. Somewhere no one will think to look for him.

In the other hand, Mom has a cooler. I know the cooler’s got parts of Gary inside. Parts Mom took before she burned him up. “Waste not want not,” she once said to me, like I was gonna judge. Mom has a strict no-kill policy. But she also isn’t gonna turn down food. Sam thinks Mom’s a hypocrite. “She gets mad at me for killing people, but then she’s happy to eat my leftovers,” he said once. I shrugged. I’m not like them. Their disorder already takes up too much space in my brain. I can’t get involved in like the minutiae.

Me and Mom walk back to the car, hoping no one drives past us. The sky is pitch-black. I can hear the leaves crunching under Mom’s feet. I wonder if Carolyn’s having fun at the dance. I wish I was there, slow dancing with Kavonn Simmons. He’s a senior who smells like the beach and has kind eyes. Sometimes he smiles at me in the hall. But I’m not at the dance; I’m in the car heading home. I’m packing up only what we need. I’m making sure all the trash is gone.

Mom tells me to get rid of the necklace Carolyn gave me. It’s fake gold and has two charms: a letter C for Carolyn and a letter M for Margot. That was my name here: Margot. Carolyn has a matching one. I don’t want to throw it away. I like who I am here. I like being Margot. So I pretend to get rid of it and then zip it into the secret pouch at the bottom of my duffel bag. The place where I keep all my memories.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my mom. A lot. She’s a good mom. I even love my brother—sometimes. Maybe. It’s just…leaving is not always easy, ya know?

Mom peeks her head into my room. “Time to go.” I leave my homecoming dress. Which is so freaking hard. I love that dress. But it’s just a reminder of who I’ll never be.

We’re in the car. Then we’re on the road. I sit in the back and stare out the window as the streetlights of Fairview, Ohio, get swallowed up by the darkness. I start to cry. I try to be quiet about it. I don’t want Mom to feel bad. I haven’t done that in a long time—cry when we leave.

Mom doesn’t say anything. She just keeps glancing in the rearview mirror. Probably trying to make sure I’m okay. Which I will be. Eventually. Maybe. I’m just sad. I liked Carolyn. A lot. She was the first person who really felt like my friend. We’d lie on her bed, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on her ceiling, and talk about moving to Los Angeles after graduation. We were gonna share an apartment near the beach. Carolyn’s never seen the ocean. She’s never even been out of Ohio. “I wanna hear the waves as I go to sleep,” she’d say. “Real waves. Not the kind my noise machine makes.” We were gonna learn to surf and drink smoothies and eat avocado toast. We’d smell like suntan lotion and salty air. Each morning we’d get up and feel the California sun on our faces. “I’d never feel stuck again,” Carolyn would say. I’d squeeze her hand because I understand what it’s like to be trapped in a life you don’t want.

I’ve never done that with anyone. I’ve never allowed myself to think a friendship could be more than temporary.

I even imagined that someday I’d tell Carolyn the truth about my family. What they are. How sometimes I wanna run away and never see them again and other times I’m terrified of losing them. How I can’t believe these two feelings take up the same amount of space in my heart.

“Goodbye, Fairview,” I whisper to myself. Goodbye, Margot. Goodbye, homecoming and slow dancing with Kavonn. Goodbye, Carolyn. I’ll miss you more than I’ve ever missed anything in my whole life.

In a few hours we’ll be somewhere new. New name. New story. New school.

New hope that this is the last time we’ll ever have to run.

Talia

The kids hate this part of the journey. It’s always too long. It’s always too sad.

It’s my favorite part.

I love the quiet. I love the darkness. I love that everything bad is in the rearview mirror and the road ahead still has possibility.

“Things can be different,” I whisper to myself as we head toward the next town.

The only other time I felt like this was the moment right before the kids were born. When I didn’t know who they were. When I didn’t know what they were.

Rosie came first. She slid right out. She screamed the minute she hit the air. She was chubby cheeks and hair the color of sand. The nurse held up her squawking pink body and I felt relief because in my bones, I knew she was normal. She’s always been just like her father—what you see is what you get.

When Sam was born fifteen minutes later—a thin pale strip with a smattering of black hair—he didn’t cry. Not a goddamn peep. The nurses tried to act like everything was fine, that his silence was par for the course. But they couldn’t fool me. I knew there was something wrong.

I hoped he was dead.

Jonah flipped the fuck out. He threatened that if anything happened to our kid, he would sue the hospital. He immediately regretted acting like an asshole. He cradled his head in his hands and lamented about how he’d turned into his “goddamn dad.” I told him it was okay. “One of us has to be the alpha,” I said.

I was lying. His outburst made me cringe. Only people with money threaten to sue. Jonah’s family has lots of money. More money than anyone should ever have.

Sam let out a wail right after his father made a fuss. It was the kind of scream that sends a chill down your spine. Sam was just late to show us who he really was. I knew, without even looking at him, that we were in trouble. That we should’ve never had kids, because Sam’s just like me.

Jonah insisted we’d figure it out. But he’s long gone. And I’m left with all the responsibility. Raising them. Keeping them sane. Keeping them safe. I know I should keep better tabs on Sam. But I’m a single mom. I need to work. I don’t have time to play his warden.

Some days being a parent feels like a Herculean task.

Some days I wish I was the one who was dead.

Jonah’s lucky. He doesn’t have to feel guilty.

I wonder what he’d think of us. We’ve had so many names. We’ve lived in so many towns. If he was alive, would he recognize what we’ve become? What I’ve become? I decided early on to let the kids use their real names with each other. To give them some sense of stability. To give them a sense of self. And even if they don’t know it—to always have a little bit of their dad with them. He picked their names. Rosie and Sam. His mother wanted to name them Leona and August after some long-lost relatives. Jonah refused. “Those are boarding school names,” he said, rolling his eyes. He wanted his kids to fit in anywhere.

Little did he know…

Sam, Rosie, and Talia—that’s who we really are. Our temporary names, the names we adopt in each new town—Lucy, Margot, Johnny, Lisa, Mimi, Jakob—they’re just a skin we put on to survive.

Sometimes the line gets blurry. Especially for Rosie. She would’ve been Margot forever. She’s crushed we’re leaving Fairview. She made a friend here. That’s hard to do. It’s even harder when you’re always on the run.

I wish we didn’t have to live this life. I wish we didn’t have to run.

But running is what’s best for us. Even if she disagrees with me. The alternative is not something I’m willing to put my kids through. Besides, every family has chaos. At least we’re together. At least we love each other.

Well, most of the time.

I notice the kids are finally asleep. Their heads are lolling back and forth as the car barrels down the freeway. The radio emits the low hum of soft rock. The headlights are pointed toward our next destination.

“They’re fine,” I whisper to myself. “We’re fine.”

This time things will be different.

I hope I’m right.

Rosie

When I wake up, we’re parked in front of some rundown motel in the woods. It’s called the Pleasant Inn, but there’s nothing pleasant about it. It’s got real murder vibes. I bet the sheets are itchy, the toilet water has a brown tint, and the carpet is full of detritus cuz the maid stopped vacuuming decades ago.

Mom says the town we’re in is just across the border from Toronto. I look out the window. I don’t understand how that’s remotely true. Behind the motel is nothing but woods. Across the street is an old strip mall with Mr. Phil’s Donut Shoppe, a T-Mobile, Gayle’s Tan Emporium, and a Jimmy John’s. Next to that is a neighborhood full of townhouses that all look the same. As far as I can see, Vernon, New York, looks like every other place we’ve lived in.

Sam’s still asleep in the front seat. Like nothing happened. Like it’s just another Sunday.

We’ll stay in the motel for a few days until Mom can find a rental that takes cash. We’ll get new names, new hairstyles. Do you think I’ll look good with bangs? Mom’ll ask. Or she’ll suggest I go pink this time, trying to make it fun. You can be whoever you want to be, Rosie. Most kids would give their left arm for this kind of adventure. I wish I could tell her that I just wanna be myself. But I don’t know who that is anymore.

She’ll enroll us in the local public school, lying to them that we’ve been homeschooled up until this point. Then she’ll go get a job at a funeral home embalming or doing makeup or cremating bodies.

We’ll be here until we can’t be, and then we’ll move on to someplace else. I always hope that’s not the case, but so far it has been. We don’t always leave because of Sam. Sometimes Mom gets spooked and decides it’s time to go. I dunno what sets her off. Last time it happened, she kept asking me if I’d noticed a black SUV following me. I hadn’t. Neither had Sam. We moved anyway. Go figure.

Once, I asked Sam if he thought people wondered why we suddenly disappeared. “Has anyone ever looked for us?” he asked. I shook my head no. “There’s your answer,” he said. I suddenly felt like I didn’t exist. In fact, I pinched the inside of my wrist just to make sure I was real.

Mom wakes Sam up. She tells us to start unpacking the car while she gets us a room. Sam grunts and rolls out of the front seat. His hair’s a mess. He has an impression from the seatbelt across his right cheek. The minute Mom’s out of view, he lights a cigarette.

I’m the only one left in the car. “Hello, Vernon,” I say quietly to myself. “We are here. You will remember us.”

2

Carolyn

Margot never showed up to homecoming. I texted her a bajillion times. WHERE ARE YOU? WHAT HAPPENED? KAVONN IS DANCING WITH THAT CUNT SARAH ELLISON. She didn’t reply. Diego just shrugged. “Shit happens.” Diego’s never worried about anything. His grades. The future. What people think.

I worry about everything. But I don’t ever do anything about it. In third grade, my teacher told my parents that I didn’t have great follow-through. Who says that about a fucking eight-year-old? But he was right. Like with my grades. I’m a solid C student. I wish I did better. But I just can’t bring myself to study more. I stare at the books and know in my heart if I just opened them and read, I would get an A. Instead, I get stoned and end up looking at manicures on YouTube like a fucking idiot. Diego’s always like, “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re a fucking manicure genius. And manicure geniuses don’t need to be good at geometry.”

Margot was the first person who really understood. She even offered to study with me. Diego thought that was lame. “You wouldn’t understand,” I said. “Margot has goals. She wants to be a doctor.”

“I have goals,” Diego sneered. “I wanna be famous.” I didn’t really know how to respond. Even though Diego talks about leaving Fairview all the time, he won’t. He’ll end up getting stuck in this town, just like everyone else does.

Margot’s different from me and Diego. She’s lived all over the place. She reads books. She likes school. She wants to go to college. I don’t know anyone who’s been to college. Margot made me believe that I could get the fuck out of Ohio. Not just like pontificate about it when I’m stoned. Sometimes we’d talk about how she’d go to UCLA medical school and I’d go to the Los Angeles College of Aesthetics. We’d rent an apartment together. Go to the beach on the weekends. It never felt like just talk. It felt real.

This morning I wake up and my stomach feels like it’s full of bees. At first I think it’s cuz I drank a shit-ton of ranch water with Diego after the dance. But then I check my phone and there’s still no text from Margot. It’s not like she left me on read. She never read them. Which is fucking weird. I drag Diego to Margot’s house. No one answers when we ring the doorbell. Diego thinks they went out for breakfast. But the bees in my stomach say something different.

I pull one of the pins outta my hair and jimmy open the front lock, like my cousin showed me last summer. Margot’s house is boiling. It’s been crazy warm for September. I can feel the air heavy on the back of my neck.

Diego screams, “Hello, anyone home?” When no one answers, he heads into the kitchen. I can hear him rummaging around in the cabinets. “Ooh! Peanut butter,” he says. “Wanna sandwich?” I tell him no thanks. I can’t eat. My stomach’s still a mess.

I walk down the hall to Margot’s bedroom. I keep expecting her to appear. She’d apologize for missing the dance. My brother is such freakin’ drama, she’d say. Then we’d lie on her bed and watch YouTube videos on my phone.

But Margot doesn’t appear. In fact, the house is spooky quiet. It feels empty even though there’s still furniture. I wonder if they’re coming back.

I stop in front of her brother Jamie’s room. My palms get sweaty as I reach for the doorknob. Even though I’ve been to Margot’s a billion times, I’ve only been in Jamie’s room once. Jamie wasn’t home. Margot was in the kitchen fighting with her mom about curfew, so I snuck into her brother’s room, laid down on his bed, and sniffed his sheets. I’m fully aware of how creepy that sounds, but Jamie kinda unravels me. I’d never tell Margot this, but I feel torn apart when I’m around him. Like there are little bits of me everywhere and I’m just trying to gather them up so I can put myself back together. He has blue eyes you could drown in and this shiny, wavy black hair you just wanna touch. I bet if I ran my fingers through it, it’d feel soft, like a kitten. Jamie doesn’t say a whole lot. In fact, most of the time he looks like he’s in pain, like someone’s constantly pinching him.

My stepmom, Janice, says not to be fooled by guys like him. “You may think there’s something going on behind all that mystery,” she says, “but lemme tell you, there’s not.” Janice is convinced the only thing guys like Jamie are hiding is the fact that they’re empty jerks. Janice knows some stuff, but she doesn’t know everything.

I push open the door of Jamie’s room and it’s exactly like I remembered. There’s an Anti Hero sticker on the headboard. Mismatched sheets askew on the bed. One of those hippie tapestries is tacked up over the window. Then I notice the picture of Jamie and Margot as little kids is gone. The picture’s really cute. They’re holding hands and smiling, ankle-deep in ocean water. The picture was in a wooden frame next to Jamie’s bed, which I thought was weird because Jamie and Margot aren’t close. Maybe it was a joke. Or maybe Jamie likes Margot more than he lets on. I dunno. His closet is also empty. It’s just a bunch of wire hangers on the floor.

The garbage can next to Jamie’s desk is tipped over. The lip’s all black like someone set a fire inside of it. I lift it up. The bottom’s full of ashy bits of paper. I wonder what he was burning. That’s when I spot a piece that escaped. It’s under the window. The edges are singed.

It’s a doodle of a woman’s head. She looks exactly like our algebra teacher. Same bangs. Same glasses. Her mouth is open in a scream. Half her head is gone. A ragged edge dripping with blood. Brains exposed. Typical gloomy boy shit. But the weirdest part of the drawing—the part that makes my chest feel tight—is that he’s drawn a heart around her head in red Sharpie.

I don’t know what it means, but it can’t mean anything good.

Suddenly, Diego appears in the doorway. He’s wearing Margot’s homecoming dress over his T-shirt and licking peanut butter from a spoon. “I’m pretty sure they’re gone, gone,” he says. I know he’s right. I can feel the worry on my face. It’s itchy like a wool sweater. Diego isn’t worried. He finishes the peanut butter. Tosses the spoon on the carpet. “They probably moved cuz they couldn’t pay rent. Happens all the fucking time. Tiana Riggs’s family dipped like this last summer.” I nod, curling the doodle in my palm, hiding it from him. Diego never liked Margot. He thought she made me less interesting. I think he was jealous. It’s been me and him for as long as I can remember. Three’s a crowd, he said the first time I asked her to hang out with us. I bet he’s glad she’s gone.

Diego asks if I wanna go to the lake. I don’t. I’m too sad. But I say yes anyway. As I follow him out of the house, I can feel my dream slipping away: LA, being roommates with Margot, the beach. My future is back to giving pedicures to former teachers at Fran’s Flirty Fingers and Toes on Route 14. I’ll marry some shitty guy I went to high school with and pop out a few babies. I’ll spend my weekends like my stepmom, Janice, sitting on the front porch smoking Benson & Hedges, drinking White Claw, and complaining about the neighbor’s yard. Fuck, I can’t let that happen. I can’t get stuck here.

“Race you to the park,” Diego says. He’s still wearing Margot’s dress. The sequins are sparkling in the sun. They feel like a sign. Like the universe telling me not to lose hope. I hop on my bike and try to catch up with him. I’m gonna figure out what happened to Margot and her family. I’m gonna find her. We’re gonna go to LA.

For the first time ever, I, Carolyn Cooper, am determined to have follow-through.

Sam

Rosie hasn’t spoken to me since we got to New York. It’s not the first time she’s stopped talking to me. Once, she went a whole month without saying a single word in my direction.

The first night at the motel, Mom cuts Rosie’s hair to look like Natalie Portman in that old movie The Professional. Rosie is no Natalie Portman—her face is round like Mom’s and full of freckles—but she’s obsessed with that movie. Mom decides to go blond and wear glasses. She leaves a box of hair bleach for me to do the same.

The next day, while Mom and Rosie are out looking for a house, I shave my head. It makes me look like how I feel on the inside. Empty. Hard. I want them to be shocked when they see me. But when they get back, Mom shrugs. Rosie barely looks at me.

We pack up a few hours later and move into this shitty little house down the street from a forest preserve. Every house we’ve ever lived in is like one windy day away from collapse. Paint peeling. Stained carpet. Mold. Mom loves a slumlord because they take cash and don’t do credit checks. I wish just once we could live in a house I’m not embarrassed by.

Mom lets Rosie have the bigger bedroom. It’s got enough space for a queen-size bed. My room’s the size of a fucking prison cell. Fits a twin bed and that’s about it. When I complain, Mom says the room is better than actual prison. “Be grateful for that.”

I know she’s right, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction. So I say nothing.

Whatever.

It doesn’t matter. We won’t be here that long, no matter how much Rosie wants to stay. Fairview was the anomaly. Mom had really been on my ass about sticking to her rules. I tried to for as long as I could.

I feel bad when we leave because of me, but I’d never let Mom and Rosie know that. It wouldn’t make a difference anyway. Especially to Rosie. She loves blaming every little thing that goes wrong in her dumbass life on me.

Besides, my transgressions aren’t the only reason we skip town. What about all the times we bail because Mom gets spooked that someone’s figured out what we are? How come my sister doesn’t bitch about that? Apparently she’s fine letting Mom off the hook, but not me.

Whatever.

Mom and I were born different. Rosie got spared. What Mom and I have is genetic, like blue eyes or being left-handed, except it’s very, very rare. “One in ten million,” Mom once said. On the outside, I look normal. I eat regular food. I go to school. I have friends. Sort of. Most kids my age are fucking idiots.

But sometimes, on the inside, everything feels like sludge. Like I’m made of quicksand. Most of the time it’s barely there. But then there are days I feel so heavy I can’t think. The only thing that makes it go away is human meat. Not the fucking scraps Mom brings home from the funeral parlor. That shit tastes like stale crackers no matter what she tries to dress it up with. It just makes the sludgy feeling manageable. Not gone. I need a fresh cut. A stomach with last night’s dinner still in it. A heart that just stopped beating.

I wish Mom understood that.

The rest of our family is dead and even though we’ve lived all over the country, we’ve never encountered anyone else who has what we have. I’m starting to think we’re the only ones.

When I was little, I wanted to be normal like Rosie. I’m smarter now. I know normal is a social construct. It isn’t real. But back then I listened when Mom said we were never supposed to hurt anyone. I’d spend most of class staring at the kid in front of me, trying not to daydream about what they would taste like.

Ricky Diaz: buttered popcorn

Alexandra Featherston: Milk Duds

Carrie Young: chicken noodle soup

Isaiah Shirazi: oatmeal with brown sugar

I was jealous that Rosie didn’t have these thoughts she couldn’t act on. She just existed like everyone else. Seeing people as people. Not as lunch.

I was seven the first time I ever tasted someone. He was a second-grade terrorist named Heath. He liked pushing Rosie off the playground equipment. Biting him wasn’t an act of heroism as much as an excuse to taste him. I sunk my teeth into his hand. He screamed and tried to pull away, but I wouldn’t let go. I couldn’t. He tasted too good—salty, metallic, with just a hint of maple syrup. Maybe he’d had pancakes for breakfast. Maybe that’s just how he tasted. For the first time in my life the sludgy feeling completely disappeared. I would’ve eaten his whole hand if a pair of teachers hadn’t separated us.

I ended up in the principal’s office. They called a meeting with my mom. She blamed my behavior on my dad dying. She acted as if it had just happened, when in fact he’d been dead for years. My mom is a world-class liar. She totally snowed the principal. He teared up, said he’d lost his dad when he was young. Then he made me apologize to Heath and gave my mom the name of a good therapist. The teachers labeled me a biter. The parents were wary of me. I didn’t care. But Mom did. She was furious. “You can’t do shit like that,” she hissed, grabbing me by the elbow once we were out of the principal’s eyeline.

I could’ve explained to her how the taste of him made me feel. I could’ve told her I didn’t understand how she could only eat leftovers from the funeral parlor when she knew something so much better was out there. But I knew it wouldn’t make a difference. My mom is…my mom. She has her convictions or whatever. “I’m sorry, Mommy,” I said. Which wasn’t totally true. I didn’t feel bad for biting Heath—the kid was a fucking menace. But I wanted my mom to stop hating me. “I was just trying to help Rosie,” I told her. That wasn’t true either, but she seemed to accept that it was.

We moved right after that. It wasn’t the first time we’d moved because Mom didn’t like the way people looked at us. But it was the first time they were looking at us like that because of me.

“I wish I was normal like you,” I whispered to Rosie as Mom pulled the car out of the driveway. Rosie didn’t respond. She didn’t even look at me. Just stared out the window like I wasn’t there.

The next year, in third grade, our teacher gave us this idiotic assignment where we had to make a family tree. Rosie spun out. “What if you have no family?” she asked. I could tell she was trying not to cry. “Everyone has family,” the teacher said.

I told Rosie I would eat the teacher; then she wouldn’t have to do the assignment. She said we’d have to move again. I promised I’d do it in a way no one would know.

“Maybe,” Rosie said. “Lemme think about it.” I was kidding. But fuck it, if she wanted me to do it, I would.

Mom got quiet when Rosie told her about the family tree. Then she ordered us to watch each other while she went to the dollar store. She came back an hour later with a stack of picture frames for each of us. She pulled out the staged photos—you know, a family at the beach, a couple getting engaged, two friends in front of the Eiffel Tower having so much fun. “This is your family,” she said. Rosie named each person as we cut them out and put them on our identical family trees. That night Mom let us have dessert for dinner, which she does whenever shit gets disappointing.

Later, when Mom was tucking us in, Rosie said she wished we had a big family like the one we made up. Mom said extended family is overrated. They cause drama. They disappoint you.

Most of the time you don’t even see them.

“The only family you need is in this room,” she said. “That’s why we have to stick together.” She called us anomalies. “What’s that?” Rosie asked. Mom said it meant that no one else was like us. “We should be proud of that.”

“The kids at school are gonna know the pictures on our trees aren’t real,” Rosie whispered after Mom left. I shrugged and rolled over. Rosie cried herself to sleep.

The next day, Rosie handed me an address written in a pink marker that smelled like strawberries. It was our teacher’s address. He lived in the same neighborhood we did, two streets over. “Make him go away,” Rosie said.

For the first time ever, I felt like I had a superpower.

We snuck out while Mom was sleeping and made our way over to his house. We crouched in the bushes and peered in the front window. Our teacher was sitting on the couch with his wife, watching late-night TV. They looked bored.

“Do you have a plan?” Rosie asked.

“Yup,” I said. But it was a lie. I was eight years old. Of course I didn’t have a plan. I was all impulse, no thought. I’ve evolved since then.

“He smells like cigarettes and Goodwill,” Rosie whispered. “I bet he tastes like shit. Maybe you should’ve brought ketchup.”

I nodded. It was obvious he wouldn’t taste as good as his wife. She had pink cheeks and fat hands. The back of my throat went slick and my teeth started to ache as I imagined rolling little bits of her around in my mouth. Maybe she would taste like a watermelon Jolly Rancher. Our teacher would be dinner and his Jolly Rancher wife would be dessert.

I didn’t get to eat them. A neighbor spotted us in the bushes. He was walking his dog, a schnauzer that yipped at us like a tiny cop. “Where’re your parents?” the man demanded. We ran. The man didn’t follow. Probably because he was wearing slippers and a silk robe. Not necessarily an outfit for chasing children.

Mom never knew we snuck out. Or if she did know she didn’t say anything about it. We turned in our family trees the next day. Rosie was right. The kids knew our pictures were fake. She cried on the bus on the way home. Some of the kids laughed at her. They laughed at me too.

“It’s your fault we live in this stupid town,” she hissed. That’s when I knew I was never gonna win with her. I could see it in her face. I could see that even though we started out in the same womb, we ended up fundamentally different people.

Whatever.

I didn’t let that fucking faze me. Instead, I sat in the back of the bus thinking about the look in Heath’s eyes when I sunk my teeth into his hand. How I could’ve easily done the same thing to our teacher if we hadn’t gotten caught. I no longer wished I was Rosie. She couldn’t do a fucking thing about those bastards. But I could.

I could eat them all if I wanted to.

Rosie

Sam’s listening to $uicideboy$ at like the world’s loudest volume. He knows I hate that band. I think he’s trying to bait me into yelling at him. But I’m not going to. I haven’t spoken to him once since that night with Gary. Mom says I have to talk to him someday. But I think there’s a distinct possibility I don’t.

Mom’s out registering us for school before her first shift at the new funeral home. Before she left, I overheard her telling Sam she’ll be able to get better meat in Vernon. “The people are richer here, so they have healthier diets. Healthier diets means higher-quality meat.” She’s always trying to get my brother to be a better person. She hasn’t given up on him like I have.

Anyway, now that Mom’s gone and Sam’s occupied, I sneak into her room, which has barely been unpacked. I rifle through her duffel bag until I find her lockbox. I go through it every time we move. It’s my own little secret tradition. I like to remind myself of the past before we start a new present.

The lockbox is gray and battered and covered in old stickers. I think she’s had it since the beginning of time. It’s the only thing she takes from place to place. It holds important stuff, like a photo of her gran, her original mortician’s license—one with her real name on it, Talia Beck—a CD of some old punk band called The Murder, and a Polaroid of her and my dad. They look like vampires. She’s wearing a vintage dress. Her hair dyed black. Bangs in her eyes. He looks kinda like Sam. Tall and skinny. Hunched shoulders. Ray-Bans on. His arm is slung around Mom. They’re laughing. Like one of them just told a really good joke.

I’ve traced my dad’s face with my forefinger until I know it like my own. His sharp chin. The curly hair. His long nose. I’ve wondered a thousand times what it would be like to hug him. What does he smell like? Is he funny? Does he like to read? What was his family like? Which parts of me are just like him? Did he have a gap between his front teeth? Could he only wink with his right eye?

Sam doesn’t seem to care that Mom won’t give us any details about him beyond his first name: Jonah. But it makes me feel half-formed. Like there’s some surprising truth lurking out there that I’m not prepared for. I don’t like that feeling. I don’t like not knowing where I came from. I don’t like that my dad is a ghost.

Sometimes I wonder if we made him up.

Talia

Rosie’s been rummaging through my lockbox again. She does it every time we move. She thinks I don’t know what she’s up to. But she’s no cat burglar.

I know this is about her dad. I could yell at her for going through my shit—I have in the past—but it seems to keep her from asking follow-up questions about him. Maybe someday I’ll tell her about Jonah. But right now that knowledge will only make things more complicated. I wish she was like her brother. He’s never asked me a single question about Jonah.

Thank God the kids start school today. Rosie’s new name is Maya; Sam’s is Joey. The kids eat cold Pop-Tarts while I drill them on our new family story. Where did you move from? Why did you move? Why were you homeschooled?

Before they leave, I hand them their new phones. Rosie asks if she can have a TikTok account. She promises she won’t post. She just wants to follow other people so she knows what the rest of the kids at school are talking about. I tell her it’s too dangerous. We can’t risk anyone finding us.

“I hate Sam,” she mutters.

“We’re all we’ve got,” I remind her. “We take care of each other no matter what.”

“I’m not eating people,” she yells before storming off. She grabs her bike. She pedals off down the road toward school. Sam appears. I’m sure he heard his sister.

“She’s—” But he’s out the door and on his ten-speed before I can get the words out. I’m not sure he cares what his sister thinks anymore. He used to. When they were small—really small—Sam and Rosie were inseparable. They even had their own special language. It drove me nuts. I hated that I couldn’t understand them. I didn’t want kids and then suddenly I had two that I couldn’t fucking communicate with.

I don’t remember exactly when they stopped being a unit. Sometime in elementary school, maybe? It’s hard to pinpoint.

Anyway, I wish Sam cared about his sister. I wish Sam cared about anything.

I wish Rosie didn’t hate him.

I wish they’d follow my rules without getting annoyed or upset. There are very few:

Stick to the story.

When I say it’s time to move, we move.

No pictures.

No social media.

No contacting friends from towns we’ve left.

Your cellphone must be on you at all times.

Don’t fucking eat anyone.

The rules are for their own safety. I wish we didn’t have to live this way. But for now, we do.

When the kids are gone, I scan the road. I do it every morning. I want to make sure no one is watching them. No one is following them. Yes, we run because of Sam, but only sometimes. Other times we run because of her.

Vera.

She is the boogeyman haunting my sleep. Her toothy white smile. Her platinum hair always pulled into a French twist. Her manicured claws tap, tap, tapping on every hard surface.

I haven’t seen my mother-in-law in fifteen years and yet she is a factor in every decision I make. She’s been looking for us since the day we left her house. If she finds us, she’ll take away my kids. For good.

We’ve had a few close calls. In Missouri, there was a black SUV with a man inside taking pictures of the kids’ school. In California, there was a black SUV that circled our block for a full twenty-four hours. In Oregon, there was a woman at the local coffee shop who asked too many questions. At the end of her shift, I saw her talking to a man in a black SUV.

Vera would say she simply wants to give her grandkids the best life possible. But it’s easy to be tricked by the fancy cars. It’s easy to be tricked by the yacht. It’s easy to be tricked by the vacation homes all over the world.

What lurks in Vera Armstrong’s house will eat you up and spit you out.

When I was in fourth grade, my teacher got us a class gerbil. We weren’t the kind of school where shit like that happened. We couldn’t get enough of the gerbil. He was poked and prodded, constantly.

One day we came into class and there was a little spatter of blood across the gerbil’s cage. A couple of the kids started crying. They thought he was dead. But I wasn’t afraid; my gran owned a mortuary. I’d seen a lotta dead bodies by fourth grade. And I’m a cannibal so…I volunteered to look in the cage. The gerbil was alive. He was hiding in the corner. He looked shocked. I could see a tiny bloody nub on his backside. His tail was laying in the woodchips. The teacher said he probably got overwhelmed by the attention. He gnawed it off out of stress.

That’s what living at the Armstrong house is like.

They believe our genetic disorder is the most important part of us. They believe it makes us better than everyone else. They’ll preserve it at any cost.

I think Rosie’s normalness is a gift.

“It’s a blemish on our family legacy,” Vera said when she was born.

Vera doesn’t want to give my kids a better life; she wants to trap Rosie in a never-ending cycle of doctors and blood draws and test after test after test. At best, she’ll end up like the gerbil—a shell of herself. At worst, she’ll end up like her father—dead before twenty-three. The only way to spare her from that fate is to run. I know that Rosie feels trapped by my rules. But it’s the only way I can ensure my daughter is truly free.

3

Vera

I’m having lunch at DuBois on the Upper East Side with my agent, Louise, a painfully thin blonde who smells like cigarettes and Santal 33. An endive-salad-no-blue-cheese and a chardonnay in front of each of us. Louise complains about her younger clients, models who can’t show up on time, who think they know more than Louise because they have a large following on social media. I barely listen. Instead, I watch a pair of women who’ve entered the restaurant. Home dye jobs in their mid-thirties wearing V-neck T-shirts and drawstring utility pants from someplace horrific like Old Navy. My stomach turns. They remind me of Talia. The hunched shoulders. The lack of a skin care routine. The obliviousness to the silent social mores of their surroundings.

“Ugh, tourists. Probably from a flyover state,” Louise says, poking a slice of Asian pear with the tines of her fork. “Ever since this place changed hands, they let anyone in. Can you imagine having to live around those people?”

I shake my head no. “Positively unbearable,” I say.

I’m a liar.

I’ve lived around women like that.

I’m not just referring to Talia, who infiltrated my house for ten horrible months; I’m referring to the people I grew up with. Football-watching coupon cutters who don’t know the proper way to hold a knife and fork. Louise, who’s been my agent for half my life, who knows my body measurements by heart, who can recite the name of every magazine I’ve been on the cover of, has no idea I’ve had experience with the other half.

No one does.

It has been scrubbed from the universe. It is a secret only I keep. A fever dream of a past. A place I barely remember.

Frankly, I was too pretty for my hometown of Toledo, Ohio. I should’ve been raised in Milan or London or at the very least New York. Everyone in town thought so. I could see it in their eyes. “They’re jealous,” my father would whisper to me. He was as glamorous as one could be in a grim, midsized midwestern city. He wore tailored suits and a fake Rolex. Snakeskin shoes. A money clip fat with cash.

I was a daddy’s girl. I guess I had no choice; my mother died in a car accident when I was a toddler. Hit a tree during a blizzard. People whispered about her death for years after it happened. Was it an accident? Or did she do it on purpose? This would’ve bothered most kids, but I liked that her death was mysterious. That it was a question without an answer.

For the most part, my father and I kept to ourselves. Not just because of my mother’s tragic passing, but also because we had a need for human flesh. I felt special sharing this with him. We were secret predators. Most people had no idea humans like us existed. We were a campfire tale or fodder for a horror movie. I’d watch the girls at school fretting over their hair or a bad grade and I’d think, You have no idea what lurks in the darkness. Me.

We were able to survive because of my father’s job. He was a criminal’s criminal. His specialty was getting rid of people for everyone from the mob to the cops. He worked out of the garage behind our house, slicing up bodies, saving the edibles for us, and disposing of the rest in a big oven. Afterward, he’d grab some of his homemade scented candles. Pine. Patchouli. Vanilla. He’d burn them around the property to hide from the neighbors the smell of singed flesh.

When I was thirteen, my father took me to the local women’s prison. He pointed to two inmates fighting in the yard—hairpulling, nails like claws, the other women cheering. “For people like you and me, kiddo, there’s two choices: get in with the people in power or end up in there. I can’t protect you forever.” I tucked this lesson away in my heart, like a letter I would open later.

I always knew I had to get out of Toledo. So did my father. The only thing I was good at was being pretty, so at eighteen I sent pictures of myself to a few modeling agencies in New York. One of them wanted me. Finally, a way out.

During that first year in New York, I lived two separate lives: model and murderer. One minute I’m poked and prodded by casting directors and the next I’m crouched in a back alley ripping the flesh off some stranger straight from the bone. I was both prey and predator. It was absurd. Embarrassing. Lonely.

My luck finally changed when I met Benjamin Armstrong.

Benny slid next to me at the bar at Danceteria. He looked like a nobody. Long shaggy hair. A Harley-Davidson T-shirt. Adidas track pants. I would’ve ignored him had it not been for his Cartier watch and Ferragamo shoes. He leaned over and asked me my name and for a split second I felt an earthquake inside me. I knew what that feeling meant, that shaking under my skin. It meant Benny was just like me. My father said it’d be a miracle if I came across another person with our affliction. Benny was my miracle. “I’m Nancy,” I said, smiling.

Benny was a music producer from a very rich family. He’d started a record label with a friend from NYU. Hip-hop music. Some punk. He bragged that he’d already broken into the Top 40 with an unknown rap trio from the Bronx. He had a table in the VIP section. We danced to Soft Cell and Erasure. Later, in the men’s room, he snorted coke off my breasts and then bent me over the sink and fucked me.

Was it love at first sight? Not for me. But I wasn’t built to be alone. To kill my own food. To be this poor. If Benny was going to save me from that, I’d learn to love him.

A few weeks into our relationship, Benny decided to introduce me to his family. He’d already given me a rundown of their origin (English barons) and how they made their money (shipping). He rolled his eyes as he told me about their politics (conservative) and his mother’s obsessions (the society pages, his sister’s weight).

Before the big night, my model friends begged me to find out if rumors swirling around the family were true: Employees disappearing. Fornicating cousins. Murder for hire. I laughed off their request, secretly wondering what they’d do if they found out what kind of monster I was.

A car service whisked us from Benny’s loft in SoHo to the Armstrong house on Fifth Avenue. Seeing the enormity of this house—the gargoyles on the eaves, the big wooden door, the Rolls-Royce out front—was the first time I truly understood what kind of money he came from. The kind that gets you libraries with your name on them and features about your charity work in the style section of The New York Times.

“My family’s tricky. They don’t love my downtown lifestyle,” he said offhandedly, “but you’ll do fine.”

I barely heard him. Screw London, Milan, or even Benny’s SoHo loft; I knew from the moment we stepped out of the car that this was where I belonged.

Before the main course was served, Benny’s father stood up and made a speech touting the family’s legacy. “Sixteen generations of Armstrongs and every single one of them was born with The Need.” It was the first time I heard it called that: The Need. The Armstrongs didn’t think of themselves as monsters like I did. They saw themselves as the apex of the food chain. “We are no one’s prey,” Benny’s father said, grinning.

In that moment, I realized Benny had made a calculated decision at Danceteria—one that would preserve his family’s genetic legacy. I guess I could’ve been appalled by this revelation. Instead, it confirmed that we had the potential to be powerful together because we weren’t afraid to do exactly what we needed to survive.

I figured my genetics would make the Armstrongs embrace me wholeheartedly. I was wrong. They were cold, formal. I felt like I was at a corporate job interview. Benny looked sweaty. “I told you they were tricky,” he whispered as the staff cleared our plates.

Honestly, the only member of his family I truly cared about impressing was Celeste, Benny’s mother. Celeste was exactly what I imagined my own mother would’ve been like: fashionable, mysterious, a woman not to be fucked with. She watched me from across the dinner table. Steely blue eyes. Dressed in Bill Blass. Judging me. At the time, I wasn’t fazed. I believed I could make her love me.

After dinner, I snuck off in search of leftovers. In retrospect, it was a bad choice. Gauche, if you will. But this was the first time since living with my father that I had meat at my disposal. I wanted more. Deep in the bowels of the family’s second kitchen I found a man strung up by his ankles, stripped of his skin. I ran my hand across his muscles. Smooth. Pink. Perfect. As I sank my teeth into him, I heard—

“What are you doing?”

It was Celeste. “This kitchen is for servants,” she said, as if I’d sullied myself by stepping across the threshold. Celeste ordered me to a small sitting room. She sat in one of the more rigid chairs, hands clasped firmly in her lap, ankles crossed. “My husband and I love our son Benjamin, but he is unserious. A dreamer. He lives life with reckless abandon. It worries us. A struggling model isn’t exactly what we had in mind for him. Under any other circumstances, I’d conspire to get rid of you, like I did the others. Especially since I’ve found you tonguing the family provisions.” I lowered my eyes, embarrassed.

“But keeping the Armstrong lineage pure is of the utmost importance,” Celeste continued, “and finding our children mates with The Need outside of the family tree is difficult.” I nodded, trying to ignore what she was insinuating—that the rumors of incest my friends had whispered over glasses of cheap chardonnay were true.

Celeste leaned forward. She was so close I could smell her perfume. It had notes of rose and bergamot. “Are you purebred?” She stared at me, waiting for an answer. Her nails clicking on the side table. They were pale pink, perfectly shaped. Click. Click. Click.

I never knew my mother’s status. My father never talked about it. He barely talked about her at all. I assumed she was like me. Besides, there was no way to check. “Yes,” I said with the utmost confidence.

“If you’re lying, if you contaminate our lineage with lesser genes, we’ll drown you like a dog in the Hudson. Understand?”

I nodded.

“Fantastic,” Celeste said, smiling at me for the first time ever. I’d never had a mother’s approval. Celeste’s broke something inside of me. I knew in that moment I would do anything to make her love me. Anything.

Celeste informed me that a private detective the family kept on retainer had done some digging into my father. His line of work was unacceptable. I had a choice: If I wanted to be a part of their family, I was to cut ties with my old life. She pointed to a phone on a small side table. “Call him. Tell him this is the last time you’ll ever speak to him.”

I thought of my father and I standing outside the women’s prison, watching the inmates rip into one another. He would understand. So, without hesitation, I dialed his number.

I assumed that would be it. I assumed Celeste would bring me into the fold. Would treat me like her own daughter. But gaining Celeste’s approval was more difficult than I imagined. I did everything she asked: I gave people the backstory she made up (Chicago-born, upper-class parents, private school). I used the name she chose for me (Vera). I had the wedding she wanted (castle in Scotland). I wore the dress she picked out (Oscar de la Renta). I went on the honeymoon she suggested (St. Barths). I got Benny to clean up his look, to focus on business. I launched a successful modeling career of my own. I did the covers of Vogue, Mademoiselle, and W all in the same year. I walked for every major designer (Lagerfeld, Dior, Chanel). I signed a contract with Maybelline. I was a Hollywood Square, for fuck’s sake.

Celeste wasn’t satisfied.

“When are you having kids?” she asked repeatedly. But I knew what she really meant: You’re not good enough, Vera. You’re not one of us. Her disdain kept me up at night. It gnawed at my soul. I hoped a baby would finally make her see I was an Armstrong through and through.

Gabrielle was our firstborn. She was stunning—a shock of red hair and crystalline blue eyes. Celeste was the first person to hold her. “She has The Need,” she announced, red lips parted in a toothy smile. I exhaled for the first time in months. It was short-lived. Celeste immediately found something new to criticize. “That SoHo loft isn’t child-friendly. It’s time you moved in here.”

Benny was reticent, but I insisted. We took over the entire third floor of the Armstrong house. Even though it was more space than the house I’d grown up in, it felt small with Celeste there. She trailed me constantly. She didn’t like how I cared for the baby. Eventually, she wasn’t satisfied with the baby, period. She wanted a boy. A boy is a true heir to a family.

I wanted her to love me. So I had another child.

Ethan was born three years later. He was trouble from the moment of conception. My pregnancy was a blur of complications: vomit, bed rest, lockjaw. Celeste saw this as a failing on my part. Hinted it was a sign the baby wouldn’t be born with The Need. Whipped Benny’s father into such a frenzy he created a file of potential second wives for Benny.

When Ethan came out genetically perfect, just like his sister, Celeste smiled, but I didn’t have the energy to care. I could barely get out of bed. Celeste clucked her tongue with disappointment. “I was back on the charity circuit less than a week after both of my births.” Celeste’s opinion cut like a carving knife, deep, and it left a ragged edge. Despite my wounds, I put on my best Valentino and let her parade me like a show pony. I hoped it was enough.

Instead, she leaned over Ethan’s crib, her face a cloud. “He’ll never be a leader.”

I stared at my son, who was playing with his toes. “He’s three months old.”

She pursed her lips. “I hope you’re planning on having more.”

Benny told me not to take it personally. His mother had always been exacting. “She’s never satisfied. It’s why I didn’t want to live here,” he revealed as he packed a suitcase for a last-minute trip to Los Angeles. “Why don’t you leave the kids with the nanny while I’m gone? Take a weekend at the house in Nantucket.”

The house in Nantucket was a compound that could rival the Kennedys’ Hyannis Port home. There were several buildings on a secluded portion of the island, bordered by woods on one side and water on the other. The place was drafty, even in the summer. You could hear the wind whistling off the water at night. But at least there was no Celeste.

Until there was. She showed up on day two of my sojourn. I was in the living room, drunk on whiskey, dancing barefoot to New Order’s “Angel Dust.” Celeste marched in, a small Louis Vuitton suitcase in hand. She shut off the music. Announced the babies were too much for her. She needed the serenity of sea air. My blood fucking curdled. Even with three structures on a four-acre property, the place felt too small for the both of us.

That night Celeste insisted we eat together in the formal dining room. Over fresh scallops and dirty martinis, she began to dig at me.

“I saw Christy Turlington on the cover of Harper’s.”

“Cornelia Guest was asked to host a party with Halston.”

“You’re very brave to wear that shade of eye shadow.”

I was barely twenty-four. I felt like I was a hundred.

No matter what I did, she was never going to love me.

After dinner Celeste retired to the deck to enjoy a digestif. I told the house manager, Samuel, to send the staff home for the evening. When they were gone, I put on The Cure’s “Close to Me” and turned the volume all the way up. I stepped out onto the deck. Celeste turned, lips pursed, brow furrowed. As she started to complain about my taste in music, I wrapped my hands around her throat. She gasped and dropped her drink. The glass shattered on the deck. Her eyes went wide. She was too soused on sherry to really put up a fight. “Please,” she wheezed. Murder usually filled me with shame. But watching the life drain from Celeste’s eyes felt like a triumph. The wind whipped my hair around my face. The waves crashed behind me. Robert Smith wailed breathily. It all felt perfect. A beautifully curated end to a woman who’d eaten away at my very being. When her body went limp, I smiled the kind of toothy smile I’d hungered for from her.

My father warned me long ago that we were never to eat people like us because they’d make us ill. Celeste had already done a number on my psyche; I wasn’t willing to let her ruin my bowels. I dragged her out to the beach and let the ocean bury her.

They never found her body. “She said she was going to take a night swim,” I told the police through tear-filled eyes. No one suspected foul play.

Months later, Benny’s father passed away—heart attack at the family home in London. Benny and I took over the entire Upper East Side house. I was finally in my rightful position: as queen of the family.

Then, in 1989, Jonah was born. He was sharp edges. Translucent skin. A shock of black, curly hair. He screamed whenever any of us tried to hold him. Benny and I used to wonder if we’d taken the wrong child home from the hospital. But we hadn’t. Jonah was ours. All the hidden parts of us in one angry slip of a human.

Jonah didn’t have The Need. The first normal Armstrong in seventeen generations. It felt like a curse bestowed on us from the grave courtesy of Celeste. In fact, her ghost first appeared in my hospital suite right after he was born. Cherry-red lips and a powder-blue Chanel suit staring with disdain at Jonah, asleep in the bassinette.

“I could’ve predicted this. I knew you weren’t like us.”

I plugged my ears and shut my eyes. My heart galloping. “I got rid of you,” I whispered.

“You’ll never get rid of me,” she seethed.

I chalked up her initial visit to postpartum psychosis. But over the years she’s popped up again and again. Is she a literal ghost? My guilt tormenting me? A sign I’m slowly descending into madness?

It doesn’t matter. What matters is she was right: Jonah was all my fault. I’d insisted my mother was just like us, but after Jonah was born, Benny and I both knew that wasn’t the truth. A part of me was pedestrian, a shopping mall, a midsized midwestern city, a Hydrox cookie.

The rest of the family never spoke about Jonah’s difference, but soon after he was born, they became cold, distant. Cousins we used to see regularly—Amanda and Eloise from London, Paul and Mary in Philadelphia, Georgina and her kids in Miami—were suddenly busy.

The death knell came when we were asked not to attend the annual Easter celebration at the family estate in Scotland. Ethan was so disappointed. Two years running he’d won the grand prize at the children’s egg hunt—a fresh human heart encased in a Teuscher chocolate bunny. Benny begged his cousins to reconsider. They refused.

Within months we were an island unto ourselves. All because I’d sullied the Armstrongs’ perfect lineage. Nobody said it outright, of course. That wouldn’t be polite. But we knew.

Benny was devastated. He tried to hide it. He tried to treat Jonah like the rest of our kids. But Benny wasn’t satisfied with just pretending. He wanted Jonah to be like them. He wanted life to return to the way it was before Jonah was born. I did too.

Then we met a wiry, wild-haired geneticist named Dr. Martin Williams. Martin was a professor of genetics at Columbia on sabbatical to help start some big, fancy genetics project with several other colleagues. A true genius. He was also discreet, loved cash and a challenge. Benny thought Martin could find a cure for Jonah. To correct his genetics. To give him The Need.

I’ve never pretended to understand Martin’s work. But Benny trusted him implicitly. Not initially. Initially, Benny made a very generous deal with the caveat that if Martin ever revealed our family’s circumstances, we’d bury him—literally.

But as the years wore on, Martin became a friend. Benny even bought him an estate in Westchester and outfitted it with a state-of-the-art lab so he could work on the project with no intrusions. Martin worked tirelessly. For a decade.

When Jonah turned thirteen, Martin had a breakthrough. He wanted to start Jonah on gene therapy. Benny and I were ecstatic, but Jonah refused. I found him in the kitchen, holding a knife to his own throat. “I’ll kill myself! I will!” Jonah screamed. He looked feral, reduced to his most animal part. No different than our cat when we tried to put it in its carrier. I called off the procedure.

Benny rushed home in a rage. He wanted to sedate Jonah and administer the therapy while he was unconscious. I insisted that if we gave Jonah a little time, he’d change his mind.

But I knew Jonah wouldn’t. Our son was horrified by what we were. Not just The Need, but the money. The celebrities. The willingness to buy our way into anything, including a new and improved child. He thought it was disgusting. We were disgusting.

It broke my heart. I wanted Jonah to love me. Desperately.

But the older he got, the more he hated me. He spent all his time out of the house. Skateboarding. Punk clubs. Sleeping at friends’ apartments. He just wanted to get away from us. And then he did.

Packed a duffel bag. Ran off early one morning. The impression of his body still warm in his bed. The ghost of Celeste appeared in the corner of the room. Her cherry-red lips pursed in disappointment. “Look at what a mess you’ve made,” she snapped.

A few days later, we discovered Jonah had gone to Philly with some band he was in. Benny told me not to chase him. So I didn’t. Maybe I should’ve.

Because that’s where he met Talia.

—

Fifteen years later, I’m staring at two women who I could’ve been. Who Talia probably is now. They should be eating at a Dairy Queen. Not here. I don’t like that they’re out of their natural habitat. Their presence makes me itchy. It reminds me of my failure. I close one eye so I can’t see them. Louise asks if I’m okay.

“This place has gone downhill,” I say. “Next time, let’s dine at Orsay.”

Rosie

Mounds View High School has a shiny new paint job. There’s a cheer squad and a dance team. They offer AP classes. The science lab has state-of-the-art equipment. New computers. A school paper. This might be the best school we’ve ever been to.

First period is Honors English. I hand the teacher my class schedule. She points me to a desk in the back. I watch as the rest of the class trickles in. They’re talking and laughing with each other. Some are discussing the homework from last night. Some are hunched over their phones, scrolling through Instagram and TikTok. I wonder who’s popular and who’s not. Who’s hooked up with who. I wonder how long they’ve known each other. If they’ve all gone to school together since they were little. If they know each other’s siblings. Their parents. If they can recall the details of each other’s houses without hesitating.

I want to be like them. To be a regular kid. To go to dances. Apply to college. Attend graduation. I want to someday flip through my yearbook and look back fondly on the time I spent here. Like those old teen movies my mom watches when she’s sad.

I want to have history with people other than my family.

I want to be known.

I guess Carolyn knew me. Sort of. God, I miss her. I shove my hand in my pocket and squeeze the necklace she gave me, letting the points of the M dig into my skin. I make a wish that this will be the last high school I ever go to. I know it’s unlikely. Me and Sam are only sophomores. But I can hope.

The bell rings. I watch Sam slink down the hall past my English class. I think he has Algebra first period. Sam doesn’t care about school. Not even the social aspect. I don’t think he likes people knowing him. I mean, they can’t really know him. Not like Mom and I do.

It’s too dangerous.

Sometimes I wonder if that’s true for me too.

Sam

Every fucking school is the same. Same mental hospital–green walls. Same teachers with hunched shoulders and a dead look in their eyes. Same fucking caste system among the students—the freaks, the nerds, the jocks, the stoners—all acting like they’re the first people to ever be depressed or discover Radiohead or get a wicked fucking blowjob under the bleachers by some eager freshman who has low self-esteem.

Rosie loves school. It’s embarrassing. I spot her in the hall after first period. She has this intense look of hope in her eyes. Two days ago she was crying about leaving Carolyn and now she’s fucking hopeful. Sometimes I wonder if she was switched at birth.

As I watch her scurry from first to second period, a group of senior guys approach me. A circle of baseball caps repping teams I don’t know and don’t care about. One of them asks me if I’m new. Another says I look lost. They aren’t being kind. They don’t wanna help me to my class. This is a setup. The precursor to hazing me.

I could gut all of them in under five minutes. Splash the school’s shiny new lockers with their blood. Send the student body screaming.

Instead, I tell them they’ve got the wrong guy. “I’ve been here forever,” I say before slipping into the sea of students heading to class. Maybe they’ll find me later. Maybe they won’t. Most likely they’ll move on to harassing someone else. Like I said, every school is the fucking same.

I promised Mom I would stay the whole day. I last until third period. It all feels sort of pointless. I know we’re just gonna leave again. I head outside and lie down under the bleachers. I light a cigarette and wait for the bell.

Talia

Rosie’s texted me thirty times since she and Sam left for their first day of school.

THERE ARE RANGE ROVERS IN THE STUDENT PARKING LOT.

I CAN’T GET MY LOCKER OPEN

OH WAIT I DID

MY ENGLISH TEACHER LOOKS LIKE ELDERLY TAYLOR SWIFT

THERE’S A POOL????

I haven’t heard a peep from Sam.

My phone buzzes for the thirty-first time. Howard, the director of the mortuary, peers over his glasses. “You’re quite popular,” he says as we embalm a woman who died of ovarian cancer. I tell him I have a teenage daughter. He sighs. “Mine almost put me in the grave.” He asks me to finish up with the body. He needs a smoke.

Howard reminds me of my gran. She owned a mortuary in Philadelphia. She didn’t love the dead; in fact, the sniveling mourners wore on her last nerve. “Crying over a motherfucker they probably hated when they were alive.”

When Howard interviewed me, he told me he was only in the mortuary business because it was one of the few industries with longevity. “People aren’t gonna stop dying,” he said, “at least not before I’m gone.”

For Gran, the mortuary wasn’t just a job but a way to eat. She believed it didn’t matter where we got our meat if we weren’t the ones who killed it. “I don’t need the guilt and neither do you,” she told me. She’d slice off sections of the bodies set to be cremated—a liver, the eyeballs, the heart—wrap them in butcher paper, and keep them in the freezer until we needed them. “No different than day-old bread,” she’d say, a Capri Slim dangling from her bottom lip. “Besides, they’re gonna end up a pile of ash. The family’ll never notice we took a few nibbles.”

After she died, I took over the business. Yes, it was a way to eat, but I also liked the solitude. The smell of the formaldehyde. Siouxsie and the Banshees or Nine Inch Nails playing as I worked.

The prep room is safer than the rest of the world. The dead don’t judge. They don’t ask questions. They don’t care what you’ve done because they’re fucking dead.

Every Friday after work, I’d go to Desmond’s for a whiskey sour. It was a hole-in-the-wall around the corner from Gran’s mortuary, frequented by Philly punks who liked cheap booze and by old men who’ve made drinking a career. Sometimes bands played the back room. The crowd got rowdy after eight, but before then it was a ghost town. No one talked to you at Desmond’s because no one wanted to be talked to. It was a place where you could keep your secrets.

Jonah didn’t get that memo.

He was there with his band, The Murder. They were gonna play a set in the back room. Some death-metal bullshit. At first glance, they looked like the usual patrons. They were dressed in black. They had tattoos. They had scruff on their chins. But their expensive shoes gave them away. The Murder, it turns out, were prep school kids playing poor.

Jonah ordered shots of whiskey with a PBR back for the whole band. “And one for Morticia Addams,” he said, grabbing the stool next to mine. He sat there, sipping on his PBR, waiting for me to start the conversation. I kept my eyes buried in Mary Shelley, hoping he would lose interest. He didn’t. “I was dependent on none and related to none. The path of my departure was free, and there was none to lament my annihilation,” he said.

Normally, I would’ve told him to fuck off. I wasn’t interested in being the townie some rich kid played with. But I thought his pickup line was odd. “Good for you?”

He laughed and said it was a quote from the book I was reading. His eyes were shiny and blue like the amethyst ring my gran wore on her middle finger. They looked out of place on him. Like someone else was hiding under his dark hair and pale skin.

“I haven’t gotten to that part, I guess,” I said.

“First time, huh?”

I wasn’t interested in his CliffsNotes. “Thanks for the drink, but I’m not gonna listen to your band play.”

He smiled and told me they weren’t that good. I was caught off guard by his humility. Maybe it was fake. I couldn’t tell.

“So…dressed in black, drinking alone, reading Frankenstein…don’t tell me you work at a funeral parlor.”

I blushed. It surprised me. I don’t blush. “Why be half of a cliché when I can be a whole cliché?”

“Welcome to the club. I’m a rich kid pretending to be punk because I hate my parents.”

I smiled. I hadn’t smiled since before my gran passed away.

I watched his band play. They weren’t as bad as I’d thought. Jonah sang with a rage that I understood in a bone-deep way. By the end of their set, I wanted him to like me.

This was a first for me. I’ve always been a loner. When you live upstairs from a bunch of dead people, kids aren’t clamoring to sleep over, which was fine considering my eating habits. The one friend I did have—Helen McLoughlin—didn’t know what Gran and I were. But I don’t think she would’ve been freaked out if I’d told her. Helen’s fearless. She has a brutal sense of humor. She likes the occult. In high school, when a cheerleader named Sadie called Helen trash, she built a dummy of Sadie out of tampons and set fire to it during a football game. Helen would’ve ended up in juvie if it weren’t for her family. Her mother and father owned a very popular bar that served as a front for a money-laundering scheme for the Irish mob. Nobody fucked with the McLoughlins, including the cops.

When Helen’s dad died, she took over the entire business. Since the twins and I have been on the run, she’s been our point person. I pay her to find us a new home, a new job, and the doctored paperwork we need to start over. She has no idea why we’re running. She’s never pressed for information. It’s Irish mob mentality: Whatever you need. Always. No questions asked.

Unlike Helen, Jonah knew what I was, early on. He didn’t say anything until a few months into our relationship. He’d seen the meat I kept hidden in the back of my freezer. He recognized the smell. It reminded him of his childhood. “The rest of my family is just like you,” he revealed one night as we sat in a back booth at Desmond’s. I was shocked. My gran had mentioned there were others: Your mom met your dad, didn’t she? I assumed that was a fluke.

Jonah asked if I hunted my own food. “No,” I said, horrified.

“Then where did you get what’s in your freezer?” He was loud enough that a couple of barflies turned around. I took him back to the mortuary. I showed him how Gran taught me to survive; taking meat from a body before it’s cremated. He said nothing to me the entire time. When I was done, he got up and left.

I found him in the alley smoking an American Spirit. His eyes were bloodshot. His nose was running. I realized he’d been crying. “I don’t know how to feel,” he said.

My gran taught me to accept the loneliness that comes with being different. I’ve always been okay with what I am. My mom and dad weren’t. My mother was a human scream. My father disappeared little by little each day. They were both dead by my eighth birthday. That’s why that day in the alley, I told Jonah I loved him, but I understood if he couldn’t love me back.

Less than twenty-four hours later he was in my bed. He said his feelings for me were stronger than his hate for The Need. But I always suspected some dark part of him craved being around me because of it. Jonah was the boy raised by wolves who eventually returns to the den.

Our relationship moved fast. He skipped out on tour and moved into the apartment over the mortuary with me. That summer was magic. I hadn’t felt that at peace since the summer my gran took me down to Pawleys Island in South Carolina.

“The water’s better down here. More salt,” Gran said as we trudged across the sand. She was right. The water stung my eyes, but even at night it was warm like a bath. We stretched out like starfish and stared up at the sky. “The Atlantic Ocean’ll take away all your worries,” Gran whispered, “but only if you let it.”

Jonah was my Atlantic.

I found peace in his tiniest details: the gap in his teeth, the way his hair felt under my fingers, how he smelled like Ivory soap, the sound of his breathing in the dark. I liked that he was curious, that he talked to strangers, that he wasn’t afraid of the dead. I let myself imagine that we would be together forever.

A few months into our relationship, I found out I was pregnant with twins. I told Jonah I wanted to get rid of them. I didn’t want to bring more of me into the world. What if they ended up like my parents? But Jonah said there was a fifty percent chance they could end up like him. “Genetics are funny like that,” he explained.

“We don’t have money for kids.”

He said his family would help. I was shocked. He’d only said terrible things about them. “You don’t have insurance. The apartment is falling apart. Think about what’s best for the kids.” Looking back, I should’ve fucking bailed right then. Jonah was a rich kid at heart—tattered jeans and expensive shoes. But I was young. I was in love. I trusted that he knew what he was doing.

Jonah promised me we would come back to Philly right after the kids were born. Lucien, Gran’s only employee, agreed to take over the mortuary while I was gone. We packed up my beat-up hatchback with the few belongings we had. “It won’t be that bad,” he said, all warm blue eyes like the Atlantic as he pushed my bangs off my forehead. A knot in my stomach told me he was wrong. I got in the car anyway.

Eight months later Jonah was dead.

Vera

I arrive home from my lunch, the reminder of Talia like a bad taste in my mouth. I yell for my assistant, David, who comes scurrying up from his office in the basement. “Have we heard from Kevin?” I ask. Kevin is the detective the family keeps on retainer. He used to work vice for the NYPD. He has the face of a man who pops steroids like Tums. He’s been hunting for Talia and the kids for the last decade. There have been a few close calls: once in Oregon, then again in Missouri. But Talia is wily.

David tells me he’ll put in a call and then disappears into the bowels of the house.

I tried to like Talia. I did. I was excited that Jonah found someone with The Need. I was determined to make her feel welcome. She was lost, without resources, ready to be taken in, like I was when Benny met me. With Jonah and Talia in the house, I thought, This is the beginning of the life I always imagined. Eat your fucking heart out, Celeste.

Benny informed Jonah that if he was going to live under our roof and spend our money, he needed to follow our rules. That meant getting a job at the record label. Not wining and dining clients like Ethan did, but grunt work. The mail room. It meant participating in family events, like Sunday dinner. But most importantly, it meant subjecting himself to the gene therapy he’d rejected years ago.

I was shocked when Jonah acquiesced. Apparently his sojourn in the real world combined with the impending responsibility of fatherhood made him do a one-eighty. Finally, he understood that what our family can provide—money, protection, discretion—is a blessing, not a curse.

Jonah spent a few days up at Martin’s Westchester lab. It caused tension in his relationship with Talia—she didn’t want him to go. But it wasn’t her choice.

While Jonah was at Martin’s, I took Talia under my wing. She was a grim, sallow girl with confidence she hadn’t earned. Eyes rimmed in kohl. The beginnings of her pregnancy visible under her tattered Joy Division T-shirt. I sat her down in the sunroom and explained that our family was very much in the public eye. I told her I had a private investigator do a little digging. He discovered her parents died of a heroin overdose. I put my hand on hers, so she felt like I cared, and explained that we have an image to uphold. “If anyone asks about your parents, I’d like you to say they died in a car accident.”

She refused.

I wanted to twist the hairs on her arms until she agreed, but I knew she’d tell Jonah I was mean. I wanted my son to love me, so I cocked my head to the side and manufactured a smile. “Of course. Welcome to the family.” I’d convince Talia later. Keep her out of the limelight until she acquiesced. And if she continued to refuse, I’d get rid of her once the children were born. Until then, if I shoved her into my peripheral just like Celeste’s ghost, I could delude myself into thinking everything was fine.

And for a while it was. Sort of. Soon after his sojourn to Westchester, Jonah reported a faint buzzing when he was around us. Martin did another round of tests and declared the therapy a success. Jonah began eating human meat on Sunday nights with the rest of the family.

I found it hard to enjoy this huge win. Talia was a permanent frown radiating on the periphery of everything we did. Even when I closed one eye, blocking her out, I could still feel her glum existence just beyond the edge of my vision.

“I can get rid of you,” I whispered under my breath as I sat across from her at dinner. As I passed her on the staircase. As I watched her canoodle with my son.

“I couldn’t get rid of you,” muttered Celeste from behind one of the sunroom’s many potted ferns. But I wasn’t deterred. I had outsmarted Celeste. I could certainly outsmart Talia.

Finally, the twins were born. The boy had The Need. But the girl, much to our dismay, was normal. Another aberration in our genetic legacy. Benny and I knew that Talia would never agree to the therapy. It was hard enough for Martin to get blood samples of the twins without her knowing. I couldn’t imagine what ferrying them to Westchester would take. But just as Benny and I were plotting ways to finally eliminate her (Pay her off? Commit her? Hold her hostage in one of the houses in Europe?) Jonah fell ill.

Tests revealed he was suffering from a degenerative prion disease called kuru. We knew what the disease was—something normal people develop from eating human meat.

Benny called Martin to the house. “You said the gene therapy worked.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his hand gripping Benny’s, his eyes filling with tears. “I made a mistake.” He wasn’t just a doctor telling us this, he was a friend.

Kuru is incurable. Jonah died a few weeks later. We had inadvertently killed our son.

As the coroner removed Jonah’s lifeless body, I felt a sudden chill from Benny. I knew what that chill meant: He’d stopped loving me. I tried to convince myself otherwise, but we were never the same after that. I can’t fault him for being angry. Grief is an abyss. Bottomless. It swallows you whole. The pain doesn’t disappear over time. It just gets duller. And every so often, a song or a smell will bring it back into focus. For a brief second you feel the sharpness of that loss as if it happened yesterday. We all managed our pain in different ways. Benny managed his by shutting me out.

After Jonah’s death, Celeste started appearing more often. A punishment for my genetic crime. “You’ve ruined this family,” she sneered. “You don’t deserve my house, my son, my money!”

I was desperate to repair what my faulty genetics had broken. I approached Martin and offered him more money to try again with the gene therapy. I thought if I fixed Rosie, we could go back to the way things were. The ghost of Celeste would disappear. Benny would be Benny again. But a few months after we buried Jonah, I woke up to find Talia and the twins gone.

I’ve been looking for them ever since.

4

Rosie

Carolyn always said, “Your brother feels like a shadow. Like if you put your arms around him, you’d end up hugging yourself cuz he’s not solid enough to hold on to. And sometimes when I close my eyes, I wonder if he was even there.”

I didn’t really get what she meant until I met Naomi. They’re in my Biology class. Always slouched in their seat. All sharp edges. Big clothes. Hair twisted up in a topknot revealing a shaved underside, like a secret.

Naomi fits in with everyone and no one. Sometimes I see them hanging out with the stoners in front of the library. Other times they’re eating lunch with the popular kids. Mostly, they’re by themselves, skating in the parking lot. They’re not very good but they still look cool, which is hard to pull off.

I want to be their friend. Desperately. But it’s been like two weeks since we started at Mounds View, and I still haven’t had the courage to say hi.

When I was little, I spent a lotta time alone or with Sam, which is the same as being alone. It wasn’t always that way. Before Sam knew what he was, we were close. Like secret language, sleep in the same bed, finish each other’s sentences close. And after…we weren’t. He’d blame me. But it was one hundred percent him. Sam changed. He decided that being a cannibal gave him carte blanche to also be a dick.

Soon after, I became obsessed with Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen. Which is like not surprising. I found a bunch of their DVDs at this store called Kool Consignment when we lived in Nowhere, Illinois. (Literally the town was called Nowhere, and it felt like it.)

I watched the DVDs until they wouldn’t play anymore. My favorite movie, for obvious reasons, was the one where Mary-Kate and Ashley are in the witness protection program. I loved how, even though they argued, they always made up by the time the credits rolled. Because they were sisters. Because they were twins.

I know movies aren’t real life, but it would be easier if Sam was a girl, or at least not a monster.

I’m being harsh. It hasn’t all been bad. He taught me how to make friends. Plot twist! One day we were sitting in the grass during recess when Sam suddenly turned to me. “Stop worrying about being liked. Make friends for survival.” The advice was smart. It’s the only nice thing he’s done for me.

Well, okay, one of two.

In second grade, there was this kid, Heath, who was always pushing me. He saw me as an easy target because I didn’t have any friends. One day he pushed me off some playground equipment. I landed on my back. Hard. Sam appeared out of nowhere and bit Heath’s hand straight to the bone. There was blood everywhere. The teachers were screaming. Heath passed out. The rest of the kids cried. I think the police came. I knew Sam hadn’t bitten Heath just for me. He isn’t generous like that. But the gesture still meant something.

Anyway, because of Sam’s advice I came up with a list of rules when it comes to making friends. We’ve got a lot of secrets, so I can’t be friends with just anyone.

Pick someone who’s somewhere in the middle—not too popular, not too unpopular.

Avoid troublemakers. I can’t have eyes on me in case we have to jet.

Make the friendship about the other person. Be the person they need in their life. That way they won’t expect you to divulge too much about yourself.

Remember it’s not about actual friendship; it’s about not being alone.

If I’m honest with myself, Naomi’s the kind of person I should avoid. I get the vibe they don’t want the funny friend or a friend who’ll help them with their homework. They want an escape. From school. Maybe even from this town. It’s different from Carolyn. Carolyn never thought about leaving before she met me. And when she did finally decide that she could have a life outside of Fairview, it required a plan. Graduate. Apply to beauty college.

Carolyn was safe.

Naomi feels dangerous. Like they’ve wanted to be somewhere else their whole life. During Biology, their eyes constantly dart toward the window like they’re hoping someone will take them away. Let them start over. Tell them it’s okay to never look back.

I know what it’s like to be whisked away. It sucks. I shouldn’t get involved with someone whose needs I can’t fulfill. It’s too risky. It requires me to fill in the gaps with my own needs. My need is for my brother to stop murdering people and my mother to stop moving us around. No one can fulfill that.

No one.

You know how else I know Naomi’s bad news? Sometimes, at night, I close my eyes and try to picture them, but I can’t; they’re too blurry. They’re a shadow just like Sam. A ghost like my dad. A person is truly dangerous when you can’t hold on to them, even in your own head. I know I should make friends with someone else. I know.

But I can’t stop thinking about Naomi. Their smell. The sound of their voice. It’s like they’re in my fuckin’ bones and I can’t get them out.

God, I miss Carolyn. She’d know what to do.

Carolyn

My cousin’s ex-husband Brett is a real piece of shit. Like if there was a contest for biggest local dickbag, he would win. He has an eagle smoking a cigar tattooed on his biceps, drives a Ford F-150, and only wears tank tops, you know, to show off his “guns.” He also fronts like he was in the military. He was in ROTC. Everyone knows ROTC is fake military for high school students. But Brett talks like he spent years hiding behind a sand dune in Afghanistan.

I don’t know what my cousin saw in him. My stepmom, Janice, says she has a bad picker. My cousin met her new husband on a Reddit thread for adults who like Disney, so maybe Janice has a point.

I decide to talk to Brett because he’s a repo man and I need a professional to help me find Margot. I still haven’t heard from her. It’s weird. She always gets back to me right away. I’m starting to think something bad happened.

I’m very aware it’s a terrible idea to get involved with my cousin’s dickbag ex. It’s probably why I don’t tell anyone what I’m up to…not even Diego. He would say Margot’s fine. That I’m being insane. But what Diego doesn’t understand is that without Margot here it feels like the world’s gone from neon to black and white.

I mean, my whole fucking future depends on her. I’m never gonna move to LA by myself.

I need to find her. Even if it kills me.

Well, maybe not if it kills me. But I’m gonna find her.

I ride my bike to Brett’s office, which isn’t really an office but an old Tutti Frutti froyo in the strip mall on Turtleback Junction. They barely changed anything. The place is still lime green and hot pink, and Brett’s business partner LaShonda has turned the old counter into a desk. I bet Brett isn’t even paying rent. I bet he’s squatting. Classic Brett.

LaShonda tells me he’ll be a few minutes. “He’s taking an important call in the shitter,” she says, smiling. I can’t tell if she’s kidding.

LaShonda points to a folding chair in the corner and tells me I can wait there. Then she goes back to scrolling through her phone. LaShonda has the most amazing nails. They’re like three inches long and painted black with little gold beads lining the cuticles. The center two nails on each hand have a gold-and-silver snake painted across them with little red crystals for eyes. Each time she swipes her phone, the eyes sparkle like they’re looking into your soul.

She tells me her sister did them and gives me her Instagram. I could maybe learn something from LaShonda’s sister.

Brett comes out of the bathroom. “What the fuck do you want?” he barks. LaShonda tells him to be sweet. “She’s just a kid, Bretty,” she says. I’ve never heard anyone call him Bretty. Maybe they’re sleeping together. I hope they’re not. I like LaShonda.

Brett takes me into his “office,” which is just a desk on the other side of one of those divider screens painted to look like Japan. He makes a big deal of showing me where to go, swooping his arms like he’s presenting me the fucking Oval Office. God, he sucks.

I tell Brett everything. Well, I leave out that little piece of paper I found in Jamie’s room. It just doesn’t feel relevant. Yet. Brett asks why I didn’t go to the cops. “Cuz everyone knows cops are useless,” I say. LaShonda giggles on the other side of the screen. “I don’t have any money. But my cousin said you could find anything.” I hope buttering him up will make him take my case.

“Your cousin blew up my heart. I don’t owe your family no favors.” He takes out his vape, puffs on it a few times. It smells like cherries and firewood. “I got work to do. Get the fuck outta here.”

LaShonda peeks her head around the screen. She tells Brett she wants to speak to him outside. “Wait here, hon,” she says to me.

I watch them through the front window. They’re arguing on the sidewalk. Brett waves his hands a lot when he’s mad. He looks like a frustrated bird. LaShonda’s as cool as a fucking cucumber. My stepmom, Janice, says that’s a lady’s burden—we can never yell and scream as much as a man cuz no one will listen to us if we do. Janice could burn a whole neighborhood down with a single look. She said it’s how she channels her rage.

I can’t see if LaShonda’s got that same look in her eye, but she must have some kind of look cuz suddenly Brett comes back looking very unhappy and says he’ll find my fucking friends pro bono. He asks me to text him a photo of Margot and any information I have about the family. Margot hated having her picture taken. The only photo I have is of Jamie. I took it without him knowing. I was walking home from Diego’s house when I saw Jamie and this dude Gary sitting in the dugout behind school. The sun was going down. Gary was taking a hit off a joint. Jamie was leaning back against the bench, his eyes closed, his jaw all tight. I snapped the photo right before he opened his eyes. He stared at me for a split second. I thought maybe he knew what I’d done, so I ran. Margot never said anything about it. But then again, she and Jamie have a weird relationship.

I text Brett the picture and any other info I have about Margot’s family. Brett takes a hit off his vape. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

As I leave, LaShonda says, “We’ll find your friends, hon.”

And for some reason, I believe her.

Talia

I check our PO box every Thursday on my way home from the mortuary. I do it in every town we live in. It’s the easiest, safest way to keep in touch with my friend Helen. Aside from sending copies of documents we need for our new life, like birth certificates and social security cards, Helen sends me weekly updates about herself. It’s usually just a line or two.

“They turned Desmond’s into a Chipotle. WTF.”

“Took Mom in for a checkup. Doctor said she has the heart of a forty-year-old.”

“Broke up with Tyler. Turns out he was married.”

I lost Gran’s mortuary years ago. Lucien passed away and his family sold off the business. Helen tried to stop it, but she couldn’t, not without me there. Her postcards are the only connection I have to my old life. To my only friend. I don’t know what I would do without her.

My PO box is in a Mailboxes Etc. two towns over from Vernon. I typically choose a spot at least a half hour away from where we live so nobody recognizes me. I like to go in just as the place is closing. In the morning, the manager usually works the register. They’re typically a middle-aged woman who appears friendly but is really just an expert gossip, logging information about you every time you come in.

Women like her are dangerous to people like me.

At night, Mailboxes Etc. is a ghost town. The only employee is a twentysomething stoner whose head is buried in his phone. He will never remember me. He will never remember my name. I can check my mail anonymously. I can be a ghost.

Or so I thought.

Last week I was grabbing the latest postcard from Helen: “Sadie Catron OD’d on fent.” Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a woman staring at me. She clutches a box to her chest. I recognize the woman from an ad on a bus stop in Vernon. She’s a local real estate agent. Her name is Dee something. In the ad her hair is a carefully sprayed helmet. She flashes a hollow Stepford wife grin. But in the Mailboxes Etc., the look on her face is a cross between recognition and fear. It’s fucking unnerving.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

“No. Sorry,” she says. I watch her drive off in her BMW. My head is thick and soupy. Goosebumps prickle every inch of my skin. I’ve had this feeling before. I can’t remember where or why.

Eventually, the stoner behind the counter looks up from his phone and tells me they’re closing.

I stuff Helen’s postcard in my pocket. I shut my mailbox and hurry out of the store. I fumble for my keys in my purse. I wonder why the fuck I acted like the cashier caught me doing something wrong.

I try to shake the encounter during the car ride home. I roll the window down and scream-sing Hole. It doesn’t help. The way Dee looked at me has burrowed into my soul. I pull into our driveway and sit in the car watching Sam and Rosie through the front window. They are sitting at opposite ends of the couch. They are both on their laptops. I don’t want them to see me rattled.

After the encounter at the mailboxes, I see Dee constantly. I see her at the Koffee Klatch with a group of women who look like they’ve been vomited on by Ann Taylor. All of them have muffins. None of them are eating. I see her at the Acme arguing with one of her kids over cereal. I see her at the Quik Stop getting gas while her kids are in the car, scrolling on their phones. Not once does she make eye contact with me. I start to think I imagined our initial interaction.

At home, I google her: Dee Rodriguez. There’s lots of stuff about houses she’s sold. A few posts about how she runs the PTA. Then I click on a local news article about her husband, Dante Elmwood. He’s a homicide detective. The thought makes my palms sweat. Are Sam’s killings starting to catch up with us? No, there’s no way a suburban cop in upstate New York would be on Sam’s tail. I giggle because it’s so fucking preposterous. Rosie walks past me. “You okay, Ma?”

“Yeah.” I quickly close the window on my phone. “Just watching one of those funny cat videos.”

Tonight, when I swing by the Mailboxes Etc. there’s no postcard from Helen. Weird. In fourteen years, she’s never missed a week. I ask the stoner cashier if there’s any mail in the back. He doesn’t even look up from his phone. “All the mail is in the boxes.” Fuck.

I head back to my car, wondering what’s going on. Without Helen, moving around like this would be impossible. I’ve been relying on her for so long that it doesn’t occur to me until this moment how much I need her. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Dee pops out of nowhere. “Hi,” she says. Her face is peeled into a tight grin. Her voice is chipper. “You just moved to Vernon. You’re renting the house on Montpelier near the reserve.”

I nod. The feeling is starting to creep in again. My head feels soupy. My palms are itchy. I lean against my car.

“Sorry. I’m Dee Rodriguez.” She thrusts her hand in my direction. “I’m a local real estate agent.”

“I know who you are. I’ve seen your ads.” The words feel thick and meaty coming out of my mouth. I adjust my posture. I try to look normal. I take a breath. The soupy feeling passes.

“You’re Liz, right? We both have kids at Mounds View.”

I nod again. I’m unsure of where this conversation is headed. “Can I help you with something?”

She glances down at her boots. “I know this is odd,” she says, “but would you like to grab a drink? There’s a dive bar not far from here.”

I’ll go for a drink with co-workers. I’ve casually dated. But making friends? No way. Especially with someone whose spouse is a fucking cop. Friends exchange information. Friends swap dark secrets. Friends is not a scenario I can be in. What would I fucking say to a friend? So sorry to hear about your troubles at work. My son and I have a rare genetic disorder. We need to eat humans. We don’t love the word cannibal, but I guess that’s what you could call us. We’re also on the run from my mother-in-law, who’s evil and very fucking rich. You know the supermodel Vera? From the eighties and nineties? Yes, that’s her. Weird, right?

I tell Dee I have to pick up the kids.

“Some other time?” If she had less Botox her eyebrows would be raised into two hopeful arches. Instead, they are static, which makes her look crazy. “You know what? Just give me your number and we can set something up.”

I realize if I say no she’ll just keep suggesting dates until she’s worn me down. Jonah’s mother was like this. It’s why I spent so much time hiding in his room. I give her my number.

“Fantastic!” She texts me right away. Ping!

I try to smile. I try to look like I’m going to enjoy having a drink with Dee. We stand there awkwardly for a beat. There’s nothing more to say to each other. Or maybe there’s too much? I can’t tell.

“Have a nice night,” she says and then disappears into the darkness. I watch the headlights of her BMW come to life. As she peels out of the parking lot, I wonder, What the fuck did I just get myself into?

Vera

Six months ago, Vanity Fair asked if I was interested in doing an interview. In the past decade, I’ve turned down any spread featuring “older women”: Sunset, Hamptons, Self. I’m not going to pose in St. John caftans and Armani pantsuits for an article squeezed between ads for Depends and Lipitor.

How fucking embarrassing.

But when Vanity Fair calls, you say yes. It will be my first spread in a major magazine in over a decade. There’s been a renewed interest in nineties-era supermodels: Cindy, Naomi, me. I agreed to do it, but only if it was solo. That was Gabrielle’s suggestion. “You’re far too iconic to share space,” she said. She’s right. I am.

The party for the issue is held on the roof of Casa Cipriani. It’s a blur: Cindy and Naomi and Bruce and Juergen. Champagne. Champagne. Champagne. Christy and Amber and Shalom. More champagne. Ignore the canapés. “Why, yes, this is vintage Norma Kamali.” Marc and Donatella and Diane. And me in the center, the belle of the ball, standing in front of a giant photo of me. “Over here, Vera! No, over here,” the photographers yell as they take my picture. Click! Smile. Click! Pose. I’m back in my element.

“I’d love to see you walk in my next show,” Raf says. I forgot how good it feels to be recognized. To be the center of attention. To be envied. Armstrong cousins that I haven’t heard from in years—Amanda and Eloise from London, Mary in Philadelphia, Georgina in Miami—text to say congratulations. A crack in their chilly armor. I saw on Instagram they were all at the Château du Grand-Lucé for a family wedding. We were the only Armstrongs not invited. I know that if I get my grandkids and correct Rosie’s fatal flaw, they will welcome me back into the fold.

My publicist pulls me aside. She’s a spectacled millennial who has the temperament of a hammerhead shark. She asks if I’ve read the article. “I was there. I don’t need to read it,” I sharply inform her. My publicist warns me that I’ll be unhappy. The author wrote about a few off-limit topics. She’s getting into it with the magazine. I’m feeling too good to let this ruin my evening. “Don’t worry about it,” I say, scanning the room for Ethan. I’ll have him teach that no-good hack a lesson.

I shouldn’t be surprised. I had a bad feeling about the reporter, Nikki, the minute she arrived at my house dressed in jeans and a button-down shirt. Every reporter dresses that way. They think a pedestrian outfit will lull me into giving away my secrets. That I’ll talk about Jonah’s death, Gabrielle’s fertility issues, Ethan’s partying. But I never do.

The interview took place months ago. Nikki and I sat in the living room. I hate the living room. There’s a giant painting of Celeste hanging over the fireplace. She’s dressed in that fucking powder-blue Chanel suit. She’s holding her little rat of a schnauzer, Tinkles. She’s flashing her classic half smile. I prefer the upstairs parlor, but Ethan vomited in there. So, thanks to my son, I was interviewed under Celeste’s watchful eye. I curled up on the couch, my legs tucked beneath me. I’ve learned that doing interviews like this, barefoot, barely any makeup, dressed in linen, makes reporters think my reputation for being an ice queen is bullshit.

My assistant, David, escorted Nikki to a tufted antique chair gifted to Benny’s parents from the Rockefellers. Supposedly it was owned by Louis XVI. It’s fucking uncomfortable. I had David sit her there on purpose.

Nikki began the interview by telling me she’s a big fan of my work. They all say that. Then she launched into a litany of standard questions: where I grew up, how I started my career, how I met Benny. I give her the answers Celeste bestowed upon me decades before:

“I grew up Vera Diviola in Chicago. Private school. Father was in advertising. Mother was a homemaker. I won a local beauty contest when I was a senior in high school. The prize was a meeting with a modeling agent in New York. The rest is history.” I passed her a framed copy of the newspaper article announcing my win. It’s fake, of course. The Armstrongs have people to do things like that: erase real lives and concoct an impenetrable fake narrative from absolutely nothing. In fact, on our wedding day, Benny’s parents hired local actors to pose as my family. They signed NDAs. A stranger walked me down the aisle. I don’t even think my real father knew I got married. People often wonder what all the money in the world gets you. It gets you the ability to hide in plain sight.

I smiled at Nikki. My eyes were kind enough to let her know I was still on board for the interview, but my lips were firmly pressed together, as if to say, Next question. She asked me about my career lag in the mid-nineties (“I got old”), rumors of me being difficult on set (“Don’t they love to say that about women when they stand up for themselves?”), Benny selling the label (“The way music was distributed had changed so much by the twenty-tens. His heart wasn’t in it anymore”), his subsequent death by heart attack (“We loved each other until the very end”), and how I processed his death (“I had to find a true north within myself”).

All lies I’ve told a thousand times.

My career lagged because a famous designer who I won’t name spread vicious lies about me throwing a tantrum during a fitting for a Mademoiselle shoot. The truth was, he tried to stick his fingers inside me during said fitting to see if “my pussy was still tight after three kids.” This was after I’d murdered Celeste and gotten away with it. I was feeling quite bold. I punched him in the face and ran out of the room. Plenty of assistants had witnessed the incident but none of them would back me up. They didn’t want to lose their jobs. The designer disappeared six months later under mysterious circumstances. The papers chalked it up to his well-documented drug addiction. The truth is, Benny and I ate him on our anniversary. Our personal chef turned him into a delicious côte de boeuf au poivre.

I think of that dinner fondly.

The last few years of Benny’s life we didn’t celebrate our anniversary. Benny wasn’t interested. After Jonah’s death, a tundra formed between us. One afternoon I found him lying on the couch in his study listening to Public Enemy at full volume. This wasn’t surprising. After he sold the label, he spent most of his time in there listening to music. Puttering. Ignoring me. I was tired of silently accepting his chilliness. So I laid on top of him and buried my face in his beard.

“Why don’t you love me?” I asked.

“Please get off of me, you’re hurting my arm,” was all he said.

A week later, he had a heart attack in his sleep. I was devastated.

As for finding a “true north within myself,” I don’t know what the fuck that means. Even after Benny died, I continued to throw everything I had at finding Talia and the children. I guess my true north became Martin. I spent an inordinate amount of time at his home. The first time we fucked was after some socialite’s fundraiser in the Hamptons. I was drunk on Dom. I cried afterward. Not because I regretted what happened, but because I was still reeling from Benny’s death. Martin gave me a handkerchief. “Cry for as long as you need.”

Martin saved me during that period of my life. I couldn’t talk to my friends about why Benny hated me or the truth about Jonah’s death. They had no idea what I really was. And forget confiding in any of the Armstrongs. To them I was Princess Diana. I was Meghan Markle. I was Yoko Ono. It was clear at Benny’s funeral that they wished I was the one being buried.

Martin listened. He knew what I was and he didn’t judge. I needed that. For a while we had a full-blown relationship. In secret, of course. He was odd and ugly and had terrible taste in shoes. I couldn’t be seen with him in public. He didn’t mind. It’s cooled over the years, but he remains my fiercest confidant.

Nikki didn’t need to know any of that. Nobody does.

Near the end of the interview Nikki asked, “How often are you in touch with your grandchildren and their mother?”

I was thrown off guard. She wasn’t supposed to ask about Jonah. Very few people even knew Talia and the kids existed. “I thought my publicist—”

“She did.” Nikki smiled. I could see what she was doing—testing to see if my urge to be relevant outweighed my disdain for speaking about off-limits topics. “I’ve heard that no one’s seen your daughter-in-law or the kids in over a decade.”

I could’ve talked about Talia. I could’ve used the article to put national eyes on her. To smoke her out of her little hidey-hole. But I’ve always been too afraid she’d out my little project with Martin. Tell the world what really happened to Jonah. Instead, I leaned in like I was telling Nikki a secret. “Did you know my daughter, Gabrielle, just signed on to do a new movie with Brad Pitt?”

Nikki didn’t take the bait. “From what I heard, your daughter-in-law was living with you and then suddenly disappeared.”

I wanted to rip Nikki’s head off. Watch her bleed all over her cheap, stain-resistant Nordstrom Rack blouse. “My son Jonah had a lot of girlfriends.”

“All right then, what caused the falling-out between you and your daughter-in-law?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” My voice had an edge to it. Fuck.

My assistant, David, knocked on the door. It was as if I’d willed him into existence. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, looking sheepish. David, like the rest of our staff, is deeply discreet, has signed multiple NDAs, and knows that we could set him up for life or turn him into Sunday dinner. “We need to wrap this up. You have a Zoom meeting with L’Oréal in five.” I didn’t have a Zoom meeting with L’Oréal.

“Oh, I thought we had until three,” Nikki said, looking at her phone, confused.

“It’s my fault.” David apologized profusely. “Maybe we can schedule another time? What about at the shoot?”

“Yes, they’re re-creating my first cover. Should be fun.” The shoot was going to be chaotic. Nikki would maybe get one or two softball questions in between takes. The suggestion was genius. I made a mental note to give David a raise.

Nikki flashed a curt smile. She knew what I was doing. “I’ll see you at the shoot,” she said, saving face. “I can show myself out.” Nikki never showed up to the shoot. Her editor said she had enough for the article.

I spot her tonight across the bar, wearing a DKNY wrap dress from a thousand seasons ago. I hunt down Ethan. I’m not surprised when I find him squeezed into a banquette, holding court with a gaggle of underage models. Women love Ethan. He’s garrulous. Handsome in a brutish way. Slicked-back hair. Perfect teeth. They never seem to notice he’s danger in a Dior suit until it’s too late.

I point out Nikki. “Not tonight, but later,” I tell him. He knows what I mean. Ethan drives me crazy, but sometimes he’s useful. Like a badly trained guard dog. Nikki won’t be writing another article ever again.

David appears, a champagne flute in one hand, his phone in the other. He discreetly shows me a photo of the soundproof room behind the second kitchen. Jonah always referred to this space as the “family kill room.” I prefer to call it Ethan’s playroom. Benny commissioned the room for Ethan, who had a penchant for fighting his dinner to the death. I didn’t want a room like that in the house. But Benny insisted if we didn’t give Ethan a space to kill at home, he’d go out and do it on the streets, where someone might discover what he was. What we were.

Currently, the room is holding a woman, hog-tied, a bag over her head.

“It’s Talia’s best friend, Helen,” David says. “Kevin thinks she knows Talia’s location.”

5

Rosie

Today I run into Naomi in the bathroom after second period. They’re leaning over the sink, swiping on a layer of eyeliner. We’re the only two in here. I know I should go straight into a stall and pee like my freakin’ bladder wants me to, but this is the perfect opportunity to finally speak to them. “Are you going to the football game Friday?” I immediately regret the question. It was too bold. Too forward. The kind of thing you ask a friend. Not someone you’ve literally never spoken to. I hope the bell rings so I’ll have an excuse to leave. Or at the very least, I hope the bathroom floor opens into a hellmouth and swallows me up, saving me from embarrassment.

I’m surprised when Naomi glances up. “Probably. You?”

“Umm, yeah.” I try not to look too eager. Too excited.

Naomi caps their eyeliner, stuffs it in their backpack. Then they pull out their phone and hand it to me. “Gimme your number,” they say. “I’ll text you when I get to the game.”

I type in my number. I hope they can’t see my hands shaking. Being this close to Naomi makes me so nervous I can’t think straight. I have the urge to touch them. To close my eyes and run my fingers over the shaved part of their hair. “I’m Maya,” I say, handing back the phone.

“I know who you are.” They smile. “We’re in Bio together.”

The bathroom door swings open. I turn and watch a group of senior girls stumble in. They’re laughing about some video they saw on TikTok. Some video I will probably never know about because my mom won’t let me have social media and I don’t have friends. Yet.

When I turn back, Naomi is gone. Fuck. I shouldn’t have turned away. I shouldn’t have gotten distracted. I shouldn’t—

Suddenly, my phone buzzes. It’s a text: IT’S NAOMI. SEE U AT THE GAME.

Carolyn

I’m at Diego’s house giving him a Black Butler manicure when he tells me Gary Newman’s gone missing. Gary’s the guy I saw with Jamie in the dugout that day I secretly took a picture of him. Diego says a few days ago some seniors found a Zippo in the woods near the railroad tracks. It had Gary engraved on the outside. That’s when people realized no one’s seen him since homecoming.

“No one reported him missing?” If I disappeared, my stepmom, Janice, would have all of Fairview looking for me.

Diego shrugs. “Apparently his dad said he kicked him out. Everyone thinks he skipped town.” I point out homecoming is when Margot and her family disappeared. Diego says I sound like a conspiracy theorist. “I liked you better when you were just into manicures.”

“I’m still into manicures. I’m literally doing your nails now.”

“Not like before.” He puts on his headphones and bops to “End of an Era.” He’s trying to act like he’s at a party I’m not fucking invited to. It’s so lame. I tell him to keep still or I’m gonna fuck up the nail with Mey-Rin on it. He stops. But after I’m done he tells me he needs to take a nap. “Today has been truly exhausting” are his exact words. It’s okay. I don’t really want to keep hanging out with him either.

Maybe Diego’s right. Maybe looking for Margot has changed me. Maybe it’s given me purpose. I don’t think that’s a bad thing.

Later, I call LaShonda and tell her about Gary. “I’ll make a note, honeypie,” she says. “The world is full of so much dark these days, isn’t it?” I agree with her. Then she tells me Brett doesn’t have any leads yet, but she’ll ping me the minute he does.

After I get off the phone, I lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling, and think about Margot being gone and that little piece of paper I found in Jamie’s room and Gary being missing, and I get this gut feeling. Not a good gut feeling. It’s slick and nauseating. I’m afraid to look directly at it cuz maybe when I see what it’s trying to tell me, I’ll wish I never looked in the first place.

Sam

My usual MO is to befriend some dumbass who’ll give me free weed and ask zero questions, like Gary. Sometimes I’ll fuck around with whoever the hot girl at school is—provided they’re not involved with anyone. I don’t do relationships. I’m not the guy who’s gonna take you to a school dance. Or hold hands in the hall. We can fuck in the back of your mom’s Subaru and that’s about it. But also, I’m fine flying solo. I don’t show up to school that often anyway.

The one thing I’d never do is hang out with Rosie and her friends.

Until now.

Until Naomi.

I’ve seen Naomi at school. They’re supermodel tall, so they’re hard to miss. But that’s not why I noticed them.

They seem interesting.

No one at any school I’ve ever been to has interested me. But Naomi does. I don’t want to fuck them or eat them. I have what you would call a desire to engage with them.

I overhear Rosie tell Mom she’s meeting Naomi at the football game. I’m baffled they’re friends. My sister’s usually friends with airheads who spend all their time trying to learn TikTok dances and worrying about what they’re gonna wear to prom. Naomi doesn’t have that vibe.

School spirit makes my skin crawl, but I go to the football game because I’m curious. I leave an hour after Rosie. I don’t want her to think I’m following. I’d never hear the fucking end of it.

When I arrive, the game’s at halftime or whatever the fuck they call it. The dance team is on the field desperately humping the ground to some Beyoncé song. Some of the parents are screaming and clapping along even though the team’s not very good. It’s so fucking pathetic I actually laugh out loud. A woman in a Mounds View sweatshirt and wool hat stares at me angrily. “That’s my daughter out there,” she bleats. I shrug and imagine burying my face in her soft, flabby stomach. I bet she’d taste good. Juicy. Like a thick slice of bacon on a BLT.

I spot Rosie talking to Naomi while they wait in line at the concession stand. Naomi looks interested in whatever Rosie’s saying, which is mind-blowing. I dunno how long I’m standing there watching them nod along as Rosie rambles, but suddenly Naomi looks at me. It’s a look that I’ve only seen right after I’ve taken my first bite out of someone. It’s the realization of what I really am. It’s surprise and dread and horror all rolled into one. Naomi whispers something to Rosie, points in my direction. Rosie whips around, storms toward me. She’s clearly pissed. I don’t have the fucking bandwidth to argue with her. But it’s too late to dip. She’s already standing in front of me. Her eyes all squinty. That big vein popping out in the middle of her forehead. She looks just like Mom.

“What are you doing here?”

I shrug. “I love sports.”

“You hate sports. You hate when people gather.” Rosie gets mad about stuff all the time, but this seems different.

“What’s up with your friend?” I ask, trying to play like I don’t care. Like I don’t weirdly wish I was the one standing with Naomi.

“Naomi? They think you give off real serial killer vibes.”

“Sure.” I’ve been to enough schools to know that no one thinks that about me. I give off fascinating. I give off mysterious. Not serial killer. That would be too on the nose.

“It’s true. They think you’re creepy. Which you are. So go. You’re embarrassing me.”

I glance over at Naomi. They’re at the cashier paying for sodas. One for them, one for Rosie.

“Enjoy your soda,” I say.

Rosie rolls her eyes. “Fuck off.” She turns and heads back to Naomi. I watch the two of them bound up the bleacher stairs. Giggling. Fuck, I’m…I’m jealous? I don’t like that Naomi’s picked my sister over me.

“Joey?”

I whirl around. A girl from my World History class is standing behind me. Kennedy? Kelsie? Kyra? I can’t remember her name. She’s the human equivalent of a crop top. There’s just not a whole lot there. Probably cuz she’s one of those girls who thinks they’re gonna be pretty forever, so they never really invest in finding a personality. I fingered her in the janitor’s closet the first week of school, so I already know how much she has to offer.

“Me and Willa Appleton stole a bottle of vodka from her parents’ liquor cabinet.” She smiles at me. Pink bow-shaped lips in a wide grin. Her head’s cocked to the side and she’s standing off-kilter like girls do when they wanna seem cute. I don’t particularly want to hang out with KennedyKelsieKyra and her friend Willa, but a full retreat home would make it look like Rosie won. It’s bad enough I’m jealous.

“Sure,” I say and follow KennedyKelsieKyra under the bleachers.

Later, when I’m fucking her in the back of her mom’s Prius, all I can think of is Naomi, standing firm on two feet, staring at me like I’m a ghoul.

Rosie

Naomi and I are standing in line for soda when Naomi gets this super-weird look on their face. “Isn’t that your brother over there?”

I turn. It is. He’s standing in the shadows of the bleachers, watching us like the freakin’ weirdo he is. Ugh. I know exactly how this is gonna go down. Everybody—boys, girls, nonbinary—has a deep fascination with Sam. It’s super annoying. I wanna be like, He’s not a sparkly vampire, he’s a mopey cannibal. Or He looks at you that way cuz he’s imagining what you’d taste like dipped in ranch dressing. But obviously I can’t say that. No one would believe me. Plus, my mom would freak. So instead, I stand there with a knot right in the center of my chest, waiting for Naomi to ask me if he’s seeing anyone. Invite him over, they’ll say.

But I’m wrong. Naomi wrinkles their brow. “Why is he watching us like that?” they ask. “He gives me the creeps. Real fucking serial killer vibes.”

I’m speechless. Well, not totally speechless. “You don’t know the half of it,” I say. “I’ll get rid of him.” I can’t wait to tell Sam that Naomi thinks he’s a creeper. It feels like I’ve won some competition that he wasn’t participating in. Not that he’ll care. He’ll probably shrug and say Naomi’s lame.

But he doesn’t.

In fact, he looks disappointed to hear Naomi doesn’t like him. Sure, he’s standing all off-kilter, a cigarette behind his ear like he doesn’t care about jack-all. But I can see it in his eyes. His disappointment makes me feel fantastic and guilty. I don’t like holding these two feelings at the same time. It hurts my brain.

After the game, Naomi asks if I wanna get stoned. They know a place. A creek in their neighborhood. “The moonlight bounces off the water,” they say. “It’s fucking dope when you’re high.”

I have this weird urge to go home and check on Sam. But I push that out of my head. “Sure, sounds fun.”

Naomi got a ride to the football game, so they sit on my handlebars. Sam and I used to do this when we were little. It drove my mom nuts. She was paranoid one of us was gonna knock out our front teeth. Me and Naomi laugh as the bike swerves back and forth under the uneven weight. It feels like being with Carolyn. I’m having fun for the first time since we moved to Vernon.

Naomi lives in East Maple Estates, which from what I can see is the rich neighborhood. I’ve never lived in a neighborhood with a name. Maybe I should put that on my list of goals. There aren’t a lot of streetlights, and the houses look like they have a million bedrooms. I wonder if the people who live here are happy. My mom says money makes people ugly on the inside. I wonder if that’s why Naomi always looks like they wanna be someplace else—because they’ve realized that dark truth. I imagine living here is impossible once you know that. And know it not just in your head but in your bones.

At the creek, Naomi takes off their Jordans and sticks their feet in the water. It’s weirdly warm out. I’m not even wearing a jacket. Naomi pulls out a one-hitter, lights it, and we each take a drag. “I feel extra bad doing shit like this cuz my dad’s a cop,” they say, blowing smoke rings into the moonlight.

“What’s that like?”

“What’s what like?”

“Having a dad who’s a cop.” My mom hates cops, which isn’t surprising, especially since my brother has eaten like ten people. I wonder if she’ll forbid me from being friends with Naomi. Maybe I won’t tell her what Naomi’s dad does.

“I don’t know anything different.”

“My dad’s dead,” I say out of nowhere.

“Do you miss him?”

“I didn’t know him.”

“That’s probably the best way to have a dead dad.”

I never thought of it that way. Naomi takes their feet out of the creek and lies down next to me. Our heads are touching. We’re so close, I can smell their shampoo. It’s peppermint. It smells fantastic. I wonder if my hair smells that good. Fuck. I should’ve washed it today.

Suddenly, they hook their pinky finger around mine and I realize I probably smell okay. We lie there in silence, staring up at the moon, which is glowing so bright I start to wish I had sunglasses. I’m really freakin’ high.

“What about your brother?” they ask.

“What about him?”

“Why is he the way he is?”

Maybe someday I’ll tell Naomi. Maybe Naomi will be the first friend I’m truthful with. For now, I say, “He’s really into being mysterious.”

“It isn’t working.” We both start laughing, hard, until my gut hurts and there’s tears running down my face. When we stop, I suddenly feel guilty. I bet Sam never feels guilty. I bet he rolls his eyes about shit I do all the time and feels nothing afterward.

Naomi’s phone pings. “Fuck, it’s my mom. I should get home.” We start back. I walk my bike. “Have you ever been to New York City?” Naomi asks. “I think about that place a lot.”

I shake my head no. My mom never moves us to big cities.

“I went once with my mom for a weekend. I think I was six. We drove down. It took like almost the whole day to get there. My dad and my little brother stayed home. My mom was like a freak about safety. ‘This place is dangerous. You have to hold my hand at all times,’ she said. It felt like we were glued together. I get it, I guess. There were so many people. Everything was loud and moving really fucking fast. On the second day we were there, I let go of her hand while we were walking to see Wicked. She lost her shit. ‘What if you had gotten lost? We might never find you again.’ It was supposed to be a threat, but, I dunno, the thought of disappearing kind of excited me.”

I suddenly understand why Naomi’s always looking out the window at school. “Maybe we can go someday,” I say, even though I know it’ll never happen. Carolyn and I used to make plans about moving to LA. It was the first time I let myself really believe something like that could happen. I dunno if my heart can handle that again.

We’re outside Naomi’s house. It looks like something out of a novel. There are turrets and a porch with a swing. Naomi points to their mom standing in an upstairs window. She’s a shadow watching over us. “I should get inside. My mom’s like really overprotective.”

“Yeah.”

“You know, from the minute I saw you I knew we would be friends,” they say.

My heart swells. The feeling surprises me. “Me too.”

“See ya,” Naomi says, heading inside.

I ride home, replaying the night in my head. The possibility of Naomi, of being their friend, it makes losing Carolyn hurt a tiny bit less.

When I get home, I check on Sam to make sure he’s okay. He’s asleep. Snoring. His face all peaceful. He’s fine. I can’t believe I let him trick me into caring.

Vera

It’s been just over a week since Kevin brought Talia’s friend Helen to the house. I wish he hadn’t. I wish he’d tried to get information from her in Philadelphia. Kevin says they raided Helen’s apartment and found nothing. He thinks Helen must’ve known they were coming and gotten rid of everything. Kevin says she’s well-connected. A member of some Irish crime family. Kidnapping her was the only way.

I never go into Ethan’s playroom. Sometimes I watch the feed from the security camera on my phone. I’m currently watching Helen as if she is a reality show on Netflix. She doesn’t look as clever as Kevin insists she is. “I can’t get a word out of the little bitch,” he says. “She won’t talk. Or eat. She knows she’s going to die.” Kevin says he can see it in her eyes.

I’m reconsidering Kevin. Benny hired him. I always thought Benny was too rich and too sheltered to understand what it really meant to hire good help. Kevin, I fear, is proof of that.

My father once told me, “You can get any clown to turn with the right piece of information. Even when they’re standing on death’s door.”

“Kevin,” I say, “I’m going to talk to this Helen myself.” Kevin is skeptical, but he can’t say no. I pay his salary.

I head downstairs wearing a very serious outfit: a bespoke suit from Michael Kors and my Dior Teddy-D derby shoes. I want this Helen to know I mean business.

Ethan’s playroom is covered in Italian marble. There’s a floor-to-ceiling mirror at one end. Probably so Ethan can watch himself devour his victims. Sometimes I’m terribly embarrassed by my son.

The room smells like piss and deli meat. Helen’s shackled to the wall. A dull-eyed, doughy brunette covered in tattoos. Plates of food—roast beef sandwiches, pie, pancakes—litter the floor in front of her. She hasn’t touched any of it. I sit across from her on a folding chair and say nothing. Just stare at her. It’s a tactic. Her eyes are down. Her hair is matted, greasy, hanging in her face. She’s sitting completely still. I can hear her breathing, so I know she’s alive. I wonder if wearing this suit was stupid. Does blood come out of wool? I can’t remember. I’ll have David ask the dry cleaner.

Helen and I sit there, breathing in silence, for almost ten minutes. It’s unbearable. The longest ten minutes of my life. I hate Helen. “I’m not going to leave until you talk. I have nowhere to be. I can do this all day.” That is a lie. I have dinner reservations at Eleven Madison Park at eight.

She finally looks up. “My family’s searching for me. When they find me, you’re fucked. They’re dangerous. They know how to make people disappear.”

I almost laugh. “So do I.” She keeps her eyes locked on me, as if she’s not scared. But I know she is. I can smell it. Acrid. Tangy. It makes me a little dizzy. “I’m curious, why did Talia tell you she needed to go into hiding?”

“You wanna take away her fucking kids.”

It’s evident that Helen cares deeply about Talia. Childhood friends maybe. Or lovers. “You know, you and I aren’t that different,” I tell her. Helen laughs. Deep and throaty. It’s the laugh of an almost dead person. Kevin knocked out several of her teeth, leaving her mouth a terrifying cavern of bloody stumps. Swollen lips. Pink spittle dotting her chin. “Whatever you’ve read about my past is a lie. My father worked for the mob, just like yours. He was charming, handsome, the life of the party. It helped disguise what he really was. My father was tasked with getting rid of people. They called him The Cleaner. He could dismantle a body in minutes. Make it disappear. Like magic. He didn’t take that job because he was some sort of sadistic prick. He took it because he needed it. We suffer from a very rare genetic disorder. One that requires us to consume human flesh to survive.” Helen searches my face to see if I’m telling the truth. Her eyes go wide when she realizes that I am.

“My father thought he was protected for life by the men whose dirty work he’d done. But in the end, another mobster sold him out. Told the cops he was chopping up bodies and eating them. I read about it in the paper. My father put a bullet in his own head as the police surrounded his house. Guess he’d rather be dead than go to jail. But that’s just an assumption. By the time he died, I hadn’t spoken to him in a decade.”

Helen stares at me. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Do you know why Talia’s grandmother had a mortuary with a crematorium?” I can see Helen start to do the math in her head.

“Fuck right off,” she says.

“I just want to protect Talia and the twins from suffering the same fate my father did. Someday someone will find out what they are. They’ll call the cops. Put them in jail for murder. I have enough money to make sure that never happens.” I am lying. Sort of.

It is utterly silent. Helen stares at her lap. I can see the wheels turning rapidly in her head. She had no idea what Talia really was. It is making her recalculate every moment between them. She’s seeing their friendship in a harsh new light. I can practically hear her wondering if they were ever as close as she thought they were.

Suddenly, Helen’s lips peel back into a crooked grin. “I’m not gonna tell you where they are.”

The ghost of Celeste appears in my peripheral vision. Painted red lips stretched wide. She has no teeth, just like Helen. Celeste is laughing at me. I ignore her.

“Where is Talia?” I demand.

“Where is Talia?” Helen parrots back.

“Where is she?” I say, angrier this time.

“Where is she?” Helen parrots, her voice shrill, mocking.

We do this back and forth until the question ceases to be a question; it’s just a scream. I am a scream in a bespoke Michael Kors suit.

Suddenly, Kevin grabs me and pulls me out of the room. “It was getting weird in there,” he says. I guess he must’ve been watching on the monitor. “Should I kill her?” he asks.

I think about it for a moment. “I’m not sure.”

I call Martin. He’s my sounding board. A half hour later he arrives, looking unwell, sallow. His clothes are baggy. I put my hand to his cheek. “Is everything okay?” He doesn’t like when I try to take care of him. As I expected, he brushes me away.

“I’m fine. Close to a breakthrough on our little project.” He’s been saying that for years. We both know it’s not true. We need a test subject. We need Rosie. Martin smells like gin. I decide not to say anything about it. If it was a problem, he wouldn’t be the chair of the genetics department at Columbia.

I lead him downstairs, past Ethan, who’s in the screening room watching some nineties-era erotic thriller. I can see from the circles under Ethan’s eyes that he’s recently come home from a night of partying. “Hello, old man,” Ethan says, clapping Martin on the back. Ethan’s never held any ill will toward Martin over Jonah’s death. “My brother was fuckin’ weak. What did you expect?” Ethan said after Jonah passed.

“You visiting our little captive?” Ethan asks before sucking down several Tylenol with a Red Bull. “I think Mother should give me a crack at her. I’ll get her to talk, and if not, we’ll have Sunday dinner, won’t we?” Ethan winks at Martin, who simply nods in return. Martin has always found Ethan’s barbarism as fascinating as it is unnerving.

As usual, Martin won’t go into Ethan’s playroom. “A bridge too far,” he mumbled once. Instead, he peeks at Helen through the tiny window on the steel door. “Ethan’s right. Cut your losses. She’s not going to talk.”

“She’s the closest we’ve come to finding them.”

“But if she refuses to tell you where they are, what’s the use?”

I know he’s right. I text Ethan: SHE’S ALL YOURS. He immediately texts back a kissing cat emoji.

Martin and I adjourn to my favorite parlor. It’s a bright, plush room where I spend most of my time. The maid brings us peppermint tea and some biscotti I got shipped from a small province in France. I have no intention of eating the biscotti. I know that once the Vanity Fair profile comes out there will be requests for more photoshoots. I need to look my best. At my age, that has become a Herculean task. But I like to pretend that I’m someone who does eat biscotti.

When Martin thinks I’m not looking, he pours a nip into his tea. I let him know with my eyes that I saw him. “Just to take the edge off,” he says. “Please don’t worry.”

“You’re all I have left.”

“You have your children.”

“You know what I mean.” My children don’t care about my pursuit of Talia and the twins. They have their own lives.

“How is Gabrielle doing?” Martin asks, changing the subject.

“She just landed the Jane Fonda biopic. Brad Pitt will be starring with her.”

“Isn’t Jane Fonda still alive? I thought they only do those kinds of movies when you’re dead.”

“Gabrielle will be playing young Jane Fonda. The real Jane Fonda will be playing current Jane Fonda.”

“Who is Brad Pitt playing?”

“I think he’s playing middle-aged Jane Fonda. The movie is very conceptual.”

Martin raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t understand Hollywood. “I wasn’t asking about Gabrielle’s work; I was asking about her and Albert.” Albert is Gabrielle’s husband. It was an arranged marriage. Gabrielle was young, just at the start of her career, when they were matched. Albert is a sixth cousin once removed. His parents are the duke and duchess of Devonshire. Benny chose him due to his pure lineage. Also they were the only faction of the family who hadn’t completely frozen us out. Albert’s a humorless financial adviser—the kind of man who can talk about gold spot prices for hours. He’s not who I would’ve chosen for my daughter. Gabrielle is vivacious. In a normal situation, I would’ve encouraged her to marry someone with at least a thimbleful of personality. But we’re not normal. We’re special. We’re Armstrongs.

“They’re having a hard time conceiving. She’s on her fourth round of in vitro.”

“I’m sorry. And Ethan?”

“You saw him. If he lives to forty-five, it’ll be a miracle. Even more reason to find the twins.”

Martin takes a gulp of his tea. “Maybe it’s time to let go, Vera.”

“What? I thought you were close to finding a solution.”

“Does it matter?”

“What do you mean ‘does it matter’?” My voice is too loud, too harsh. It’s fine. It’s Martin. He’s seen worse come out of me. “This isn’t just about me; it’s about this family’s legacy.”

“Maybe the family legacy has come to its natural end. Benny’s dead. The kids have their own lives. It’s been fifteen years since Talia left with the—”

“You’re supposed to be my friend.” I’m standing now. Pacing.

“I know you blame yourself”—Martin is the only person I’ve opened up to about my suspicions that I’m the source of Jonah’s normalness—“but you have your own legacy. You’ve had an amazing career…have an amazing career. Focus on that.”

Celeste appears again. She’s wearing my favorite robe, an Olivia von Halle Capability silk velvet robe in emerald. It looks better on her than it does on me. I can’t look at her. I can’t look at Martin either. Instead, I stare out the window at the perfect view of Central Park. “I’ll have Kevin put a car on Helen’s apartment. Maybe with her gone, Talia will be forced to return to Philly. We can grab her there.”

“Vera, please—”

“I need this. I need them here.”

“Why?”

The ghost of Celeste whispers in my ear, “You contaminated the legacy. You were the Armstrongs’ downfall. The daughter of a criminal. White trash from a flyover state.”

I scream. Mostly at Celeste, but also at Martin. He seems unfazed. Sucks down the last of his tea. “This family. This house. Your legacy. It’s fucking rubbish,” he says, slurring his words. “Golden handcuffs. The rest of the Armstrongs barely talk to you. Who’re you trying to impress, Vera? The dead? What a waste of your life.”

“Get out.” It’s too bright and sunny to be having this sort of fight. I listen to Martin shuffle out. When he’s gone, I head upstairs to my bedroom and bury myself under Charlotte Thomas bespoke sheets and my Matouk Edelweiss silk comforter and weep until I fall asleep.

—

It’s nighttime when I finally come to. I can hear Ethan in the bathroom down the hall. He must be done with Helen. He calls out for the nanny. She’s a take-no-bullshit Swede who lives in Queens. I rehired her after Benny sold the label, rendering Ethan out of a job. Even at forty he cannot take care of himself. I picture her looking for the nail brush and the file, getting the last bits of Helen out from under Ethan’s nails. Giving him a sponge bath. Brushing his hair.

My cellphone rings. It’s Martin. I debate not answering it. This is not our first fight. I’d like to let him stew a little longer. But my gut tells me to pick up the phone.

I’m wrong. It isn’t Martin on the other end. It’s his assistant. And when I hear the sadness in her voice, I know exactly what’s happened.

Part II

The Others

6

Joaquin

“Renowned Geneticist Dr. Martin Williams Dies at 66.”

The obituary for Williams came out in the Sunday edition of The New York Times. If I was being nice, I’d say it was a creative interpretation of his life. But I have no reason to extend any kindness toward the man who ruined my career. The obit was all lies, spun by a publicist hired by the university who didn’t want it known that one of their most revered employees was also one of their most troubled. No mention of the alcoholism. How he yelled at his students. Berated his staff. Took credit for discoveries that weren’t his. It should’ve been titled “Giant Prick’s Gin-Soaked Liver Finally Gives Up.”

I’m not supposed to be at the lab. I was fired a few months ago. Williams called me into his office, made several pointed microaggressions about both my ethnicity (Puerto Rican) and where I grew up (Delaware) before accusing me of doctoring lab results. I should’ve just taken it. Apologized. I can hear my father telling me to stop being so quick with my words. Your tongue gets you in trouble every time, he’d say. He’s right, but I’d been eating shit from Williams since day one. I was tired.

“I’m taking a page from your fucking book,” I mumbled. Williams canned me instantly. Then he swiftly fucked my chances of getting hired at any other reputable lab—including in the private sector. The world of genetics loves Dr. Martin Williams. Reveres him. A bad recommendation from him is a death knell for a career. Meanwhile Williams’s star postdoc, a man who is always late and usually hungover, got a job offer from the Whitehead Institute. But said postdoc is white, and his father runs Citibank, so you do the math…

I’m floating—no, drowning—in the carcass of my career, trying to figure out a way to exact revenge on Williams, when one of my fellow postdocs, Jie, calls and tells me he dropped dead. For a split second, the news feels like a life raft. “We’re pouring one out for the bastard,” she announces. When I get to the lab, several of my former cohort are already drunk. A few of us sing “Ding-Dong! The Witch Is Dead.” We kill a bottle of champagne. Then we down White Claws that someone had in their locker. We spitball about who the university will hire to take over Williams’s lab. Jie hopes it isn’t somebody who’ll clean house. Job security only goes so far in this setting. I secretly pray the university will hire someone who’ll give me my position back. It’s a pipe dream, but I don’t have anything else to hold on to. Jie thinks now that Williams is dead, the rest of the genetics community will forgive me for my so-called sins. My gut says it won’t be that easy. The sad truth is, if I don’t get another position I’ll have to move back to Wilmington, Delaware. Live in the basement of my parents’ house. Teach science with my dad at my old high school. The thought makes me want to plunge headfirst into the Hudson.

While the rest of the postdocs trade war stories about what a pompous/sexist/racist piece of shit dream crusher Williams was, I sneak off to his office. Down the tiled hall. Past the lounge with its spaghetti-stained microwave and ratty secondhand furniture. I miss the smell of solvents. The clink of beakers. The hum of the exhaust fan.

Williams’s office is open. I slip inside. Piss in his Ficus. Sit in his ergonomic chair. Put my feet on his desk. Smoke a cigarette. I wonder if the rumors about him are true. Whispered stories of secret projects funded by nameless billionaires. The rumors made him more than your run-of-the-mill asshole with a God complex. They made him a legend. The reason why we signed on to suffer through his insults. We’d gladly give away our dignity for a windfall.

Or so I thought.

My brain starts to spin with plans. Maybe if I find concrete evidence of said secret projects, drum up something incriminating on him, something illegal, I can ruin his legendary reputation posthumously, while casting myself as the hero.

Most of the drawers in the office are locked. No key in sight. I grab a letter opener off his desk. It has a pearlized handle with his initials engraved on it. MW. I start laughing. Of course this old fuck had a personalized letter opener.

I jimmy open the lock and rummage through the desk, search through his file cabinets. I find bottles of gin, some cash, his passport (who leaves their passport at work?), some old notebooks and files.

Jie pokes her head into the office. Her face is flushed. Her fingers are clutching a White Claw. “We’re going to Chandler’s,” she slurs. “They’ve got two-for-ones until nine.” I shut the drawers and put the letter opener back on the desk. Follow Jie out of the room. “Find anything interesting?” she asks. I shake my head no.

No fascinating secrets. Or incriminating evidence. Sometimes an asshole is just an asshole.

Talia

The bar Dee wants to meet at is called The Keg. It’s the kind of place that never takes down its Christmas lights. It reminds me of Desmond’s, although there are more old men and less punk stickers.

Dee hasn’t arrived yet, so I order a whiskey sour at the bar. I tuck into a back booth. I watch the bartender try to wake up an elderly man who’s fallen asleep next to a double gin and tonic. “Merle, get the fuck up or get the fuck out,” she says, poking him violently. Merle stirs. He snaps at the bartender. He bats her away. She hands him a bowl of candy corn—the only thing in this bar that signals Halloween is around the corner—and tells him to eat.

This is a place where people go to slowly die. “One of them black hole–type bars,” my gran would say. “They fill the emptiness in your soul with cheap booze.” This doesn’t seem like Dee’s kind of place. Dee seems like she’d frequent one of the quaint bars on Vernon’s Main Street. They have striped awnings and dim lighting after five. They sell espresso martinis and charcuterie plates to ladies in Lululemon. I pick at the edge of the table, chipping away at the ancient wood with my fingernail. I think about leaving.

Suddenly, Dee is in front of me, chucking her coat into the booth. She’s dressed for a business meeting. She’s got a full face of makeup. Her hair is curled. She’s wearing a silk blouse. “Sorry I’m late. My littlest one was throwing a fit. Do you need anything?” I gesture to my full glass.

Dee heads to the bar. The bartender knows what she wants without her saying anything. They exchange pleasantries, like old friends. Maybe Dee isn’t just a skirt suit and stiletto heels. Maybe we’ll have stuff to talk about. Maybe.

Dee returns with a vodka tonic. “So,” she says as she slides into the booth, “how are you?”

“I’m fine.” I sip on my drink. Again, the thick, soupy feeling creeps in. A bead of cold sweat trickles down my back. I shiver. I hope she can’t tell.

“Thanks for coming all the way out here,” she says.

I nod. “You come here often?”

She shrugs. “I like this place. I can be myself here. In Vernon, everyone knows me.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Sometimes,” she says, smiling. “So, it seems my Naomi and your Maya have struck up a friendship.”

Oh, maybe that’s why I’m here. Dee is Naomi’s mom. I relax a little. “Yeah, they went to a football game on Friday.”

“Right. They were out late.”

“I guess.”

“Maya doesn’t have a curfew?”

“I work odd hours.”

She nods, slowly. I can tell she’s trying not to judge me because I’m a single mother. I wonder what her face would look like if she knew everything I am. Everything I’ve done.

“Naomi’s had an emotional year. Figuring out their sexuality, their gender identity. We just can’t have any more curveballs thrown at them. We’re very protective of them. We’re very protective of all our kids.”

“Did Maya do something wrong?” I ask, unsure of what she’s getting at.

“No, not at all. I just wanted you to be aware of that,” she says, playing with the edge of her cocktail napkin. She looks disappointed and I can’t tell why.

I notice Merle is asleep again. The bartender shakes her head, annoyed. She doesn’t try to wake him.

“I heard you work at Huntington Funeral Home.”

“Yeah, I’m a mortician.”

“What made you get into that line of work?”

“My gran owned a mortuary.”

“Wow. So interesting.” This is what people say when they think my line of work is gross. “Does she still work there?”

I shake my head no. “She died years ago. The mortuary was sold.” Losing it is one of my biggest regrets. But Dee doesn’t need to know that.

“So why Vernon?”

“The schools,” I reply. This is an answer that satisfies everyone.

“How do your kids like Mounds View?”

I feel like I’m playing twenty questions. “Fine, I guess.” There’s more cold sweat down my back. Three drops. Four. I glance at her drink. She’s barely taken a sip. This “get to know you” isn’t ending anytime soon. Fuck.

“Naomi said Maya and Joey were homeschooled?”

This is how I explain the kids’ lack of school records. Dee Rodriguez has the vibe of someone who has detailed questions about homeschooling. “How did you get into real estate?” I’m not interested in the answer. I just want to change the subject.

“I like talking to people. It has a flexible schedule.”

“That sounds nice.” I’m lying. Real estate sounds horrible. I take a sip of my drink.

She leans in, lowers her voice. “You know, I googled you and I didn’t find anything.”

Jesus Christ. She keeps jumping from topic to topic. My neck hurts from the whiplash. “I hate the internet.”

“Don’t we all,” she says. I can tell she doesn’t. I can tell she likes to post carefully curated pictures of her family on Instagram. She pulls the lemon out of her drink and squeezes it one more time before setting it on her cocktail napkin. Then she glances up at me. I get this horrible feeling that she knows what I am. The bartender cranks up Patsy Cline’s “Crazy.” It’s like she can read my mind.

“I always admire people who can avoid social media. I can’t with my job.”

I take a big gulp of whiskey. Bigger than I intended to. It goes down the wrong tube. I start coughing.

“Are you okay?”

I nod. It’s a lie. I’m not sure I’m okay. I might be dying. At least it would be a way out of this dreadful conversation. She grabs a glass of water from the bartender. There’s something floating in the cup. I gulp it down anyway. “Sorry.” I place the empty glass on the table. “I think I just—”

Dee grabs my hand. “You can feel it too, can’t you?”

“What?” My chest tightens. I wonder if I’ll start coughing again.

“Dante, my husband, told me I was crazy to think that there were others like us in Vernon. We haven’t run into anyone since we were teenagers. But I knew when I saw you at the mailboxes.”

My heart is thundering. My brain is spinning in eighteen different directions. Fuck me. I know where I’ve had that thick, soupy feeling before: the first time I set foot in the Armstrong house. I wonder for a split second if she’s one of them. A distant cousin? No, that would be impossible. Helen does thorough research about each place we move to. She would never send us anywhere Vera had family. But what if Helen made a mistake? Helen is human. Humans make mistakes. Maybe that’s why I haven’t heard from her. I pull my hand from Dee’s. I grab my jacket and slide out of the booth. “I’m sorry. I should go.”

“Please, don’t.” She stands to block me. I try to dodge her, but she wraps her arms around me. A hug. She’s hugging me. I can’t remember the last time anyone hugged me other than my kids. Maybe Helen? That would’ve been years ago. Dee buries her face in my hair and whispers, “Please hug me back.” I wrap my arms around her. Her silk blouse is soft. She smells like expensive apples. I wonder what the rest of the people in this bar think is going on between us. Then I remember no one in this place notices anything. I guess my gran was wrong. I guess black hole bars are for more than just drinking your sorrows away. I guess they’re also for hugging cannibals.

“Thank you,” she whispers, finally letting me go.

Once we sit down, I can see that her mascara is smeared. She’s crying. “I must look like a fucking mess.”

“No, you…” My lips are moving, but it doesn’t feel like I’m the one talking. The same thing happened when Jonah told me about his family, in a bar just like this. The world is sometimes a series of repeating scenarios.

“I’m not usually a crier, but Dante and I have been thinking about this moment for decades. What would we do? And then it happened and we…” She trails off.

“So your husband is…”

“Yeah.” She pulls a Kleenex from one of those mini packs and wipes her face. “Better?” I nod. “All of us have it. Dante, the kids. I’m surprised Maya didn’t recognize it in Naomi.”

“Maya doesn’t have it. Just me and her brother. The kids don’t know that there are others like us. You’re the first we’ve encountered.”

Dee looks relieved. “Once we figured out you were Maya’s mom, we were panicked she would say something to Naomi. Our kids don’t know what they are.” My mouth slides open in shock. She reaches her hand out and puts it on mine. “Please don’t judge.”

I’m judging. Hard. I try to hide it. “Why haven’t you told them?”

“If you could do your childhood over without knowing what you are, would you?”

“No,” I say, but I’m not sure if I’m telling her the truth. “Aren’t you worried they’re going to figure it out?” We can control many things in our kids’ lives, but we cannot control their genetics. No matter how hard we try. I know this firsthand.

“We give them everything they need to be healthy and more importantly satiated. When they turn eighteen, we’ll tell them the truth.”

I would’ve hated my gran for keeping that sort of secret from me. Dee can see it on my face. She leans in, her eyes two angry slashes. “Is Joey happy? I’ve heard from a few parents who saw him at the game that he’s got a vibe.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Let’s just say they wouldn’t love it if their kids were hanging out with him.”

I knew there was a mean girl lurking under her “kumbaya we’re both cannibals” schtick. I suck down the last of my whiskey sour. I put on my coat.

“I’m sorry. Please don’t go,” she says quickly. “I shouldn’t judge the way you raise your kid. The truth is, I don’t know if we’re making the right decision. I guess we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. I’d appreciate it if you and your kids don’t say anything to Naomi about what we are.”

“Sure,” I say, settling back into the booth. I keep my coat on. Just in case.

“Thanks.”

I still think she’s wrong to keep her kids in the dark. I think they’ll hate her when they find out. I think it will ruin their lives. But, then again, she’d probably be horrified by what I put my kids through. The bartender approaches the table with another round.

“Thanks, Wilma,” Dee says, waving my cash away. “It’s the least I can do.” Once Wilma’s out of earshot, Dee asks if I’ve ever met any others like us. I tell her Gran and I lived an isolated life.

“What about your kids’ dad?”

“He was normal.”

Her eyes go wide, like I told her I mated with a giraffe. “How did that work?”

“We weren’t together for very long. He passed away a few months after the kids were born.”

“I’m so sorry. What happened?”

Dee apparently has no shame asking invasive questions. “Encephalitis.” Vera’s lie, not mine. It’s what Jonah’s obituary in The New York Times said: Jonah Armstrong, age 22, died after a prolonged battle with acute encephalitis. He is survived by his mother and father, Vera and Benjamin Armstrong; his siblings, Ethan and Gabrielle; as well as his infant son and daughter. I was left out. Vera insisted the newspaper screwed up, but I could see what she was doing. “It was a long time ago,” I tell Dee, wanting the discussion about Jonah to be over. I ask how she met her husband.

“We both grew up in Six Pines, an intentional community for people like us.”

Now my eyes go wide. “I didn’t think there were enough of us for something like that.”

“There were forty people, I think. Dante’s grandparents started the community in the 1960s. My parents joined before I was born. They’d been living in Baltimore. Scavenging.”

When my mom was little, there was a period between my grandpa dying and Gran opening the funeral parlor when they had to scavenge. Gran was dead set against killing anyone, so she’d troll hospitals looking for pathological waste before it was incinerated, homeless encampments for junkies who OD’d. She even robbed graves. It sounded grim. Gran said she and my mom were always sick during that time. Eating bodies riddled with disease, decay, and drugs apparently isn’t good for you.

“Why would you leave?”

Dee searches for the right words. “There were religious overtones that Dante and I didn’t agree with.”

I suddenly imagine Dee in a sack dress. Her hair in a French braid. She is praying to a man who looks like David Koresh.

“It wasn’t bonnets and high collars,” she says defensively, as if my thoughts are a movie projected on my forehead. “Dante’s grandparents met at Rice University. They were the kind of people who quoted Merton and Thoreau. The community was egalitarian. Sustainable. It was built on the belief that we were chosen to be stewards of God’s greatest creation—the Earth.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“It’s okay. I have very complex feelings about my childhood.”

I’m brimming with follow-up questions: Where is this place? How did they eat? But then—“What’s with the PO box?” Dee pivots the conversation again, catching me off guard.

“Ummm, I just prefer it,” I say, hoping this answer will suffice.

“Isn’t the post office in Vernon more convenient?”

“Isn’t it more convenient for you?”

Silence. The music on the jukebox switches over. As the opening chords of Elton John’s “Crocodile Rock” play, Dee quietly reveals that she orders human meat off the dark web. “I don’t want to raise any suspicion with the kids.”

I’m shocked. I didn’t know that was an option. I wonder who’s providing the meat. I wonder if they’re like us. “I thought maybe since Dante was a cop…”

Dee sucks down the rest of her vodka tonic. “That’s a last resort.” Her eyes are glassy. Her words are starting to slur. She’s drunk enough to admit that she doesn’t have the stomach for killing. She’s only done it once. I try to picture her eating someone. It almost makes me laugh. “It’s a rite of passage at Six Pines. The person…She was…The look on her face when I took the first bite. The sound she made…” Dee stares into her empty glass. Her face is a mess of regret and sadness.

I know I should comfort her. Maybe put my hand on hers. But we are not friends.

Dee’s eyes are back on me. “Have you killed anyone?” she asks. I shake my head no. I’m lying. I’ve killed one person. After Jonah died. But I’m not Dee. I’ll never, ever tell anyone about it.

Dee’s phone pings. She glances at a text. “Shit, I’m so sorry. I should get home.” She slips on her coat. Before she leaves, she tells me that she and Dante have a lot of sway in Vernon. They can protect me.

I should feel relieved to know that there’s someone like me living here, but I don’t. I feel more unsettled than I did before.

I’m not sure why.

On the way home, the feeling gets worse. I stop at a gas station and buy a burner phone. Maybe it’s time to get in touch with Helen. Maybe it’s time to leave Vernon. I place the burner, a cranberry juice, and a small bag of Doritos on the counter. The cashier eyes me like I’m a criminal.

Whatever.

I get back in the car. I drive a mile or two before turning in to a modest neighborhood. I park in front of a row of aging townhomes with bland stucco exteriors and sad patches of grass. I rip the burner from its plastic casing and start to text Helen 741—the old-school beeper code for “I need a favor.” Helen and I have been using beeper codes since we were in high school. Back then, it was a way to keep her nosy older brother out of our business. Now it’s how we keep the Armstrongs, the cops, or anyone else who might want to find me at bay.

A 741 means this is an emergency. It means we need to leave ASAP. There’s no taking back a 741.

My finger hovers over the send button. I’ve never hesitated before. I’ve always just done it. Suddenly, my actual phone rings. It’s Rosie. I glance between phones, debating what to do. Finally, I tuck the burner into my purse. “What’s up?” I ask my daughter.

“Where are you?”

I start up the car. “I’m on my way home.”

Vera

I sit in the living room in my St. John bouclette tweed coat waiting for the town car to take us to the Church of St. Ignatius Loyola. I can hear Gabrielle fighting with Ethan in the next room. She flew home from set so she could attend Martin’s funeral. Gabrielle’s just like me—strong, no-nonsense. “You’re drunk and it’s not even noon,” she snipes at Ethan. Their bickering is giving me a tiny headache behind my right eye. I try to relax, sink back into the couch, but the ghost of Celeste is staring down at me. She’s dressed for tennis, an Izod sweater around her shoulders. Her makeup is exaggerated, garish. She looks endlessly tall. “I win!” she screams. “You’ll never get rid of me.”

I fumble for a Xanax in my purse and then close my eyes to shut out Celeste. As soon as I do, Gabrielle appears, Ethan by her side. “The car’s out front,” she announces. Ethan has a dusting of cocaine under his nose. He used to have slightly better control over his addictions. Back when he worked for his father. Gabrielle thinks he has too much free time. Too much money. She wants me to rein him in. But he’s the only son I have left. At least he’s standing upright.

In the car, I press my forehead against the window like I used to on the bus when I first came to New York. Celeste’s words ring in my ears. Tears roll down my cheeks. My shoulders shake. “Get it together, Mother,” Gabrielle hisses. “We’re almost at the church.”

“Stop trying to fucking control everyone,” Ethan slurs in his sister’s direction.

Gabrielle grits her teeth. I hope she turns on him. Leaves me alone. Lets me grieve. But she doesn’t. “What will people think when they see you sobbing hysterically over some dusty fucking genetics professor?”

But I can’t stop. I’ve destroyed the Armstrong legacy, and with Martin gone, there is nothing I can do to repair it. I will never be free of Celeste.

Joaquin

Dr. Williams’s funeral is held in a cathedral on the Upper East Side. It’s an odd mix of faculty, science stars, politicians, and that billionaire Tesla jerk. I knew Williams rubbed elbows with A-listers, but I didn’t think any of them would show up to his funeral. I imagined it would be a sad handful of Columbia faculty and students. The odd geneticist with a recognizable name. Any one of these people could be the key to destroying Williams’s legacy. I make a mental list of who’s in attendance.

I sit in the back with the rest of the postdocs. We’re a motley crew. Gray from lack of sunshine. Circles under our eyes. Most of us smell like bleach and cheap whiskey. No wonder the rest of the mourners sit a few rows up.

The president of the university drones on at the pulpit. Her eulogy is marked by clichés like “brilliant mind” and “what a terrible loss.” I can’t tell whether she’s upset because she liked Williams or because his death means the genetics department is no longer the crown jewel of the university.

Suddenly, Jie elbows me and nods to the back of the church. Gabrielle Armstrong, Oscar winner, is hidden in the shadows, flanked by her brother, who’s got some prep-school-sounding name I can’t remember, and her mom, Vera, who was a big model in the nineties. My oldest brother had a picture of her on his wall. Some artsy-fartsy ad for jeans where she was topless but her hands were covering her breasts. I think he was trying to fool my parents into thinking he was straight.

“What are they doing here?” Jie asks. She has an odd look on her face. As if she’s seen a ghost. I shrug my shoulders.

“Williams knew a ton of famous people,” I whisper. But none of them seem quite as upset as Vera Armstrong. She’s weeping. Silent tears. Shoulders shaking. Maybe she and Williams were in a relationship? A quick Google search of the two of them renders nothing. I ask Jie if Williams had a girlfriend.

She grimaces. “The only relationship he had was with the lab.” She’s probably right. Besides, if Williams and Vera were in a relationship, she would be sitting up front, not hiding at the back of the church.

I glance at Vera again. She lifts her head. Her eyes are black. Bombed out. Rimmed in red. Fuck. I know that look. I carried the same one on my face after Williams canned me. It’s the look of someone who’s been blindsided. Who’s lost something—not someone—they can never get back. Whose future’s been blown to bits. Vera is the only person in this fucking church with that look on their face.

I suddenly need to know why.

7

Talia

Rosie and Sam were five years old when I told them about The Need. I was the same age when Gran told me. “We got a curse inside us,” my gran said. “If I were religious, I’d say it was the devil in our blood. But I ain’t. We got bad in us. It’s a fact of life. But I’ll teach you how to live with it.” Gran was smoking a Capri Slim. Her hand was shaking. The ash kept dropping into her plate of eggs, but she didn’t notice. It’s the only time I’ve ever seen her that way. “Ya know how we eat animals, like pigs and chickens?” I nodded. “Well, unfortunately, people like us also need to eat other people. Not all the time. Just sometimes. If we don’t, we’ll die.”

I asked her how many times was sometimes. She said my body would tell me. My blood would start to feel thick like molasses.

I chewed on my thumb, contemplating this new information. I didn’t know my body could surprise me. Or have secrets I wasn’t in on. “Can I get a different body?” I asked. “I don’t wanna feel my blood.”

Gran smiled. The skin around her eyes crinkled. “You and me both.” She stubbed out her cigarette right in the middle of the yolk and then looked out the window. It had started to snow. Gran sighed. At the time, I thought she was sighing about the weather. Gran always hated snow. She hated how it turned black and gross just as quickly as it fell. She hated how it transformed the entryway of the apartment into a cold puddle. When I got older, I realized her sigh was the weight of putting something so big onto someone so little. “I know this is confusing and a lot, but we’ll muddle through together.” She patted my hand, which was the closest I ever got to a hug. Then she leaned in. Her breath smelled like cigarettes and bacon grease. “This has to stay between us,” she whispered. That meant I couldn’t tell anyone. Ever.

“Not even Helen?” Helen and I had been best friends for a whole year at this point. We whispered secrets on the playground. I slept over at her house every Friday. We dressed in matching witch costumes at Halloween. I was starting to forget a time before Helen. I couldn’t imagine keeping a secret from her.

Gran said if anyone found out what we were, we’d end up in Belmont Psych Hospital or worse: prison. People like us have survived for centuries by living under the radar. She said I had to be strong to live a whole life with this. “Your mom and dad ain’t, kiddo. That’s why they act foolish. But you’re strong. I can see it in your eyes.”

I said something similar to the twins. I’m not sure of my exact words. It was all a blur. Before I told them, I bought all their favorite foods. Lucky Charms. Pizza bagels. Chocolate milk. Oreos. I hoped the junk food would make what I was about to tell them go down easier. We sat around the kitchen table, Rosie licking the frosting out of her Oreos and handing the cookie part to Sam. My voice shook as I stared into their tiny round faces and told them about The Need. When I was done, Rosie asked a thousand questions.

Where do you get the people?

Do you kill them?

How many people do you have to eat?

What if I eat a person?

Does that make you killers?

My head hurt trying to answer all of them. Sam said nothing. He stared off into the middle distance, like what I’d told him wasn’t a surprise but a confirmation.

Tonight, I’m going to tell the kids about Dee and her family. I have zero idea if Sam knows what it feels like to be next to someone just like him. We’ve never talked about it. I don’t know how he’ll react to finding out there are others. He might freak out. He might call me a liar. I’d be fooling myself if I said I wasn’t terrified of telling him. But I can’t have him accidentally identifying Naomi. I can’t have him telling Naomi what they are. I can’t have their parents angry. But mostly, I really can’t have their homicide cop of a father going after us. It doesn’t matter that Dante Elmwood is just like us, he still works for the police.

I’M PICKING U UP FROM SCHOOL, I text.

WHY? from Rosie.

Thumbs up emoji. from Sam.

The kids are suspicious the minute they get in the car. Rosie asks where we’re going. I tell her I found a lake, not far from here. She asks if we’re moving again.

“No,” I say.

“Then why are you showing us a lake?”

“I just thought we could watch the sunset.”

I can see Rosie’s face in the rearview mirror. Her brow is furrowed. She’s gnawing on her bottom lip. I wonder if she believes me.

“How was your day?” I ask Sam. He shrugs. He flips on the radio. He stares out the window. He’s typical Sam. Rosie begins to tell a long story about how she and Naomi want to wear the same costume for Halloween, but they can’t decide what that costume should be. I try to concentrate on Rosie’s story, but I can’t. As far as the kids know, there is nobody else like me and Sam. They’ve googled, of course, and come up with the predictable list of serial killers. “Those are obviously fakes,” Sam informed his sister. I have no idea if he’s right. But it’s easier to let them think we’re anomalies.

This information I’m about to give them is huge. It complicates an already complicated existence. What if we have to move again? Will it make it harder to leave? Will Rosie be upset when I tell her what her friend is? Will she suddenly hate Naomi the way she hates her brother? And what about Sam? He is my wild card. I know he won’t react well to the fact that I’ve lied, but will he keep the Rodriguez-Elmwood family secret? Or will he tell Naomi what they are just to spite Dee’s rules?

“So, Mom, can I go or what?”

I didn’t hear a word Rosie said. I glance in the rearview mirror. She’s waiting for an answer. I fake it. “Um, sure.” I hope I’m not agreeing to anything insane.

Rosie looks out the window. “Where are we?”

“Marymount, I think.” The houses out here are farther apart. I wanted somewhere slightly remote. Hopefully there’s no one else at the lake.

“How much longer?” Sam asks. It’s the first thing he’s said since he got in the car.

“Almost there.” I glance at my phone in the cupholder to see if I’m lying. Google Maps says ten minutes. I wonder if I should tell them about Dee and her family now.

Bowie comes on the radio. “Young Americans.” The twins loved this song when they were little. Before Jonah died, he made me promise to raise the kids with good musical taste. “Swear you won’t let them listen to boy bands,” he said. I used our car trips from one town to another to school them: Bowie. Joy Division. Nirvana. Bikini Kill. Bad Religion. Hole. Siouxsie and the Banshees. Kate Bush. I think I did a pretty good job, although Jonah would roll over in his grave if he knew how much Rosie likes Taylor Swift.

Sam leans forward, turns up the song. Bowie fills the car.

I peek in the rearview mirror. Rosie’s quietly singing along. I wait for Sam to tell her to stop. I wait for him to say something cutting, like she sounds like a cat in heat. But he doesn’t. In fact, when I glance over, I can see his lips moving. He’s singing. It’s not loud, more like a mumble, but he’s singing. I can’t remember the last time Sam and Rosie did anything together besides fight. I join in. By the time Bowie gets to the second chorus, all three of us are belting at the top of our lungs. We feel like a family. We haven’t felt like a family in forever.

We pull into the parking lot at the edge of the lake. We are the only ones there. I shut off the car, but no one moves. The pine trees look like they are cut out of black construction paper. The sun reflects pink and gold on the lake.

“I like it here,” Sam says.

Rosie chimes in, “Me too.”

It’s the first time they’ve agreed in God knows how long. I don’t want to ruin that with some other family’s bullshit. I decide not to tell Rosie and Sam. For now.

Instead, we sit and watch the sunset.

Vera

Gabrielle helps me into my Turnbull & Asser silk pajamas. She orders the day maid to put the teakettle on. She cracks a Xanax in two and hands half to me. She takes the other half herself. Ethan is nowhere to be found.

Gabrielle slips into some James Perse loungewear and gets under the covers with me. We haven’t done this in a long time. Not since Benny died. Our chef cooks up Helen; liver for me, a piece of thigh for Gabrielle. We eat her in a balsamic reduction on TV trays. The chef makes Gabrielle’s favorite whipped potatoes, which she can eat again now that she’s on Ozempic. I feel myself sinking into a Xanax haze, rolling the last bits of Helen around in my mouth, hoping through osmosis I will glean some information about where Talia and the children are. Gabrielle is telling me about some upcoming projects that have come her way. I’m finding it hard to concentrate. Martin’s death has excavated all the old ghosts: Jonah, Benny, the twins. I feel haunted.

Celeste’s disappointed face hangs in my peripheral. She’s like a dirty corner the housekeeper can’t keep clean. “If only my Benjamin had married someone else,” she laments. When Celeste was the woman of the house, there were annual family gatherings: Thanksgiving in Aspen, Christmas in London. The biggest celebration was on the Fourth of July. Armstrongs would travel from around the world to celebrate at the family’s compound in Nantucket. While the women sipped cocktails and sunned by the pool, the men spent the morning of the Fourth doing the annual family hunt. It was a tradition that went back hundreds of years, before there was a Fourth of July or even an America. Benny’s father had a cadre of men he kept on retainer, “personal shoppers” he called them. Really, they were kidnappers—former CIA and FBI agents, cops and Navy SEALs, who would nab people off the street for the family’s dinner. For the Fourth of July, these men would scour the city for months to find a suitable subject: typically an unhoused man in his twenties or early thirties, good musculature, someone who could run. They would nurse him back to health in a cell under the Nantucket house before fattening him up like a goose. Come the morning of the Fourth, they’d release him into the woods surrounding the house and then the Armstrong men would hunt him like a deer. Later, the family’s personal chef would roast the man on a spit over a fire and the family would eat him like pulled pork, slathered in barbecue sauce on homemade rolls with corn on the cob and potato salad as we watched our own personal fireworks display over a manmade lake at the center of the compound, waving sparklers and singing “America the Beautiful.”

Benny never liked the hunt; he hated sports and wasn’t a good shot. But after his parents died and we took on hosting duties, he became zealous about it. I enjoyed the summers we were in charge. I liked the rest of the Armstrong women envying my position at the apex of the clan, hanging on my every word. I was queen of the Armstrong kingdom.

Then Jonah was born. The family rescinded our invitation to Easter. And Benny’s sister, fearing they’d boycott the Fourth if we were in charge, took over the festivities.

It doesn’t matter that I was—no, I am one of the biggest supermodels in the world. That I helped Benny build a musical empire. That I gave birth to an Oscar-winning actress. The only thing that matters is that I singlehandedly destroyed their perfect fucking lineage. I have texted the cousins. I have tried to connect. It’s rare I get a reply. The fact any of them contacted me when the Vanity Fair profile was announced is a miracle. But as per usual, there was nothing after that. I have plenty of friends, but I am lonely without my own kind.

I feel tears running down my face.

“Mom, are you okay?”

“It’ll pass,” I say, looking at Gabrielle as if she just appeared. I will the tears to stop, but they don’t listen. Maybe it’s the Xanax. Or maybe I need more Xanax. I stuff another pill into my mouth.

The housekeeper comes in and clears the TV trays. Gabrielle curls up next to me, her head on my shoulder. “I’m sorry about Martin,” she says. “I know he was important to you.” Her body is warm. It feels nice. I can’t remember the last time someone cuddled me.

“Should we watch a movie?” I ask in a voice that feels like someone else’s. It’s slow, damp with grief.

Gabrielle nods. I scroll through the maze of apps until I find Gabrielle’s latest movie. It’s a very serious drama about a woman trying to get custody of her children after a stint in prison for murder. She won a Golden Globe for her performance. She wore a champagne-colored floor-length gown made by Christian Siriano. It had subtle beading and a heart-shaped neckline. She wore her hair down. Wavy. She looked breathtaking. Almost like a model.

Gabrielle loves to give behind-the-scenes gossip. “Hansel, the guy who plays the lawyer, was on a Wagyu diet. His colon got impacted and he had to have his shit delivered like a baby.”

“The kids’ mom fucked a much younger PA.”

“The writer threw a fit to keep that scene in, so they banned him from set. He snuck back on disguised as craft services.”

Gabrielle comes onscreen. “Was this before you had your eyes done?” I ask. Gabrielle bristles, sits up. “Ummm, yeah.” She pulls out her phone. During the rest of the movie, her thumbs fly. She’s making notes of what she likes and dislikes about her performance—her skin, her body—to later discuss with her team: a cadre of acting coaches, plastic surgeons, and dermatologists. She is fastidious about her career. I admire that.

The film’s credits roll. Gabrielle turns to me, her face serious. “Mother, I’ve been thinking…”

“Now is not a time for thinking.” I pat her hand. I hope she can see how high I am.

“The Vanity Fair article is coming out in a week. It could mean several new career opportunities. I think you should focus on that.” Gabrielle does not care that I’m high. She wants me to be her mother. I nod. The movement is slow, like I’m nodding someone else’s head. “Let them go.” She’s talking about Talia and the kids. “Before I head back to London, I want you to fire the private detective. I want you to promise me you won’t hire another one. Okay?” I can feel myself nodding again. My agreement is a lie. Or maybe it’s not. I know that with Martin gone, moving forward is impossible. But a lifetime of being haunted by Celeste is a fate worse than death.

I’m not sure what I’m going to do.

I watch Gabrielle twist her hair into a bun at the nape of her neck. It’s something she does when she’s about to get very serious. “Mom, I’m serious.”

“I know. You’ve put your hair in a knot. I’ll fire the detective.”

Gabrielle bristles again. She can tell that I’m lying. I wonder if she’ll try to get a rise out of me and say something inflammatory.

“I wasn’t going to tell you this just yet, but I’m getting a divorce.” There it is. I open my mouth to speak, but every thought that comes into my head slips away the minute it’s formed. “Mother, you have to understand, the older I get the more insane it feels to stay together,” she explains. “We don’t like each other. We can’t seem to make a baby. What are we doing?”

“You’re our only hope for grandchildren.” The words drip out like the last bit of syrup from a bottle.

“I’m tired of being the only hope. Make Ethan get his shit together.”

“Ethan?” I start laughing. It feels good. When was the last time I laughed? “Ethan is Ethan. He will always be Ethan.” I cannot stop giggling. Gabrielle grabs my arm, hard, her perfectly manicured nails digging into my skin. I can tell she’s angry. Not by her expression—that hasn’t changed. She must’ve had Botox done recently. I can tell she’s angry by her grip. “Ow!” I try to yank my arm away, but I’m too high to put up much of a fight.

“Your fucking weird obsession with this family’s lineage isn’t my burden to bear anymore,” she seethes. “My brother spends his free time shooting his cum into every bottle girl in the city, encourage him to do it with some purpose for once and stop pressuring me. I’m unhappy in my marriage.”

“Everyone is unhappy. I’ll disown you if you divorce.” I want her to feel like me—trapped.

“I don’t care.”

“Yes, you do.”

“The papers have already been filed. His parents want him to remarry some cousin in Stockholm. I’ve been seeing a director I worked with.”

“What do you think this director will do when he finds out what you are?” I feel farther away than I’ve ever felt. My body is on the bed, but my soul is slowly starting to become part of the atmosphere.

“He doesn’t need to know.”

“Sure.” Am I laughing again? I can’t tell. My eyelids feel heavy. “You don’t know what it’s like to be on your own. You’ll come back.”

“Talia didn’t.”

“Talia is from the ground, just like me. She is a street gremlin. She knows how to survive. You are the remnants of a fucking dandelion blowing in the wind. This family is the only thing that can protect you.”

Gabrielle’s lip trembles like a child’s. “I need a minute,” she whimpers. She leaves to call her therapist. Or the director she’s seeing. She is going to tell them I’m a monster. I should follow and comfort her. Prove to her I’m not. Remind her of what a good mother I am. But the Xanax has fully taken hold. I can feel myself transforming. I am a bird. I am a butterfly. I am a summer breeze.

Joaquin

The gathering after the funeral is held at Dr. Williams’s house in Westchester. I’m surprised at how many of the postdocs attend. I guess everyone wants to see where the old prick lived. I’m more interested in the Armstrong family and why they were at the funeral. I can’t shake that look on Vera’s face. I know it means something important.

Jie gasps as we turn down the drive. The house is fucking huge. “Apparently Williams lived in Wuthering Heights,” says Amin, one of the postdocs sitting sardine style in the back of Jie’s Honda Fit. The rest of us laugh.

Before we left the church, Amin dared each of us to steal one item from Williams’s house. Best theft wins a bottle of Macallan. As Jie parks the car, we pass around a flask for liquid courage. “Don’t fucking chicken out,” Amin warns. My former cohort has no idea I used to be an expert shoplifter. I spent the first half of high school getting fucked up and casually stealing anything I could shove in my pockets. I worked hard to not be that person anymore. But now that my career is in the shitter, all bets are off.

We get out of the car, a pack of misfits. I bet Williams would roll over in his grave if he knew I was at his house. My sticky fingers touching the good crystal. My cheap shoes on his expensive rugs. As we step into the foyer, Jie leans over to me. “I know he’s the chair of the department, but how the fuck did Williams afford this?”

“Clearly the rumors are true.”

Jie wonders if that Tesla prick is funding him. “He was at the funeral. He has a million kids. It makes sense.” I shrug, choosing not to reveal my own suspicions.

A housekeeper leads us into a formal living room, which is just as stuffy and impersonal as I imagined. Leather couches and Persian rugs. Fifty or so guests sip champagne and eat canapés. A quartet plays somber string music in the corner. “Now what?” Jie asks.

“We mingle.”

I grab a glass of champagne and a few stuffed mushrooms off a passing waiter’s tray and make my way through the crowd—a veritable who’s who of genetics: Eric and Stacy from the Broad Institute, Michael from Stanford, Mark from Yale. Jie and the rest of the postdocs are taking the opportunity to climb the genetics social ladder. She tries to pull me into a conversation with Mark from Yale, but the minute he hears my name he stiffens, pretends I’m not there. Any hope I had that they’d change their minds now that Williams is dead quickly dissipates.

I scan the room for the Armstrongs, but they’re not here. Fuck. I guess it’s not surprising. They ducked out of the funeral before it was over. I dunno what I would’ve said to them anyway.

I realize I am standing by myself in a corner holding two damp mushrooms in one hand and an empty champagne glass in the other. The rest of my former cohort is occupied. Amin seems to have abandoned his goal of nicking the best souvenir and is knee-deep in conversation with Stacy from the Broad. Jie and Mark from Yale are laughing like old friends. I realize this might be the only chance I have to scope out Williams’s house. See if the dead drunk fuck hid any secrets around here that I can expose. Maybe pinch something valuable. A bottle of Macallan is a bottle of Macallan.

I slip out of the living room and down the hall, not sure exactly what I’m looking for. The place is massive; one of those old houses with byzantine wallpapered hallways that all seem to lead to rooms that appear unused. At the end of the hall, there’s a door with a smart lock. I press a couple keys, hoping dumb luck will open it, when a stern-looking woman comes out of nowhere and asks me what I’m doing. I tell her I got lost looking for the bathroom. She points me back in the direction I came from, watching me as I return down the hall. I duck into the bathroom for a few minutes, hoping she’s disappeared, but when I exit she’s still standing there. She smiles. “Party’s to the left.”

Fuck. I’m heading in the direction she’s pointing, figuring I’ll round up the rest of the postdocs, see if they want to head back to the city, when I pass by a set of stairs. I glance over my shoulder to see if the stern woman followed. She didn’t. I quickly sneak upstairs. To the left of the landing is an office. Williams’s office. The room is lined with bookcases stuffed with awards and framed photos of Williams with former presidents, world leaders, Nobel Prize winners.

There’s one photo on his desk that catches my eye. It’s of Williams and Vera Armstrong. It looks like it’s over a decade old. The alcohol hadn’t taken its toll yet. His face isn’t heavy with bloat. His nose doesn’t have its signature purple tip. They’re dressed like they’re at some sort of event. His arm is around her. They look like a couple. Maybe I was wrong about the look on her face.

Williams’s laptop is on his desk. Taking it feels like a bridge too far. Instead, I rifle through drawers, see if I can find anything else of interest. I’m still determined to out Williams. Ruin his name so maybe I can get my career back. But all I find is junk. Some old files. Fuck it. I stuff the laptop in my bag. The gesture makes me feel like my old self. The kid who went to juvie. I don’t like this feeling, but I also don’t put the laptop back.

“Can I help you?”

My heart rockets to my feet. It’s the Armstrong son. “Sorry, I was just…” I trail off when I see he’s drunk. High. His pupils are little pinholes. His suit’s wrinkled. He’s sweating and keeps running his hand through his mess of curly hair. I breathe a sigh of relief. Fibbing my way past this guy should be easy. “I work with Dr. Williams in his lab.”

He steps into the office. “Here or at the university?”

I realize what the smart lock was hiding: a home lab. Why would Williams have a home lab? I take a chance. “Here.”

“Huh,” he says, considering. “I’m Ethan Armstrong. Sucks Martin died.”

“Yeah. He was a real pioneer.”

“I guess. I’m not really into science. The project was my mom’s thing. You taking over?”

Holy shit. I wasn’t wrong. The Armstrongs are funding a secret genetics project for Williams. No wonder Vera had that look on her face. “I didn’t know that was an option.”

Ethan’s eyes light up. “It is now,” he says, slurring his words a little. “God, Gabrielle’s gonna be so pissed I did this. I can’t wait.” He scribbles his phone number on a notepad. “Call me. I’ll put you in touch with my mother.”

“She’s not here?”

“No. Just me. Funerals are a great place to pick up women. Sad girls like to fuck. Too bad this crowd is full of uggos. You got any coke?” I shake my head no. “Bummer.” And with that Ethan disappears.

I race downstairs and pull Jie from her conversation with Mark from Yale. She’s pissed. “That guy could literally make my career.”

I tell her we need to leave now. “Why?” She pushes up her glasses. She does that when she’s preparing for a rebuttal. I lean down, whisper in her ear that I got Williams’s personal laptop. Her eyes light up. She bites her lip. Ethan was wrong. Jie is one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever met. I hope she’d never go for some rich, privileged asshat in an expensive suit. “I’ll round up the others,” she says.

I glance over at my former cohort, schmoozing. I trust Jie, but the rest of them are wolves. “Don’t say anything about the computer.”

“But what about the game? You deserve the Macallan.”

“I’ll explain later.” Jie mimes zipping her lip and then disappears into the crowd to get the others.

Carolyn

Cops found Gary’s blood in the woods. I guess Gary didn’t skip town. One of the kids in my Algebra II class heard the cops were investigating like a totally different case when they discovered the blood near where those seniors found his Zippo. Apparently, it was only a few drops on a leaf, but it’s enough evidence for the cops to come to school and question people. Which has never happened before.

At lunch everyone’s talking about it. Everyone. I’m sitting at a table with Diego and his cousin. She’s super popular. And really pretty. She looks like Ariana Grande but tall and without the ponytail. She could be a total bitch, but she’s not. In fact, she’s a sweetheart.

Anyway, Diego’s cousin is in Gary’s English class, so she was one of the first people who got pulled in for questioning. She says the cops were pretty chill. They just asked a lot of questions about Gary.

Who were Gary’s friends?

Where did he hang out?

Did he have any enemies?

Diego’s cousin says she mostly just shrugged. “I knew Gary. But I didn’t like know know him, ya know?” she says as she dips french fries into her chocolate milk, which is a thing she and Diego do. It’s gross.

“Imagine getting kidnapped or murdered and not a single fucking person being able to answer like basic questions about you,” Diego says, grabbing some of his cousin’s fries. He’s started using liquid eyeliner and it makes his green eyes look even more intense than they usually do.

“That’s sad,” I say, looking down at my nails. LaShonda’s sister did them at her salon. The color’s called Got Myself into a Jam-balaya. She glued little gemstones in the shape of a star on each nail. I realize I’ve chipped some of them off out of stress. Fuck.

“The cops said they’re gonna talk to everyone.”

Diego can’t wait to be questioned. Besides manga, he loves old episodes of Law and Order: SVU. He watches them with his oldest tía. They spend a lot of time talking about how hot the lead detective is. “He could butter my roll,” his tía likes to say, which legit repulses me, but Diego thinks it’s hilarious.

I’m not remotely looking forward to being questioned by the cops. It means I’m gonna have to deal with the gut feeling I’ve been having about Gary’s disappearance. The gut feeling that no one else seems to have, or they would have said something about Jamie. The gut feeling that has gotten so bad since the cops showed up at school that I’ve barely touched my chicken nuggets. And I fucking love nuggets.

The bell rings. Diego gets up. “You coming?”

“I gotta run to the bathroom before class.” I’m lying. Lately, I’ve been doing that a lot. I never used to lie to him. I wonder if when I die, he’ll shrug and say, I knew her, but I didn’t know know her.

I head toward the bathroom, but instead of going in I ditch out the side door near the gym. I can see the police parked at the main entrance. One of the cops is lingering by his squad car. His eyes are on his phone. I crouch down behind the bike rack so he can’t see me. My gut twists again, hard. It’s way worse than the usual bees that terrorize my stomach. It feels like something’s trying to get out of me. Like that old horror movie where that guy thinks he has indigestion, but then this totally terrifying creature busts out of him. I try to ignore the feeling, but it’s hard.

The second bell rings, meaning class has started. The cop stuffs his phone in his pocket. As he heads into school, I quickly grab my bike off the rack and take off, hoping no one saw me bail. I’ve never cut class. I’m too terrified of my stepmom, Janice, freaking out. But Diego was right. I am different now.

I pedal as fast as I can, away from school and the police and lying to Diego. Normally, I feel free on my bike. Like nothing can fucking touch me. But today, the faster I go, the stronger the gut feeling gets. Jamie and Gary in the dugout. Margot and Jamie disappearing in the middle of the night. The drawing of our teacher I found in Jamie’s room. Her half-eaten face with a bright red heart around it.

I pedal faster and faster, trying to get away from it all. Faster and faster until my legs burn and tears are rolling down my cheeks. Faster and faster until the twisting in my gut is so unbearable that I need to let it out.

“Jamie,” I say to the wind. “It was Jamie who murdered Gary.”

Rosie

Sam doesn’t eat in the cafeteria. Ever. I don’t know what he freakin’ does. Probably lurks around the dumpsters smoking Marlboros like a ghoul. But lately he’s been at lunch. He sits at a table with a girl named Kennedy and her friend Willa. I can feel him staring at me and Naomi.

I asked him about it after we got back from the lake. He was lying on his bed watching music videos from like 2005 on his phone. “Why are you always staring at me and Naomi?”

He pulled his headphones off. “Huh?”

“You heard me.”

He shook his head. “You’re delusional.”

“Are you in love with them?”

“Go away.”

“Well, don’t eat them. They’re my friend.”

“Fuck off.” He put his headphones back on and turned up whatever garbage he was listening to. I kicked his bed, hard. So hard he dropped his phone. I wish I could tell Naomi about my brother. Just so they could be on high alert. But I can’t. Maybe someday.

Sam isn’t the only person obsessed with Naomi. There’s this basketball player named Brayden who’s a junior who’s always trying to talk to Naomi. In the hall. At lunch. On the front steps after the final bell rings. Naomi said they kind of dated freshman year. Brayden has high school guy muscles and a ton of TikTok followers, so people treat him like he’s a celebrity. I don’t get it. He reminds me of that YouTuber Brent Rivera: too much hair product and a smug face. When he found out I didn’t have social media, he asked me if I was in a religious cult. Naomi told him to shut the fuck up, which made me like them even more. But they also never tell Brayden to get lost, so I’m a little confused about how they truly feel about him.

Today, Brayden literally sits in between me and Naomi at the lunch table. He doesn’t even say excuse me, just sits down with his Muscle Milk. His letter jacket is pushing up against me and he smells like he just put on a shit-ton of Axe body spray cuz he saw a commercial that told him drowning yourself in a cool ocean scent will make people slip off their chairs with attraction. He tries too hard to look like he isn’t trying too hard.

Ugh. I hate him.

I stare at the back of his head, trying not to make it obvious how annoyed I am, as he tells Naomi about this rapper named Chow Lee. “You should listen to this track, it’s bussin’.” Brayden’s always using slang that sounds dumb coming out of his mouth. But Naomi doesn’t seem to think so. In fact, they take one of Brayden’s AirPods so they can listen to the track. As far as I know, Naomi isn’t into rap. They love Muna and Caroline Polachek and boygenius.

Naomi’s friend Tallulah, who looks like a beautiful sea witch, starts to tell me some story about her World History teacher. She thinks he’s an alcoholic? I’m not sure. I could pretend I’m interested in this fascinating tale. Nod my head. Say “uh-huh” a bunch of times. But I can’t concentrate on the words coming out of her mouth. I’m too distracted by the way Naomi’s looking at Brayden. Their eyes are all low. They’re giving Brayden a half smile while they nod their head to the music. I wonder what it was like when they dated. Did they just make out? Or did they have sex? Did he do things that Naomi still thinks about? Did he caress the inside of Naomi’s palm when they held hands? Or kiss their neck? Or brush their hair off their forehead? Was Naomi in love with him? Or was it just casual? Oh my God, are they maybe still interested in him?? My head feels like it’s two sizes too big for my body. I might puke. I push my cheese pizza away.

Tallulah asks me if I’m okay.

“Yeah, totally.” But I’m lying. I’m not okay.

I’m in love with Naomi.

Naomi pulls out Brayden’s AirPod. Smiles. Like genuinely. “Dope,” they say. “Thanks for that.” I hope he gets up and leaves. Maybe forever. Just like walks into the sunset and never returns. But instead he asks Naomi if they’re going to the Halloween rave in the woods. Naomi says yeah.

“I just got my license,” Brayden says. “Wanna ride?”

Naomi nods. My heart sinks. We were supposed to go to the rave together. We were gonna wear matching costumes. “As long as Maya can come too?”

“Who?” Brayden says, even though he totally knows who I am. Naomi points to me. He looks over his shoulder and grimaces. He freakin’ grimaces. Then he turns back to Naomi and is all like, “Yeah, for sure, whatever you want, Nay.” That’s his nickname for them: Nay. It doesn’t fit them at all. I don’t know why Naomi lets him call them that.

He asks Naomi how their parents are and I realize he’s not going anywhere. This sucks. I stand up. “Um, I’m gonna go finish my homework in the library before Bio,” I say to no one. I slip my backpack on slowly, then pick up my tray. I want Naomi to say, Wait. No, Maya! Stop. But they’re in the middle of a conversation with Brayden. They wave at me as I go, which is something, I guess.

On the way out, I pass Sam. I’m sure he saw the entire situation with Brayden, since his new part-time hobby is staring at my friend. Instead of turning away or making some snide comment, he gives me a look like he understands what I’m feeling. I both hate and love that he did that. It makes me feel less alone, but it also confirms that he’s weirdly obsessed with Naomi. Maybe he’s even in love with them like I am.

I glance back at Naomi. They’re smiling at Brayden. My heart hurts. Maybe I should get Sam to eat Brayden. At least having him as a brother would be useful for once.

Talia

On my way home from work, I grab takeout at a Chinese restaurant in town. The place is packed with families post soccer practice and piano lessons. Dee and her husband, Dante, are there with their two youngest kids, boys that look to be around six and twelve. After ordering, I sit near the hostess stand and watch them. Each boy is strong-looking, ruddy. Not like my Sam, who’s slim and pale like me. Whatever human meat Dee gets from the dark web is fresh. Top grade. Not the day-old stuff I steal from work. It’s obvious the Rodriguez-Elmwoods have money. Not Armstrong money, but money. I can see it in Dee’s jewelry. Her clothes are neatly tailored. Dante has a gold wristwatch. The boys are wearing expensive sneakers. I’m jealous.

Everyone in the restaurant seems to know Dee and her family. Several people stop by their table to chat. They’re all smiling and laughing. Their kids play together. They trade fortunes from the free cookies the restaurant hands out at the end of each meal. It’s all so fucking normal. I wonder what it feels like to be unburdened by your genetics.

Dante glances over at me. Maybe he could sense me watching them. Maybe he could sense me. I stare at my hands in my lap. They’re gripping the scarf Rosie knitted me two Christmases ago. It’s black and silver, my favorite colors. I think about what it would be like if I was here with Jonah. Would we be friendly with the other parents or keep to ourselves? When I glance back up, Dante’s talking with a dad in a Mounds View Mustang sweatshirt.

The hostess calls my name. I take my order and head back to my rental house with my dysfunctional kids and our impermanent life.

When I get home, Rosie scarfs down veggie egg rolls while telling me about some senior who got busted over the weekend selling molly. Sam stares at his plate. I ask him if he’s okay. He nods and then slips off to his room.

“What’s going on with him?”

Rosie shrugs, helps herself to some fried rice.

Later, I knock on his door. “Leave me alone. I’m fine,” he mumbles. Sam’s always been quiet. But not like this.

When the kids were toddlers, we spent a few months in Bakersfield, California. There was a coyote that used to hang out in our backyard. It arrived the minute the sun went down and skulked around the perimeter with an unnerving confidence. Every so often it would casually lie down in the grass, adopting an air of boredom to cover that it was actively plotting the murders of unsuspecting neighborhood cats. Sam was fascinated with the coyote. He’d press his little face against the sliding glass door, watching the animal until bedtime. At first I didn’t understand his obsession. Then I realized he felt a kinship with the animal. Sam was watching himself.

Like the coyote, my son has always been supremely unbothered. Which is why I’m shocked by the way he’s acting. The sing-along in the car wasn’t a sign that something’s right. It was a sign something’s wrong. I should’ve known. I wonder if Dee deals with shit like this. Probably not.

Getting Sam to open up will be like trying to crack a Russian spy. So I head down to Rosie’s room. She’s in bed, reading—a perk of not letting the kids have social media. I ask if she can think of anything her brother might be upset about. She rolls her eyes and sighs. “I dunno.”

“Think.”

Rosie shrugs, annoyed.

“Does Sam have friends?”

“Mom, I’m reading.”

“Fine. Fine. Good night, kiddo.”

I lie awake for half the night, wondering if Sam is lonely. I wonder if I should’ve told the kids about Naomi. I wonder if I should’ve packed us up and left right after I had drinks with Dee. I wonder why Helen hasn’t texted back. Did Vera get to her? Is she dead? I wonder.

I wake up to the sound of Sam and Rosie fighting over who gets to use the shower first. Normally I’d be annoyed that they can’t make it a half hour into the day without bickering; but after last night, it’s a relief to hear Sam acting like Sam. I tell Rosie to let Sam go first. He smirks. She slams her bedroom door. Everything is fine.

As the kids grab their backpacks and head out to school, I get a text from my boss, Howard, at the funeral parlor. BODY COMING IN AT NINE. CREMATION. CAN YOU BE THERE?

I quickly text him back YES. The back of my throat starts to water with the thought of potentially scoring a healthy liver or an undamaged heart. Most likely it’ll be thigh meat, maybe a pancreas.

Things are looking up all around.

I shower. I dress. On my way out, I pass Sam’s room. The worry from the night before rushes back. I’ve never been the kind of mom to search my kids’ rooms. I wouldn’t want them searching mine. But something in the back of my brain tells me to go in. So I do. I hate myself immediately. But I don’t stop. I search through his drawers, his closet, under his bed. I’m not even sure what I’m looking for. I wonder if Dee does this. She probably doesn’t have to. She probably knows what her kids are up to.

I’m perilously close to being late for work. Before giving up completely, I lift his mattress. There is a notebook underneath. When I open it, Naomi is written over and over for pages. I stop breathing. Oh fuck. Is this why he’s been acting strange? Does he know what Naomi is?

I debate going to the school and pulling him out of class, if he’s even there. I wish he didn’t skip school. I wish he thought it was important like his sister. But I haven’t given him a life where the future bodes anything but more running. I decide that whatever this is, it isn’t an emergency. If it was, Rosie would’ve said something.

I tuck the notebook into my purse and head to work. The body that needs to be cremated is a woman named Imelda. She had a brain embolism. Howard tells me she was a fifth-grade teacher at the local elementary school. Imelda thought a funeral would be too traumatic for her students. “She wants her wife to spread her ashes in the pond next to the school, so she can always be near the kids.”

Imelda has soft hands. Her nails are painted purple. She has a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair. Howard has an arrangement conference with a family in a few minutes. This means he’ll be busy for the next hour, giving me enough time to pillage Imelda’s body and then put her in the retort. If it was night or if I was alone, I could be artful about taking pieces of her. But Harold could interrupt. I need to be quick.

I turn on the retort, so it will be hot by the time I’m ready to put Imelda inside. I pull on a pair of latex gloves and quickly slice open her abdomen. I make the incision large enough so I can slip my hand inside. I don’t want blood everywhere. I might not have time for cleanup. I feel around for the liver. Snip. Pull it out. Rinse it off. Put it in the small cooler I bring for lunch every day. The pancreas. Snip. Pull. Rinse. Cooler. Stomach. Snip. Drain. Rinse. Cooler. Kidneys. Snip. Pull. Rinse. Cooler. I check the time. It’s been over a half hour. Fuck. I can’t risk Howard catching me. I slide Imelda into the retort and shut the door. I wipe up the blood with soap and then bleach. I place the cooler in the fridge in the break room. I’m the only person who uses it.

As I sit and wait for Imelda’s cremation to be done, I stare at the notebook I stole from Sam’s room. NaomiNaomiNaomiNaomiNaomiNaomiNaomiNaomiNaomi. The panic returns. I pick up my phone and text Sam: I NEED TO TALK TO YOU AFTER SCHOOL. I get the typical thumbs-up. Maybe I’m being silly. Maybe he just has a crush. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. I wonder if Dee feels like this. If she thinks being a parent is a job with too many maybes. Maybe I should get in my car and leave Sam and Rosie. I could start over. I could just be me.

Instead, I sit and listen to the whir of the retort as Imelda’s body goes up in flames.

Sam

I can’t get Naomi out of my head.

I thought it was just hunger. The shit Mom’s been bringing home from the funeral parlor is real Z-grade meat. All the ketchup in the world can’t disguise that I’m eating some old fuck who died of heart failure.

At night, I close my eyes and imagine what it would be like to eat Naomi. What they would taste like. But I can’t. It’s a blank.

That’s never happened before.

I’ve started following them around, like a fucking detective, trying to crack the mystery of my obsession. So far I haven’t learned much.

On Saturday mornings they play basketball with their little brother.

They eat smoothies at lunch.

They always seem to be reading a dog-eared copy of Lord of the Flies.

Most days after school they hang with Rosie or a trio of cheerleaders. Sometimes they all go to the park near our house and get stoned. Or head to the Vernon library to do homework.

The only conclusion I’ve come to is that they are average. A teenage plebe.

Which makes it even more baffling that I can’t get them out of my head.

Today, Rosie’s staying after school to do some bullshit extra-credit project for Civics. The cheerleaders have practice. I’m hoping I can finally see what Naomi’s like alone.

I skipped last period. I’ve been sitting under the bleachers out by the football field smoking Marlboros and waiting. The bell rings. I watch students spill out from the main entrance like lab rats just released from a cage.

Suddenly, KennedyKelsieKyra is standing in front of me. “I thought I’d find you here,” she says, tugging at the bottom of my flannel shirt. “My mom’s working the night shift. You could come over and get high.”

I spot Naomi unlocking their bike. Their skate deck sticks out of the top of their backpack. I tell KennedyKelsieKyra that I gotta go. “I’ll text you later,” I say, stubbing out my cigarette in the dirt. It’s a lie. Or maybe it isn’t. I dunno.

Naomi hops on their bike and takes off east, toward town. I follow far enough behind so they can’t see me. They ride at top speed, weaving around cars, sliding through stoplights. A daredevil, I think. Maybe they have a death wish. Now that would be interesting.

Naomi makes a quick left into downtown Vernon. It’s several blocks of overly cutesy stores and cafés. It looks like every stupid town Mom moves us to.

Vernon’s bustling. People running errands. Meeting for lattes. I stop near a park and watch as Naomi chains their bike up on a rack across the street from the skate shop. It’s called the Shred Shack, which is a fucking embarrassing name. But, whatever, I’m not the owner.

I hang back until Naomi enters the store. Then I post up in the side alley, light a Marlboro, trying to look inconspicuous as I watch them through a window. Naomi heads to the back counter and hands their deck to the clerk. He’s a cliché of a cliché—in his forties, neck tattoos, a beanie, a Black Flag shirt. He and Naomi do some complicated handshake before he changes out the wheels on their deck. I bet Naomi goes to the Shred Shack all the time. I bet they feel like it’s home. I start to think maybe I’ve made Naomi mysterious when they’re not.

Naomi pays and exits the store. I hop back on my bike, cigarette dangling from my lips, and head out, narrowly missing a twentysomething chick on her cellphone. “Watch where you’re fucking going!” she screams. I give her the finger and peel off after Naomi, who I’m about to lose. They’ve just made a left at the stoplight. I assume they’re heading to the skate park. But then, to my surprise, they take a hard right onto one of the paved trails that leads into the woods.

I stop, count to ten, then follow. I want to be far enough behind that they can’t hear my bike wheels crunching over dry leaves.

When I turn down the trail, it’s empty. What the hell? Where are they? I pedal slowly, my eyes scanning the trees. The sun is setting. The sky looks like it’s on fire. I wonder if I lost Naomi. I wonder why the fuck I’m following them to begin with. I wonder if I should go home, when—

Naomi jumps out of a grove of trees, their deck raised like a weapon. “Why the fuck were you following me?”

I stop my bike so fast I almost fall off. “Answer me, creeper.” They swing the deck back farther. I can’t tell if it’s an actual threat, or if they’re just feigning violence. I should grab it from them. Throw them down to the ground. Strangle the life out of them. But being this close to Naomi makes me feel hot and cold at the same time. Like my head is too big for my body. It’s hard to focus.

“Why do you hate me?” The words slide out of my mouth like they aren’t mine. Like I’m someone who’s insecure and desperate.

Naomi’s face suddenly drips with disgust. Fuck, I wish I could take it back, but it’s too late. “Follow me again and my dad’ll come after you. He’s a fucking cop,” they say and then head into the grove toward their bike.

I know I should go home. But I can’t. I need to know why Naomi’s burrowed into the back of my brain. I drop my bike and follow. “Hey!” I grab their arm.

“Let go of me!” Naomi wriggles in my grasp. But I won’t let go. I can’t let go.

“Why are you in my head? Get out of my fucking head!” I’m screaming and holding on to Naomi’s arm as tight as I can.

“Let go of me! I didn’t do anything!” Their voice is high-pitched, scared. They’re yanking their arm, trying to get out of my grip. But I’m stronger. I pull them close. “Please just tell me why I can’t stop thinking about you!” My voice is almost a growl. For a split second all I can hear is the two of us panting, inches away from each other. Then Naomi kicks me hard in the shins. I crumple into the leaves, letting go of their arm.

“Please, just tell me.” I scramble after them. I reach out my arm. I grab. I get nothing but air. I’ve never acted this way in my life. Desperate. Out of control. I’m disgusted with the way I’m acting, but I can’t make myself stop. It’s like I’m no longer in control of my own body.

To my surprise, Naomi kicks me again, this time in the gut. Hard. The pain is a white-hot bomb. It travels down my arms and legs like lightning. I should want Naomi to stop. But I don’t.

“Do it again,” I say. Naomi looks down at me, confused. “Hit me again!” I grab at Naomi, trying to bait them. They look like they might turn and run home. But then they push me down on the ground and mount me. Their fists fly, pummeling me as hard as they can. Their rings slice my cheek, bust open my lips, shred my eyebrow. Blood’s gushing down my face. Everything hurts, but I don’t tell them to stop. I want this. I like this.

I like being Naomi’s prey.

There’s a look in their eye. A look that feels familiar, but I can’t quite place it. They lick the blood from my face. One long swipe of their tongue up my cheek. The minute they swallow, their face changes, as if the taste of me woke them up. They stand up quickly. Their legs are wobbly. They glance down at their knuckles, which are bruised and covered in my blood. For a brief second, they look horrified at what they’ve done. “Never speak to me again,” they say, their voice shaking. I wonder if this is the first time Naomi’s done something like this. They seem surprised by their own capacity for violence.

I watch Naomi get on their bike and ride away. I could get up, but I don’t. I lie on the ground, the wet earth at my back, and watch the sun disappear behind the trees. Even though every part of me hurts, I feel alive. Like I’ve been sleeping my whole life and today I finally woke up.

Rosie

When I get home, it’s already dark outside. Mom’s sitting at the kitchen table, staring at her phone. I throw my backpack on the couch and tell her that my Biology teacher couldn’t believe how delicately I dissected the frog in class. “She thinks I have the hands of a surgeon, and that med school is definitely the right path for me.”

Mom nods her head. Asks if I’ve seen Sam. “I told him I needed to talk to him right after school.”

Ugh. Of course she’s only thinking about my brother. I wanna scream, God, I wish I took up as much space in your brain as Sam does! But Mom’d just grab my hand, beg me to be the good kid. I’d end up feeling guilty. So, instead, I shrug.

I wonder if Naomi’s life is like this. If everything revolves around their brothers. Carolyn’s an only child. I was always jealous of that. If it was just me and Mom, there would be less worrying. We’d never have to cover up murders. We’d never have to leave. There’d be no good kid or bad kid. There’d just be me.

“What are we having for dinner?” I ask. Mom says she hasn’t thought about it. Of course. There’s a bloody cooler in the sink, so clearly Mom thought about what she and Sam will be eating. “If I starve to death, it’s your fault.”

She doesn’t even flinch. Her head is buried in her phone. She’s probably texting Sam. I sigh loudly and hunt through the fridge for leftovers. There’s some sad lo mein and a little fried rice. I’m gonna eat it cold in my room so she feels bad.

I barely make it down the hall when I hear the front door open and close.

Mom screams, “What the fuck did you do?” My chest feels tight. Mom only screams when Sam messes up. Part of me wants to get under the covers and pretend none of this is happening. That I have a normal brother. But I know it’s like futile to hide. In ten minutes, Mom will bust into my room and tell me to pack my stuff. So instead, I head into the living room. Maybe I can convince her we don’t have to leave.

Sam’s standing by the couch. His jacket’s ripped. He’s covered in dirt and leaves. His face is swollen. There’s dried blood under his nose and across his chin. His eyes are all glassy and weird, like those paintings of people who’ve just seen God. I’m stunned. Sam’s usually never hurt after a kill. Sure, he may have some scratches if there’s a struggle, but he’s always been weirdly strong. Mom too. It’s part of their genetic abnormality or whatever.

“What did you do? Tell me what you did!” Mom is shaking Sam. He just gives in to it. No excuses. No fake tears. He lets her jerk him back and forth, like a stuffed animal caught in a dog’s jaw.

“Mom…” She doesn’t hear me. She grabs a notebook out of her purse and shoves it in Sam’s face. The cover is dog-eared. Its pages are crinkled. I can’t see what it says.

Sam looks down at his own chicken scratch. “I just wanted them out of my head,” he whispers.

I know he’s talking about Naomi. I know. The back of my throat feels slick like I’m gonna be sick. “What did you do to them? Did you eat them?”

Mom whirls around. “Go to your room, Rosie.”

“No. I deserve to know,” I growl. I’ve never growled at my mom. I’ve never growled period. Mom tells me to go back to my fucking room. Her face is red. Her mascara’s smeared. I’m the good kid, I’m scared of her, so I do what she says. When I get back to my room, I have a bunch of texts from Naomi. WHERE R U. CALL ME. CALL ME. CALL ME.

I’m so fucking relieved I start to cry. Big sobs that shake my whole body. I feel like a leaf in a storm. I don’t care what my mom does to my brother. I just want to see my friend. I just want to see Naomi.

—

I meet them by the creek near their house. “I beat the shit outta your brother,” they say, pulling their hands from the water. Their knuckles are as swollen as my brother’s face.

Sam’s never been beaten up. Ever. “How?” I ask, shocked.

Naomi shrugs and plunges their fists back into the water. “He was stalking me. I had to fucking do something about it.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, hoping they won’t stop being friends with me. “My brother, he’s…”

“You’re not like your brother. I can’t believe you’re twins.”

“Me either.”

They shove their knuckles in my direction. “Think my mom’ll notice these? She’ll go ballistic if she thinks I was in a fight.”

“You could tell her you got attacked by a pit bull.”

“Your brother’s more like a schnauzer.”

I laugh. So does Naomi. Hard. Tears rolling down our faces. They don’t know we’re laughing for different reasons. They don’t know I’m laughing because I’m relieved. They don’t know what my brother is capable of. They don’t know how lucky they are to be alive.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” I say.

Naomi nods, wipes the tears away with the cuff of their sweatshirt, then plunges their fists back into the creek. “Will you wait here with me until the swelling goes down?”

“Yeah, of course.” I sit down next to them. The ground is cold. It makes me feel alert and alive. I want to always feel this way.

“I think your brother liked being hit.”

I’m shocked. That doesn’t sound like Sam. He might be quiet. But he’s always been a predator. Not prey. “I’m sorry he’s such a ghoul.”

“I think he needs therapy.”

“Yeah.”

“Or prison.”

“Yeah.” We’re quiet for a second. I can hear Naomi breathing. I wonder what their heartbeat feels like. Or how warm their skin would feel against my cheek.

“Do you think he’s gonna tell your mom what happened?”

I shrug.

“I just don’t want her to be mad at me. Or tell you we can’t hang out anymore.”

I glance over at them. They’re sitting cross-legged, staring down at their bruised hands. God, I wanna kiss them so bad. I wanna feel what their lips taste like. I wanna run my hands through their hair. Instead, I tell them she’s not that kind of mom.

Naomi glances up. “Can I tell you a secret?”

I nod. Kinda afraid of what they’re gonna say.

“It felt good when I was hitting your brother. Not because I wanted to hurt him specifically. It just felt good to hit. So good it scared me. Like if I hadn’t consciously stopped myself, I would’ve ripped him apart until he was nothing.”

I nod. I feel like I should say that I get it, but I don’t. I mean, I get wanting to hit Sam. But I don’t get wanting to destroy. It’s why I wanna be a doctor someday. I want to fix people, not tear them apart. I’m quiet for a beat. There’s an owl nearby that keeps hooting. The wind rustles through the trees. The temperature dropped in the last few days. I can feel the cold air turning my cheeks red.

“Thanks for not being weird about any of this,” Naomi says.

“Of course.” My phone vibrates in the pocket of my coat. It’s probably my mom. I bet she realized I left. I bet she wants me to come home. I ignore it, even though I know she’ll be pissed.

Naomi scootches closer to me. I get this warm, swimmy feeling way down deep in my stomach like something’s gonna happen between us. Like maybe they’ll kiss me.

Naomi dunks their knuckles back in the creek. “It’s pretty cool Brayden offered to take us to that party on Halloween, right?” Oh shit. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe they’re not interested in me. Maybe they’re interested in Brayden. I desperately wanna know what the deal is with him. But I shouldn’t ask. I shouldn’t. I—

“What’s…like…the deal with you and Brayden?” The minute I say it, I regret it. I stuff my hands in the pockets of my coat and look up at the moon, hoping it will swallow me.

Naomi laughs. “He’s been like cool about all my gender stuff. A lotta guys wouldn’t be. Besides, he got his license. The less my stupid mom drives me around, the better.” They pull their knuckles out of the creek and flex them a few times. “Why?”

I shrug, trying to look cool, but I can feel myself making a weird face. I try to make it unweird. I’m not sure if I’m successful. My phone starts buzzing again. I ignore it.

Naomi moves closer. Shoves their hands in my lap. “Do they still look swollen?”

I don’t want this moment to end, so I lie. “Yeah.” The air between us is different than it ever has been. Charged. Like if I touched it with the tip of my finger, I’d get a shock that ripples through my whole body.

Naomi glances back out at the creek. I can hear their breath.

In and out.

In and out.

“I hate your brother, but I also feel bad for him. Is that weird?”

I shake my head no. I’ve waited my whole life to have someone understand how complicated it is to be Sam’s sister. I put my arm around Naomi. They lean their head on my shoulder. I shiver, even though their body is warm. It must be the electricity. It’s inside me now. I can feel it. I am a sparkler on the Fourth of July. A four-alarm brushfire off the interstate. A star being born into the blackness of the universe.

“Maya…” Naomi says.

My heart is racing. It might burst out of my chest. I look down at them and…

They kiss me.

Just like that. Their lips are warm and soft and taste like cherry ChapStick. Their swollen hands cradling my face. We kiss and kiss and kiss.

I can feel the electricity flowing from me to them.

Me and Naomi, we are electric.

We are electric.

We are.

Talia

After Sam finally confesses, I wash his wounds and dress them. He’s so still and quiet. It feels like I’m dressing the dead. Rosie is nowhere to be found. Her window is open. Her bike is gone. I assume she went to find Naomi. I call her once. Twice. No answer. I leave her an angry voicemail. COME HOME NOW. Then I sauté the liver I stole from work with a little garlic and butter and split it between me and Sam. I cut Sam’s meat into small bites like I did when he was a child. He eats slowly. His mouth hurts.

I stare at Sam, wondering if I should’ve strangled him as a baby. Life would be easier if he didn’t exist. The minute I have the thought, I feel terrible. He didn’t ask to be born. He deserves some honesty.

As we eat, I tell Sam that Naomi’s family is like us. “I think the animal part of your brain sensed that you two were the same.”

Sam stops eating. His fork hovers above the plate. “There are others?” he asks, his voice shaking.

“I’m just as surprised as you are.” He searches my face to see if I’m telling the truth. I’m not. We’re suddenly sitting in front of a can of worms that I don’t want to open. I should’ve thought this through. My whole life is a series of knee-jerk decisions that I regret later. My son and I aren’t that different.

I keep talking. I want to distract him. “Naomi doesn’t know what they are. You can’t tell them.”

“Why?” Sam asks.

“Their parents don’t want them to know.”

“I’m so lonely, Mom,” he says. There are tears in his eyes. I’m stunned. I never thought he cared about friends. He ate the only person in Fairview he hung out with.

“I know, Sam—”

“I’m so lonely,” he repeats, louder. His fork clatters against the plate.

“I know—”

“I’M SO LONELY! I’M SO LONELY, MOM! I’M SO FUCKING LONELY!!” Sam is standing now. He is screaming. He is banging his fists on the kitchen table. He is fifteen years of pent-up emotion exploding.

“Please, Sam. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” My heart is cracking in two. I am his mother. I should know how to make this better, but I don’t. Sam is weeping now. He is gripping the back of the chair. His shoulders are shaking. I want to hug him, but I’m not sure what he’ll do. “I’m sorry. But I need this to be our secret. If you tell Naomi, we will leave Vernon so fast your head will fucking spin off your neck. Do you understand me?” I am in his face. I am trying not to sound like I’m threatening him, but I am. Sam is my wild card. “Do you understand?” I ask again, softer this time. He looks up at me with sudden dead eyes. He nods. “I’m sorry.” I hug him, fiercely. He is limp in my arms. I am too late. The damage is done.

When I let go, he is the old Sam. Dry eyes. Closed off. “I’m going to my room,” he mumbles and then disappears down the hall.

I wish Jonah was here. Not because he’d be better at this than I am—maybe he wouldn’t—but it’d be nice not to be parenting alone in this tiny rental house that doesn’t feel like home. Nothing is home without Jonah.

I get under the kitchen table. I curl my knees up. I rest my head between them and close my eyes. I used to do this when I was little. Usually it happened when my mom and dad breezed in. They would be fun for a day or so. They would take me for ice cream. They would swing with me at the park. Then they’d get high and nod out on the couch. My gran would kick them out. A few weeks later the cycle would start all over again. One day they just never came back. A cop came to our house. I sat under the kitchen table and closed my eyes, trying to be somewhere else, but I still overheard him telling Gran they found my parents’ bodies in a squat a few blocks away. My gran didn’t cry. In fact, she seemed relieved. “You can’t force someone to love themselves,” she mumbled after the cop left. A few days later, she cremated the bodies herself. She said a little prayer and then spent the rest of the day smoking Capris and watching old repeats of Roseanne on Nick at Nite. It was my mom’s favorite show when she was little.

Tonight, I imagine being back in Philly at my gran’s mortuary. Sitting on the stool next to her as she embalmed a body, Stevie Nicks on the CD player, when—

I suddenly remember Rosie. I text her. GET YOUR ASS HOME NOW. Fuck. Fuck. I do this. I get consumed with Sam and forget about Rosie. I promise myself I will pay more attention to her. I call her. I leave a voicemail. It’s a blur of words. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled over text. I understand you were worried about your friend. I need you to come home.

In the quiet, my head starts to spin with all the things that are out of my control. Does Dee know what Sam did? Do I call her and try to get in front of it? And if I did, what the fuck would I say? Or do I just pack the kids up and run?

I go into my own room and dig through my dresser drawers, looking for the burner phone. I find it under some old T-shirts of Jonah’s that I stole from his parents’ house. His mother didn’t want me to have anything of his. She tore his Nirvana shirt off me the night after he died. “He wasn’t yours to take!” she screamed. Benny, Jonah’s father, pulled her off me. I was lying half-naked on the floor of their living room, my tits exposed, surrounded by shreds of the shirt. It was humiliating. The first in a series of humiliating things they did to me after Jonah died.

I stare at the burner. Am I overreacting? No. This thing with Sam and Naomi, it’s sticky. I can’t trust that he won’t tell them what they are. I can’t trust he won’t tell his sister what they are. I can’t have trouble with Dee and her family. So what if the Rodriguez-Elmwoods are like me? It doesn’t mean anything. The Armstrongs taught me that. I won’t make that mistake ever again.

I text Helen 741. I know I haven’t heard from her in weeks, but she always responds to an SOS. Always.

By tomorrow night we will be on our way to a new town.

New names.

A new life.

A fresh start.

Sam

The light in the bathroom is unforgiving. My face looks like a murder scene. There’s a giant bruise across my left cheek. My nose is broken. Both lips are swollen. I am exposed. I can’t hide anymore. I don’t have to pretend. For the first time ever, I look the way I feel inside.

I am lonely. I am lonely.

The words are on a loop in my brain. They are a whisper now instead of a scream. They are an earworm. A song stuck on repeat.

I am lonely. I am lonely.

They are a realization. A name for the hollowness I’ve always felt. I start laughing. What a fucking pedestrian feeling. I’m pedestrian. I’m not special. I’m a fucking lonely teenage boy who wants a friend. A friend who’s just like me.

There’s a cut across my left cheek. I dig my finger inside of it until the pain is the only thing I feel. I can hear Mom in her room. Pacing. She does that when she’s worried. She left all these voicemails for Rosie: “Where are you? I’m sorry. Come home.” She isn’t sorry about me. She isn’t worried about my feelings. She just expects me to accept the situation.

The front door opens and closes. It’s Rosie. The look on her face, as she walks past the bathroom, makes me wanna strangle her. She’s fucking glowing, like Christmas lights on a house in the middle of December. “Your friend’s a monster just like me.” The words just slip out of my mouth.

Rosie gives me the finger and keeps it moving. She must think I’m referring to the fact that Naomi beat me up. Whatever. She’ll find out soon enough. I’m gonna make sure of that. Not that I’m gonna tell Naomi what they are, that would be too easy. Too obvious. No fucking fun. Plus, blowing their family’s secret means we’ll have to move. I’m gonna bring the monster out of Naomi. Then they’ll be just like me. I’m not sure how I’m gonna do this, exactly, but what lurks inside them can’t live dormant forever, no matter how many shipments of human organs their parents order off the dark web.

Mom yells for me to come down to her bedroom. Rosie’s there, the glow replaced by anger. “This isn’t fair!” Rosie screams.

Mom’s sitting on the bed in her pajamas. Her bleached hair pulled up. I can see the roots. “Rosie, stop it! I need you two to pack. We’re leaving as soon as I hear back from Helen.” She’s all business. Her mom voice. The one that means she isn’t interested in a fight.

I don’t wanna leave. The thought startles me. Usually I don’t give a fuck. But I wanna stay in Vernon. I wanna stay near Naomi. They’re the only person who could possibly understand what it’s like to be me. I don’t wanna be alone.

Rosie insists that Naomi isn’t gonna tell their parents, but Mom doesn’t care. “I’ve made my decision,” she says.

Rosie turns to me. “You always ruin everything.” I stare at her blankly. She’s not wrong.

“Rosie.” Mom’s voice is tense. A rubber band about to snap.

“No, it’s true. I get dragged around the country because of the two of you. Things are going good here.”

“You’ll meet new friends in the next town. You always do.” Mom pulls out her phone, signaling the conversation is over.

“I’m not going,” Rosie proclaims.

Mom sighs. “Rosie.”

“I’m not going. You can’t freakin’ make me.”

“I’m not going either,” I say. Mom’s mouth slides open. So does Rosie’s. I’ve never weighed in on a move. Even the ones I didn’t cause.

“Sam…” Mom says it like she needs me to back her up. But I won’t.

“I’m not going.”

“Me either,” says Rosie.

“You’ll have to leave us here,” we say in unison, surprising us both. “We aren’t moving.” This isn’t a sign of change. Or growth in our relationship. I think my sister is as dumb as I did before; and I imagine she still hates me with a fire that could burn down a neighborhood. But for this one, brief moment, we are a united front. For this one, brief moment, we are twins.

Carolyn

Diego wants to go as Frankie and Ariana Grande for Halloween. I don’t really feel like doing Halloween. What’s the point of a night with fake monsters when there’s real ones like Jamie out there? Plus, I haven’t gotten a lot of sleep. Last night I was up till like three wondering if Margot knows what her brother did. Is that why she left? And did she and her mom go willingly? Like maybe he kidnapped them. Or maybe they’re all dead. In like a truly desperate moment, I tried calling her old number, but some old guy answered and screamed at me for waking him up.

I only say yes to Diego because deep down he really wants to go as Ariana. It makes me sad that he can’t be himself. I mean, he wears eyeliner and does his nails, and nobody really says all that much, but I can feel it in my bones that he wants more. I get his fear. Realizing you’re something different than you thought is startling. It’s not even like a butterfly chrysalis moment. It’s more like you thought you were a toucan and then realize you’re a fucking bear.

We go to Goodwill to look for costumes. Diego pulls a black blazer off the rack as he tells me his cousin heard the cops arrested Gary’s dad. “Everyone knew his home life was shit.” Diego slips on the blazer. “Apparently Gary’s dad was on a date at Sizzler the day after Gary disappeared. Who goes on a date after your kid disappears? Totally suspicious.”

I wonder if I was wrong about Jamie. No one seems to suspect him. I wonder if all my worrying was just what my stepmom, Janice, calls my “overactive imagination.” Something tells me it’s not. Janice would call that my “gut instinct.” “It’s the only thing a woman can trust.” She told me that after forcing me to take a self-defense class. Janice is crazy overprotective. Diego calls her my step-smother.

Diego’s twirling around in the mirror when LaShonda calls. My hands start to shake. Maybe this is it. Maybe she and Brett found Margot and her family.

“My stepmom’s calling,” I say. “I’ll be right back.” Diego rolls his eyes and then goes back to making duck lips in the mirror.

I answer the phone outside. “Hello?”

“Hey, kiddo,” LaShonda says. “Are you free to come by the office? There’s something I’d like to show you.” She sounds like she’s chewing on something. Not food, but a mysterious piece of information. I wonder what it is. My stomach knots. Like I feel it twist and then tighten. “You there?” she asks. I tell her I can stop by in like an hour. “Cool beans, kiddo,” she says. Click. I like that LaShonda calls me kiddo. It makes me feel like no matter what happens, LaShonda will keep me safe.

I tell Diego I have to go straight home because my stepmother’s pissed that I didn’t tell her where I was going. He takes my costume so his tía Benita can do alterations. “Our fits will be fierce!” he exclaims as we bike off in opposite directions.

Brett isn’t at the office when I arrive. LaShonda says he takes Taekwando every Tuesday. Of course he does. He probably tells people he’s training with a master from Korea, when in reality he’s taking classes at that place near the freeway with a bunch of nine-year-olds.

LaShonda tells me to sit. “Do you know anything about Margot’s extended family?”

“She didn’t have any,” I say.

LaShonda taps her pen against her cheek, mulling this over. “Would she lie?”

My head’s spinning. “I dunno. Maybe.” I wonder if I know Margot at all.

“Maybe this is nothing.” LaShonda passes a Vanity Fair across the desk. There’s a hot-pink Post-it sticking out of the top. She taps her pointer finger on the cover. Jack Skellington is painted on her nail. He’s winking at me. It makes me nauseous. Like he knows something bad is coming. “Page forty-six,” LaShonda says. “Again, maybe I’m crazy.” I flip to the page with the Post-it. It’s an article about some old lady. “Bottom right corner,” LaShonda says.

I glance down at a red-carpet picture from the early 2000s. The woman is standing with her arm around a teenage boy. He’s like thirteen or fourteen. He must be her son. He has long black hair and serious blue eyes. He’s got this weird squinty look on his face, like the world hurts. It’s the same look Jamie’s making in the photo I took of him. In fact, the boy in the photo looks exactly like Jamie. The blood drains out of my whole body. Like a flock of vampires just descended on the office and decided I was dinner.

“Did your friend ever mention her dad?”

“She said he was dead.” My voice sounds very far away. Like it’s in another room. “Who is this person?”

“His name is Jonah Armstrong. His mom, Vera, is a very famous fashion model. His dad was a big music producer. His sister won an Oscar a few years ago for that movie about World War II.”

“Oh yeah, my dad liked that movie.” He made me watch it with him. It was about a nurse who snuck Jews out of Berlin or something. I kept falling asleep cuz it was kinda boring. My dad said it was important to know about the past. He teared up at the end.

“I found these.” LaShonda pulls out copies of two birth certificates. One is for a girl named Rosie. The other is for a boy named Sam. Their mom is named Talia. They have her last name instead of their dad’s. “Your friend’s a twin, right?”

I nod.

“I did a little digging into Talia. I couldn’t find anything, but I did find an obituary for a woman who I think might be her grandmother.” LaShonda shows me another printout. It’s for Pearl Ann Beck, age sixty-two. She passed away in 2009 of heart failure. Pearl looks like a collage of Margot and her mom. Margot’s big round eyes. Her mom’s thin lips. Her mom’s high cheekbones.

“How did you find all this?” I ask.

LaShonda winks. “Can’t give away all my secrets.”

I glance back down at the file. Are Margot and Jamie really Rosie and Sam? Is their dad some model’s kid? Are they rich? And if they are, why were they living in Fairview under different names? Then, suddenly, it hits me: Maybe this isn’t the first time Jamie’s killed someone. Their mom was also kinda weird. Margot said she always favored Jamie. Maybe Margot’s mom knew Jamie murdered people. Maybe Margot was trapped. I feel my face go pale. LaShonda puts her hand on mine. “I know this is a lot to digest, Carolyn,” she says.

“Are you sure this is their family?”

“No. I’ve been trying to get ahold of this Vera. But she’s famous and you know how the famous are.”

I don’t but I nod my head anyway. “Is he still alive?” I ask, pointing to the supermodel’s son.

“Died from encephalitis fifteen years ago. Your friend and her brother would’ve been a few months old, if my math is correct.” LaShonda pulls out a manila envelope. “This is some research I did on the family. Articles. Those birth certificates.”

I stare at the picture in the magazine. “They look really rich. Why would you live here if you had that?”

“Everyone’s journey is different. I had a friend who married a man that owned a boat. She left him because he beat her. All the money in the world couldn’t make her stay.”

“Where is she now?” I ask.

“She lives in Miami. She’s a divorce attorney. She decided to devote her life to helping women like herself.”

I like that story. I like that it turned out well for LaShonda’s friend. I want to say it out loud, but my mouth’s suddenly a desert. So I just flash what feels like a weird smile.

“Look through the information in this packet. You know your friend better than I do. Let me know if anything sticks out and I’ll follow it up with an investigation.”

“Where do they live?”

“New York City, why?”

I feel a plan developing in the very back of my brain. It’s scary and wild and crazy. Like the time Diego convinced me to sneak outside during the tornado warning. We stood under the green-gray sky. Diego put his arms out, hoping the wind would pick him up so he could know, even if only for a second, what it feels like to fly. I was too afraid. In fact, I was relieved when my stepmom came out and grabbed us both.

I put my hand in my pocket and rub Jamie’s drawing between my thumb and forefinger. I quietly promise myself that this time I will put my arms out and let the wind take me, no matter how terrified I am.

Talia

I’m embalming a sixty-seven-year-old man who died of congestive heart failure. I’m carefully washing his body. I’m making sure the dirt is out from under his fingernails. I’m cleaning his teeth. The speaker blasts Bauhaus, but all I can hear are my own thoughts. A list of worries cycling through my brain, getting louder and louder the more I try to ignore them. I haven’t heard from Helen. We can’t move without her. She is our only avenue of escape. Sure, the kids will be happy. They’ll think their little stunt is the reason we’re staying. But they’re not in charge of this family. I am.

I glance at the burner again. Nothing. Did the Armstrongs find Helen? And if they did, who do we turn to now? Do I tell Dee about our past? Can we trust her?

What do I do?

I stare down at the body. “What would you do?” His dead eyes stare back. “Goddammit,” I whisper. The man’s funeral isn’t until tomorrow, so I cover him with a sheet. Then I lock up the mortuary.

—

The bar is in the next town over. It’s the kind of place where you can play darts or pool and order chicken wings and a bucket of Corona Lights. There’s a jukebox that’s playing Incubus. It’s not my scene, but that’s what I want. I want to be someone else.

I don’t want to think about Dee or Naomi or Helen or the Armstrongs or Rosie or Sam. Nothing can ever be simple or easy, can it? Of all the goddamn towns we move to, it’s one with other cannibals. Of all the people in this goddamn town, of course Rosie makes friends with their kid. Rosie’s just like her dad; she hates what we are, but she will never get away from it.

I order a Jameson and a burger from the bartender. I probably won’t eat or drink much. I’m here to fuck someone. It’s something I’ve done on occasion since Jonah died. I had a boyfriend once, Nate. It was years and years ago. Back when I thought that we needed someone to protect us. He didn’t know what we were. But he knew something was off.

Rosie and Sam hated him. Not for any specific reason. They just weren’t interested in a father figure. That’s my fault. It’s always been the three of us. I left him to watch the kids one night when I got called into work at the last minute. When I came home, Rosie was hiding in her room. I found Sam in the back shed, his face buried in Nate’s open chest cavity. He looked up at me, blood dripping down his chin. “I didn’t know how else to get rid of him, Mommy.”

There’s a guy at the end of the bar who keeps glancing over at me. He’s nursing a beer, one eye on the game that’s playing on the flatscreen. He’s got a real carpenter vibe—beard, flannel shirt, baseball cap—which isn’t my type. It doesn’t matter. I’m not looking for a life partner. I smile at him and then go back to my drink. Moments later he’s on the barstool next to me, introducing himself.

“Hi, I’m Chris.”

“Liz.”

“You live around here?”

“Nope. I’m in from out of town. Visiting my sister.”

Chris nods, taking this in. “How long you here for?”

“Just until tomorrow, then I fly back to Ohio.”

“So, you’re looking for one last night of fun?”

“Sure. My sister’s got two little kids. She wasn’t up for going out. Besides, you know, family’s better in theory.”

Chris chuckles. “Cheers to that.” We clink glasses.

Later, I’m in the cab of his truck straddling him. We’re parked at the far end of the lot, away from the streetlights, in a pocket of shadow. The windows are fogged. My dress is up around my waist. My underwear is on the passenger seat. Chris is gripping my hips as I grind against him. His breath is hot on my neck. He’s got Metallica on the radio. I feel like I’m in high school.

I press my forehead against his, kissing him roughly. He tastes of the Camel Lights we smoked outside the bar as we danced around the inevitable.

“Bite me,” Chris says suddenly and out of nowhere.

“Huh?”

“Bite me hard,” he says, “wherever you want. Please. I like pain.”

“I don’t…” I mumble, trying to get out of the request. I hoped this encounter would be vanilla. I hoped it would be pure escape.

“I can’t come unless you do it.”

I sink my teeth into his shoulder, hoping that will be enough.

“Harder,” he says.

I do it. I know I shouldn’t, but I do it. His flesh is tangy. The back of my throat starts to water. I am suddenly dizzy.

“Harder,” he says again, his voice barely a whisper.

Now I can taste blood in my mouth. My heart races. I’m gripping him with a strength that I forgot I had. I wonder how bad one little nibble would be. Would he even notice? And if I did it, if I tasted him, would I be able to stop? I can feel my teeth sinking further and further into him when—

Suddenly, Chris’s body starts to shake as he emits a strangled groan. For a split second, I wonder if I bit too hard. If I killed him. But I didn’t. He grins. “That was great.” I’m having a hard time finding words as I slide off him. His blood is still on my lips. A thousand alarms are going off in my body.

He pulls the condom off and throws it out the window. Then he inspects the damage to his shoulder. The skin is broken. “Damn, girl,” he says, turning to me. I already have my coat on. I’m stuffing my underwear in my pocket.

“I should go…My kids…” I mumble, fiddling for the door handle.

“Kids?” he asks, confused.

“I meant my sister. This was fun.” I am out the door. I am running across the parking lot toward my own car. I am letting the cold air burn my lungs in big, violent gulps. I am fumbling for my keys in my purse and when I am inside my car I scream and scream and scream because sometimes I hate what I am. What Sam is. What we are.

8

Vera

The Vanity Fair article has brought an avalanche of opportunity: brand collaborations, interview requests, television appearances. I should be basking in the attention, but my grief over Martin’s recent passing and what his death means to the legacy of this family has overshadowed any joy I have in my career. I know I should give up looking for the kids, but Celeste’s harassment is in overdrive.

She’s everywhere. At the other end of the breakfast table, eating half a melon and cottage cheese. Lounging in the bath as I do my makeup. She is in the back of the SUV, glaring at me. She is clinging to the ceiling at Moncler. She is lying across the desk at my publicist’s office. She is at the bottom of my martini at Bemelmans.

In times of strife, I indulge in a ritual that I started after Jonah died. Once a month, I’m Mary. I put on a pair of discount jeans and a worn sweatshirt. A shaggy blond wig I wore one Halloween. I drive Benny’s ancient Saab to the Shadybrook Mall in New Jersey. Duran Duran on the radio as the Saab chugs down the turnpike. It’s the only time I’m alone. No assistants. No housekeeper. No children. And most importantly, no Celeste. At the mall, I’m an escapee from my own complicated existence.

I always park near the main entrance. I like to savor that first step into the mall. The blast of cool air. The shine of the linoleum floor. The scent of Cinnabon and shoe leather. The hum of shoppers. I spend an hour or two roaming. Pretending I’m just like the women I disdain. The women like Talia. The women I grew up around. Moms wearing capri pants from Old Navy, promising themselves they’ll stop eating pizza rolls and start using their Peloton. I finish up my loop and land at the pièce de résistance. The reason I make these pilgrimages. My happy place.

Bath & Body Works.

The one place on earth where eucalyptus spearmint mingles with mahogany teakwood. Jenny, the shop girl, waves. She started a year or so ago. She’s twenty-six. She wears body glitter in daylight and has nails like claws. A thick waist. Muscular thighs. Firm breasts. Sometimes I wonder what she tastes like. To be transparent, I wonder what everyone tastes like the first time I meet them. I bet Jenny tastes like an Easter ham.

Jenny lets me use her friends and family discount. Not that I need it. But it’s rare that people in this world are kind for no reason.

She immediately pulls me over to their new stock of candles. This is why I’m here. Since Jonah’s death I’ve cultivated a side hobby collecting candles. Le Labo and Dior make superior items, but the candles at Bath & Body Works remind me of the scents my father used to burn when I was a kid—sickly sweet and overpowering. When I’m done at the mall, I will head to my storage unit and I’ll burn my candle while listening to the Rolling Stones. My father loved the Rolling Stones. I’ll sway to Mick Jagger in my shaggy blond wig and think about how I left the one person who truly loved me.

No one else in my circle knows about my little Jersey sojourn, not even Martin. They would be baffled by the storage unit filled with thousands of candles. I always overbuy. Holiday themed. Special editions. Discontinued scents. The storage unit reminds me of Toledo. I don’t want anyone to ruin that.

Jenny leads me over to a Halloween display. Candles with scents like Ghoul Friend and Pumpkin Peanut Brittle. I close my eyes and inhale, savoring the hints of cinnamon, golden nectar, and lightly toasted marshmallow. I take one of each. Jenny tells me about her daughter’s dance recital. In any other situation I’d be annoyed by some store clerk droning on about their personal life. But I like Jenny.

She tells me she has a shift break. Would I like to go for a coffee? We have coffee at the Starbucks in the food court on occasion. She tells me about the assholes she dates. Complains about her co-workers. Her money problems. I listen and offer up advice without revealing too much about myself.

Today is different. Today Jenny leans over her mochaccino with whip and whispers, “I know who you are.” My stomach tightens as she flashes a picture of me in Vanity Fair. Jenny says she reached out to a reporter from one of those gossip websites. “I can make a fistful of cash selling what I know about you. Fancy celebrity dressing up to go to the mall. Hoarding candles. Fucking sad and embarrassing.” She’s even got pictures. Me, looking frumpy. Arms full of candles. I can see the headlines: “From Supermodel to Sad Sack,” “Aging Beauty Shops in Bargain Bin.” Any interest I’ve garnered from the Vanity Fair spread will be gone. There’ll be questions about my sanity. Accusations of drug use. Paparazzi outside of the house. The rest of the Armstrongs will surely be up in arms. I’ll no longer be a secret blight, but a public one. They may even try to take the house, my money away from me. All while Jenny cashes in.

I stare at my hands. Maybe it was my expensive gel manicure that betrayed me.

“What do you want?” I make my voice low, hollow. Jenny is too simple, too greedy to see that I’m a predator pretending to be prey.

Jenny slurps up the last bit of her drink, flashes a self-satisfied smile. “Give me more than the fifty grand they’re offering and your secret’s safe.” I nod slowly as if I’m thoughtfully considering her offer. I’m not. I contemplate calling the Armstrong family fixer. He’s made things like this go away in the past. Mostly Ethan’s indiscretions. But something dares me to take care of Jenny myself. I know she has kids. I know what that means. I know.

I never said I was a good person.

“I don’t have that kind of money on me,” I say. “You can come by the house. I’ll have my assistant schedule a time.”

Joaquin

I spend one whole frustrating week trying to crack the encryption code on Williams’s laptop. I’m surprised at the level of security on his computer. Maybe I shouldn’t be. Maybe he wasn’t just an old drunk. I am considering trashing the computer, abandoning my revenge altogether, when Jie casually mentions to me that her ex is a hacker. She’s still the only person I’ve told about the laptop. It’s been months since I lost my position at the lab. My job search has produced nothing but crickets. I can feel myself on the verge of fully unraveling. Stealing the computer gave me permission to dip back into my old ways. I’m drinking more. Getting stoned. Shoplifting at Duane Reade like I own the place. My work ethic, my career, my steady measured life feels like it’s slipping away. This computer, Ethan’s offer, they feel like the last hope to salvage my career in genetics. Jie understands that. Unlike the rest of my ex-cohort, Jie feels like a friend.

Jie’s ex is different from what I expected. He’s a big Filipino guy with a shock of dyed red hair and a Doom Generation T-shirt. He cracks jokes about how I have the pallor of a corpse and calls me Puerto Rican Clark Kent. He makes Jie laugh in this way that I’d never heard before. Hearty. Low. I suddenly realize that even though I’ve spent up to twelve hours a day standing next to her in the lab, I know very little about Jie’s personal life. She knows very little about mine. I was wrong. We aren’t friends. We’re co-workers who sometimes hang out. We’re not even co-workers anymore. We’re people who know each other.

That feels sad.

Jie’s ex opens all the files on Williams’s computer in twenty-five minutes for a six-pack of craft beer, a few tabs of molly, and the promise that Jie will get him unbanned from the bar in Greenpoint where her best friend works. After he leaves, I ask her how they met. She says they’re both members of a rock-climbing meetup. “We’re way better as friends.”

“I went to juvie when I was fifteen for stealing a car,” I say out of nowhere. “I spent six months there.”

Jie nods. “Oh wow. Why’re you telling me this?”

The air is suddenly thick with awkwardness, as if I’ve inadvertently revealed to her how far I’ve unraveled. “I just feel like I learned a lot about you in the last half hour; it’s only fair you know something about me.”

Jie smiles. I can’t tell if it’s genuine or if she pities me. I don’t think my fragile ego could handle the latter. “Cool,” she says. “Thanks for sharing that.”

It takes almost the whole weekend for us to go through all the files. I instruct her to mark anything that has to do with the Armstrongs.

Jie goes pale. Like she’s seen a ghost. “Why the Armstrongs?”

“I met Ethan at the wake. He thought I was Williams’s assistant. He offered to let me take over whatever project Williams was conducting for them in his private lab. I can’t take him up on the offer if I don’t know what the offer is.” Her hands start to shake. “Is something wrong?”

Suddenly she’s fine, like water turned off from a spout. “Let’s dig in.”

We sit shoulder to shoulder, staring at the laptop screen until it feels like our eyeballs will jump out of our fucking heads. On breaks, we talk about high school and undergrad. She tells me about her sister who’s had cancer three times. I tell her about April, my best friend from high school, who feared that someday she’d die of Huntington’s just like her mom did. We don’t say it out loud, but these are the reasons we got into genetics.

I get used to Jie’s smell in a way I hadn’t before. I notice her little quirks: how she constantly pushes her glasses up when she’s reading, how she hums to herself, how she rubs several strands of her hair between her fingers. I guess in the lab I was always so busy with my own work, too worried about what Williams thought of me to think about anyone else.

We drink cheap beer and eat takeout from the Thai restaurant at the end of my block. At the end of the night, we get high and she tells me stories about bouncing around Europe as a military brat. In exchange, I reveal my litany of teenage crimes. Her eyes go wide; she can’t imagine me doing anything illegal.

I feel like we are friends.

Jie buys a cheap printer at the Staples on 125th Street. We print out every file on the computer and organize them in stacks around my tiny living room. Bank statements. Research documents. Emails dating back to the early 2000s. We highlight relevant-looking information and make color-coded notes on Post-its, like lawyers going through a deposition. Jie organizes all the relevant information into a single document on my computer.

The Armstrongs were paying Williams a hefty sum each month from an offshore account.

Williams paid all cash for his estate. We assumed the money, again, came from the Armstrongs. Most likely as a home for the private lab in the basement of the main house.

We found a series of tests (1995–2006) done on Vera Armstrong, Benjamin Armstrong, and Jonah Armstrong. Blood tests, genetic markers, etc. There were no tests done on Gabrielle or Ethan.

There were stacks of shipping orders for high-end lab equipment when the lab was upgraded in 2009 and then again in 2017. I thought it was impossible to order that kind of stuff if you weren’t part of a recognized research or academic institution. But Jie says with enough money you can buy anything. It’s all better quality than what we have at Columbia. In fact, the equipment feels akin to what I observed when I visited the National Human Genome Research Institute at the NIH in Bethesda.

Every single test was administered by Williams. Every single document was written by Williams. He had no lab technicians or even an assistant associated with this project. It was also the only side project conducted in the home lab. To say this is suspicious is an understatement.

We couldn’t find an architectural blueprint for the lab, but there was documentation of an upgraded ULPA filtration system sometime in the mid-aughts, which could mean that one of the rooms was used for gene therapy, but why was the question.

“Maybe we should break into his lab? I used to be good at that sort of thing.” I’m kidding on the square.

Jie looks up from her work, a ballpoint pen that she’s furiously chewed hangs from her mouth like a cigarette. “Didn’t you say you went to juvie?”

“Yeah, so?”

“So you weren’t that good.”

“Touché.”

“I’m willing to help you. I’m not willing to go to jail.”

Jie’s always been dogged in her pursuit of answers. It’s what makes her such a great scientist. I, on the other hand, get derailed by doubt. I can feel it creeping in. It makes my already small Harlem apartment feel even smaller. “I’m gonna go for a walk,” I say.

I walk through my neighborhood, suddenly overwhelmed by despair. I’ve worked so hard to become a better me, only to have it taken away by a man who isn’t even alive anymore. Tears run down my face. It’s the first time I’ve cried since Williams fired me.

“What the fuck am I doing?” I say to no one. A dog walker with two shih tzus gives me a pitying look. I decide that when I get back, I will tell Jie to abort the mission. I will call my dad. I will move back to Delaware. I will become a science teacher.

When I enter the apartment, Jie is sitting in the middle of the living room, an entire stack of papers spread out on the floor in front of her. She’s staring at them like they’re a body at a crime scene.

“I called you like six times,” she says.

“I left my phone here. Look, Jie—”

She thrusts several papers into my face. I page through them. Research logs with phrases highlighted, like “previously undocumented germline mutation,” “codon variant G127V,” and “compulsive ingestion of Homo sapiens.”

“What the hell…” I whisper under my breath.

“They’re fucking genetic cannibals,” Jie exclaims. There is a look of terror on her face.

My brain is spinning uncontrollably, like the Earth off its axis hurtling through space. I’ve read about genetic disorders that express themselves through selective or compulsive eating: Prader-Willi syndrome and ornithine transcarbamylase deficiency, to name a few. I’ve read about cannibalism in nature. I’ve read about tribes in other countries consuming humans in ritual sacrifice. I’ve read about the Donner party. I’m even aware of G127V, the mutation of the PRNP gene at codon-127 that the Armstrongs have. It’s a single-point mutation in the human prion protein that prevents certain people from getting kuru—a neurodegenerative disease derived from eating human meat. But I have never heard of anyone being a genetic cannibal. A human who needs the meat of other humans to survive. To say my mind is blown is a fucking understatement. This is huge for genetics. A massive discovery.

“Say something,” Jie says, her hands shaking again.

“You think Williams was trying to cure them?”

“I think,” Jie says, passing me another stack of printouts, “that their son Jonah did not share the genetic disorder. See here and here?” She points to a set of test results. “He’s a carrier but he didn’t express the disease. This,” she says, pulling out a pedigree diagram, “is the rest of the family. They all express the disease. From what I can deduce, Williams was developing a gene therapy to cure Jonah of his normalness. I’m not sure what the trajectory of events was exactly, but Jonah died in 2011.”

“Of what?”

Jie shrugs.

“Ethan said that the project was still happening…Wait a second.” I suddenly remember something I saw earlier. A series of tests that I didn’t think were important. I pull them from a stack on the couch. “There are grandkids. Or Jonah had kids. The girl is normal just like he was.”

Jie has a faraway look in her eye, like she’s putting the pieces of something together. She sits down on the couch. “What?” I ask.

“When I was an undergrad at NYU, my roommate Amanda Richardson accused Ethan Armstrong of assaulting her. It was big news. Front page of The Post. Soon after, she left a note in our room that said the publicity was too much stress and she was jumping into the East River. They never found her body.”

Now I understand the odd look on her face when she spotted the Armstrongs at the funeral. Why her hands shook when I told her I met Ethan at the wake. “You think Ethan Armstrong ate your roommate—”

“I know it sounds insane—”

“—And then they covered it up as a suicide?”

“The publicity got to her, but Amanda wasn’t suicidal. The note, jumping into the East River, it never sat right with me. But I was a freshman…” I sit down on the couch next to her. “One night when she was really drunk, she told me what happened with Ethan after she left the club. ‘It felt like he wanted to consume me,’ she said. I always thought she meant rape, but now…”

I put my hand on hers, hoping it’s the right move, hoping it makes her feel better. She grabs her purse and pulls out a tiny pistol. “I got this after Amanda died,” she says. I’m shocked. “People like that have ‘fuck you’ money. They can do anything they want. I bet the Armstrongs have eaten hundreds of Amandas. The only way to protect yourself is to kill them first.”

I mull this over, the moral complication of it. Jie is right. I worked as a busser one summer at Cipriani in SoHo. I used to think that if the apocalypse came, the clientele would have no bones about going all Donner party on the staff. I guess I was right. “So, what do you want to do? Go to the cops?” I ask, genuinely, but even I don’t know if it’s the right answer.

“It won’t do any good. These people are rich. They’re dangerous. I think we should leave it alone. Move on with our lives.”

“I don’t have a life to move on to. I’m a leper in genetics.”

Jie gives me a pitying look. “He’s dead. In six months no one will remember what he said about you.”

I want to tell Jie that I don’t have six months. I barely had enough for rent this month. But I get the impression she won’t understand. I know her parents have money. Not Armstrong money, but enough to keep her afloat if she needs it. So I nod, tell her she’s probably right. “Plan B it is,” I say.

“Let’s grab a beer this week. Hopefully I’ll know who’s taking over Williams’s position. I can fill you in on all the drama,” Jie says before taking off. It suddenly feels like the last few days were a fever dream. Once again, Jie and I are just people who grab a beer.

The money I could get from the Armstrongs would be a lifesaver. I’d be doing what I love and working on something potentially groundbreaking. I bet Amin wouldn’t be tripped up by the morality of working for murderers. I bet Amin would jump right in without pause. But I’m not Amin.

Suddenly, I’m struck by an idea. A solution to my problem. A way to get money and fame and still be moral. I call Jie.

“What’s up?” she asks, breathless. I can hear the clamor of the city. I assume she’s walking up the subway steps.

“What if I take Ethan up on his offer—”

“Joaquin, you’re playing with fire…” She trails off. I hear her light a cigarette.

“Hear me out. At the same time, I get proof of what they’ve done. The murders. Solid proof that can’t be magically disappeared with money.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“I’m not sure. But I’ve worked enough service jobs to know that people that rich let their guard down around the staff. They think of you like furniture.” Silence on the other end of the phone. “I want you to help me.”

Jie takes a drag of her cigarette. “I’m not a risk taker, Joaquin. Or a detective. I’m a scientist.”

“Not even for Amanda?”

There is a small beat. I can feel her considering. I will her to change her mind. I’m scared to do this alone. “Sorry, you’re on your own. Bye, Joaquin.” Jie hangs up. I close my eyes, wondering if I’m making a mistake. Maybe I am. But going back to Wilmington would mean giving up on everything I’ve worked so hard for over the last decade. It would mean sleeping in my childhood bedroom with the fraying Jay-Z posters. It would mean watching my mom try to hide how worried she is about me. It would mean going to work every day at the one place I couldn’t wait to get the fuck out of—my high school. I’m thirty-two. I can’t give up yet. So I pull up Ethan’s number and give him a call.

Vera

I’m in bed, my third vodka tonic on the bedside table, watching old episodes of Bones, the anger and shame of the last few weeks churning inside me. It starts in the pit of my stomach and then grows bigger and bigger until it’s invaded every inch of my body. Finishing the rest of my vodka tonic doesn’t do anything to quell the feeling.

I’m angry that we still can’t find Talia and the twins, and even if we did find them, there’d be no way to fix Rosie because Martin is dead. I’m angry that Gabrielle is no longer speaking to me. After our tête-à-tête, she sent me an excruciatingly long text message telling me she refuses to return my calls and texts. And I’m angry this fucking Bath & Body Works employee is trying to blackmail me.

The ghost of Celeste hangs in the corner of my room. Disappointment on her face. “Of course this is happening, Vera,” she snaps. “You’re stupid, half-breed trash that doesn’t deserve the Armstrong name. You say your mother’s death was an accident, but we all know it wasn’t the ice that did her in. She wrapped herself around a tree because she couldn’t handle what you and your father are. She’s a coward. A fuckup. Just like you.”

I cannot go on like this. I cannot. If my existence is being endlessly haunted by Celeste, then I don’t want to exist.

“You win,” I say to no one.

I pull open the drawer of my bedside table. Inside is a pharmacy. Xanax and Oxy and Percocet galore! I shake the pills out onto my bedspread and mix them around with my hands until they are a pharmaceutical collage. I grab a fistful. I close my eyes. I try to think about the way my father used to look at me. Like I held a world of possibility. But all I see is Celeste. I can’t even die without her bothering me.

“Ma’am! What are you doing?”

I open one eye. David, my assistant, is in the doorway. He looks frightened. He never looks frightened.

I put down the fistful of pills. “Organizing,” I say. I guess I’ll have to die later. “Can I help you with something?”

“There’s a young man named Joaquin at the door. He says he’s Martin’s lab assistant. He says Ethan invited him to come by. The young man says he’s here about the project.” David whispers those last two words as if they’re illegal. “Ethan isn’t here. Shall I send Joaquin away?”

I feel a twinge of something I haven’t felt since Martin died. A warm tingle blooms in my chest. I think it might be hope.

“No,” I say. “I’ll be down in twenty minutes.”

Joaquin

Vera Armstrong’s presence is overwhelming. It makes the backs of my knees sweat. She’s sitting across from me wearing a suit as if she’s interviewing me for a corporate job. Which I guess she is, interviewing me for a job. Her hair is dripping wet. It makes a dark stain on the shoulders of her suit jacket. She isn’t wearing any makeup, but her skin is glowing. Smooth. Even babies don’t have skin that nice. She might be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I can’t stop staring at her.

“Martin never mentioned an assistant. Why didn’t he mention you?” she says, waking me from my trance.

I explain that Martin was a drunk. His eyes were failing. He didn’t want anyone to know. I was a secret. He recruited me from his lab at Columbia. He knew I was discreet. “I know everything there is to know about your case,” I say. I hope she believes me. I hope she doesn’t notice the pit stains slowly starting to form under my arms. If she does, I hope she thinks I’m just a young man nervous around a supermodel, not a liar trying to take her money and then dismantle her life. I feel like I did before I’d jack a car—wildly out of control and completely in my body at the same time. Now that I’m older, the feeling makes me dizzy.

Or maybe it’s just Vera.

Out of the corner of my eye I spot her assistant—I think his name is David—standing very still in a corner of the room. He’s cloaked in shadow, clasping his hands together so tightly his knuckles are turning white. He reminds me of Williams’s assistant at Columbia. She too had the faint air of a dog that’d been kicked one too many times. I wonder if something is wrong.

“Is something wrong?” Vera asks me.

I shake my head no.

She smiles. “You look like a young Jimmy Smits applying for a job at the public library.”

I’m not sure if this is a compliment. “Thank you?”

“How do I know I can trust you?” Vera asks.

“Because Martin did. In fact, he gave me the passcode to his laptop.” I reach down and pull the computer out of my bag. After Jie’s ex broke into it, I gave it a new passcode. I hope this is enough. I pray this is enough.

David steps out from the shadows. “I can also have the team do a background check,” he says. I hope she can’t see the panic spreading over every inch of my body. I hope she can’t hear the voice in my head screaming, No, please, you can’t do a fucking background check!

Vera waves her hand at me and then David. “The last thing we need are more delays. Has Kevin located the kids?”

“Not yet. But soon. I’ll ping him. Get an ETA.” David sounds as if something’s caught in his throat. I don’t think he trusts me. I wonder if after I leave, he’ll try to talk Vera out of her decision.

She leans forward. “As you know, we’re discreet. Very discreet.”

“Of course.”

“We pay one lump sum a month. But I don’t expect it to take that long.”

“You don’t?” Fuck me.

“Martin said he was on the verge of a breakthrough before he passed.”

“Right, of course. Yes.” Was he? I didn’t look at the data closely enough.

“The minute Rosie arrives, I expect you to have the gene therapy ready for her. If you fail, I’ll have Ethan eat you for a Saturday evening snack. David will coordinate a car up to the compound. You can move in tonight.” She disappears into some other part of the house.

David scurries over to me. “Do not fuck this up,” he whispers. “She can’t take any more disappointment.” As he exits to call a car for me, a sudden dark thought pops into my head: I hope I live to see this through, because it’s very possible I might not.

9

Rosie

Ever since my mom threatened to move us again, I’ve been hanging at Naomi’s. Like, a lot. It’s just easier.

Naomi has the biggest house I’ve ever seen. It’s decorated like a magazine. Everything is in shades of blue or white. It’s “classic coastal,” Naomi said. I have a hard time relaxing because the place is so nice.

There’s this big calendar in the kitchen with everyone’s schedule. Kenny’s soccer practice, Xan’s tap-dancing lessons, Dee’s pickleball games. They also have a housekeeper. And this guy who comes in the afternoons to help Kenny and Xan with their homework. Their house feels alive in a way mine never has.

Naomi’s mom, Dee, is the polar opposite of my mom. She wears blazers and has a lot of friends. Like there’s always two or three women at Naomi’s house drinking frappuccinos or rosé. They wear yoga pants and fleece pullovers. My mom could eat them for lunch—literally. Dee also seems really worried about Naomi in a way that she isn’t about Kenny and Xan. It’s like she knows that at some point Naomi’s gonna bail on Vernon and she wants to make sure she’s there to stop it.

Dee asks a lot of invasive questions. Like the first time I came over she grilled me about my family. Naomi finally interrupted. “Mom, stop! You’re acting like Dad with one of his suspects.” It made me glad my mom works a lot and doesn’t really have time to care who we hang out with.

Naomi’s dad is the opposite of their mom. Dante’s intimidating. He’s real big and muscular with blond hair and the same green eyes Naomi has. The first time I met Dante, he didn’t say much to me, which feels like a classic dad move. Or at least dads on TV. I dunno. I don’t have a dad, but it just felt very dad not to acknowledge me. Afterward, as I was helping him put the dishes in the dishwasher, he looked at me and said, “You’ve seen a lot, haven’t you?”

Normally I lie to grown-ups who poke around about my life. But I felt compelled to tell him the truth. “Yeah, our life’s been pretty chaotic.” He patted my shoulder like he knew what I’d been through. Like he could see it in my soul. I realized he wasn’t ignoring me at dinner; he was observing me. I shouldn’t be surprised; he is a homicide detective. As he walked out of the kitchen, I made a note to myself not to let my guard down around him.

Naomi said their mom and dad grew up on the same block and bonded over having a traumatic religious upbringing. Neither of them talks to their families. Naomi’s never met their grandparents, which is something we have in common.

Tonight, me and Naomi are getting ready for the Halloween rave. Their dad took their little brothers trick-or-treating. Their mom’s handing out candy. We’re in Naomi’s room, which is this weird mix of little girl and skater bro. Like flowered wallpaper with Ripndip stickers. Naomi told me that Dee wanted to redecorate in neutrals when Naomi came out as nonbinary. Naomi refused. “I’m not some fucking blank slate just cuz I’m nonbinary. I’m all the things I was and all the things I’m gonna be at the same time.” Honestly, it’s the only room in the house I feel comfortable in.

We decided to dress up as butterflies. Naomi says it’s how they feel, “like I’m emerging.” I don’t feel like I’m emerging, but I love the costume: cropped tees, baggy cargo jeans, wings that Naomi made from this sheer fabric that they painted.

Naomi’s placing stick-on jewels across my forehead. Every so often they flex their hand. The swelling in their knuckles is gone but their fingers still get stiff. They told their parents it was a volleyball accident in gym class.

“Oh my God, you look so dope,” they say, moving out of the way so I can see myself in the mirror. They’re right. I look freakin’ amazing. Bright swirls of blue, green, and yellow eye shadow around my eyes to match my wings. Glitter on my cheeks. A crown of jewels across my forehead. I wish I could send a picture to Carolyn. She’d love it.

I kiss Naomi. They taste like vanilla and spearmint. God, I could kiss them all night, but a car horn honks outside. Naomi pulls away and peeks through the curtains. “Bray is downstairs. We should go.”

I try not to look disappointed.

Naomi grabs their wings off the bedpost. One of the straps snaps. “Shit. Do you mind keeping him busy? I need to fix this.” Naomi kisses me again. I think it’s a bribe.

“Fine,” I say. Naomi pulls two tabs of molly out of their pocket, sticks one on their tongue and one on mine. We both swallow. Naomi smiles. “Swear it won’t take me more than ten minutes.”

On my way out the front door, Dee stops me. “Maya, can I talk to you for a second?” She’s in the kitchen, drinking wine. She pats the chair next to her. It doesn’t seem like I have a choice. I suddenly wish I hadn’t taken the molly.

Earlier, Dee was dressed like a fancy black cat. She had on a black wrap dress, thigh-high boots, and cat ears. It seemed kinda dressy to hand out candy, but what do I know? Now Dee’s wearing silk pajamas, but she still has her cat ears and makeup on. She looks like a cozy cat. I glance over toward the living room where Naomi’s dad is watching a Star Wars cartoon with Xan and Kenny on their eighty-inch TV. Sometimes I wish I had memories of doing stuff with my dad. I wonder if Kenny and Xan know how lucky they are.

“Maya?”

Shit, I’ve just been standing there, staring. “What’s up?” I’m trying to act normal, but I can suddenly feel every single one of my teeth in my mouth. Dee glances down at the magazine in front of her. It’s a Vanity Fair. There’s some old lady on the front. “How’s your mom?” she asks.

“Fine.”

“My friend Flavia told me your brother got pretty roughed up.”

“Yup.” The last thing I wanna talk about is Sam. Not now. Not when I can feel the molly everywhere inside me, even in my fake wings. I run my tongue across my teeth and glance toward the door, willing Naomi to come down the stairs. Or at the very least for Brayden to come inside.

Dee pours herself another glass of wine. “Where did you say your dad was from?”

“New York, I think.”

Dee tilts her head. Now she’s a confused cat. “You think?”

“My mom doesn’t really talk about him.”

“Why not?”

I shrug. “Cuz he’s dead and it makes her sad.”

Now Dee’s a concerned cat. “Right.” She takes a sip of her wine. “Do you ever see your grandparents?”

I shake my head no.

“How come?”

“They’re dead too.”

Dee nods. It seems like she’s debating what to say next. She glances down at her magazine. “Can I show you something?”

I wanna touch her cat ears. Rub them between my fingers. I bet they’re real soft. “Sure, I guess.”

Dee pages through the magazine. “There’s this picture I want you to take a look at…”

Naomi is suddenly behind me. “Mom, what’re you doing?”

Dee glances up. Now she’s a mom cat and a lying cat. She closes the magazine, like it holds a secret she only wants to share with me. “Just talking.”

Naomi looks blankly at their mom. They hate when Dee talks to their friends. Naomi told me that their mom is ninety percent of the reason they wanna get the fuck outta Vernon. Tonight, it looks like Dee is one hundred percent of the reason. “We’ve gotta get going. Brayden’s outside,” Naomi says.

“Have fun.” Dee smiles with all her teeth. They’re stained purple with wine. Now she’s a drunk cat. Naomi is already out the door. “Have fun,” I echo. Forget Brayden, I’m so high I could fly to the rave.

Brayden drives a black Ford Mustang. Gucci Mane is blasting on the stereo. “Nice costumes,” he says as we get into the car. Brayden is dressed like a basketball player, which is not a Halloween costume if you actually play basketball, which he does. He raps along to every song like he wrote them. It’s embarrassing. Thank God I’m in the back seat so I don’t have to pretend like it’s not. Instead, I stare out the window, watching the streetlights blur by as I rub my finger on my teeth and imagine they are soft and fuzzy like Dee’s cat ears.

Sam

I catch a ride to the rave with KennedyKelsieKyra and her friends, who all have names that end in the letter a. They’re already drunk and singing along to Olivia Rodrigo when they pull up in her mom’s Prius.

“What are you dressed as?” KennedyKelsieKyra asks as I get in the car. She’s wearing one of those sexy devil costumes you buy in a bag at Party City.

“Caliban,” I say. I’m not wearing a costume. I’m dressed as myself. Even though my face has started healing and the bruises have turned from purple to green, I still look like a monster.

“Cool. Shakespeare.” I’m surprised she caught the reference. KennedyKelsieKyra is smarter than I assumed. A sexy panda in the back seat hands me a Gatorade bottle full of Red Bull and vodka. I wave it away. I need to be sober. Sharp.

KennedyKelsieKyra looks at me like I’m crazy. “It’s Halloween,” she says. “You’re not gonna get fucked up?” I shake my head no.

“Why not?” asks a Barbie in the back seat.

“Because I’m gonna ruin someone’s life tonight.” The girls all laugh. They think I’m kidding.

“You’re so weird,” says the sexy panda, rolling her eyes.

“Yeah, but it’s kinda hot,” says a sexy cowgirl. She bites her bottom lip like she’s on OnlyFans.

KennedyKelsieKyra glances in the rearview mirror. “Oh my God, Liliana, could you be more desperate?” She’s laughing as she says it, but there’s an edge to her voice. I imagine later she’ll pull the sexy cowgirl aside and whisper, Back the fuck off. He’s mine. This should turn me on. It doesn’t. Probably because I don’t give a shit about either girl.

The rave is an hour outside of town. KennedyKelsieKyra parks in a field with a bunch of other cars. We trudge through the dirt with hundreds of kids dressed in cheap costumes toward the thud of electronica coming from a giant dilapidated barn. A woman who looks like Miley Cyrus is selling glowsticks. The sexy cowgirl buys enough for all of us. “My treat,” she says and winks at me. I wonder if KennedyKelsieKyra saw. I wonder if she’s mad. I don’t really care. I have more important things to think about. Tonight is the last night I’ll be alone. Tonight, Naomi’s going to discover who they really are. I’m going to make sure of that.

Inside, the barn is packed with hundreds of fucked-up teenagers whipping their bodies around. “C’mon, let’s dance.” KennedyKelsieKyra’s lips are near my ear so I can hear her.

“I gotta piss,” I yell back, wincing. My face still hurts when I open my mouth too wide. I’m lying to her. I think she can tell. But she doesn’t push back. Instead, she kisses me, hard. Cups her hand on my dick. The sexy cowgirl is watching us. The kiss isn’t about me, it’s a warning to the cowgirl not to try anything. I almost laugh. They’d be horrified if they knew what I really was. What I’m really up to.

I head into the crowd, the taste of KennedyKelsieKyra’s strawberry lip gloss in my mouth. I’m looking for Brayden. Scanning for his overly gelled hair. I know he’s here. I know he gave Rosie and Naomi a ride. He is the key to my plan.

A few days ago, at lunch, one of KennedyKelsieKyra’s friends, the one dressed like a Barbie this evening, said she was crushing on Brayden. I usually tune this shit out. I could care less who likes who. But then another friend, the one dressed like the sexy panda, warned her to be careful. “Brayden acts nice,” she said as she stirred her low-fat yogurt, “but he’s like actually a total creeper.”

“Creeper how?” Barbie asked.

“He doesn’t understand the meaning of the word no,” Sexy Panda said, staring at her yogurt. The girls at the table all got silent. Then Sexy Panda pushed away her yogurt. “Why the fuck do I eat low-fat yogurt? It tastes like shit.” As the girls laughed, I stared at Brayden, who was showing Naomi a video on his phone. I ran a finger over the wound on my cheek. The one Naomi gave me. I formed a plan.

Brayden is out back smoking cigarettes and pounding a fifth of Southern Comfort with a couple of other basketball players. “You got a light?” I ask, brandishing a Marlboro Red.

Brayden hands me a lighter. “What the fuck happened to your face, man?”

“Car accident.” I don’t fucking care if people know Naomi beat me up because I don’t fucking care what people think. But Mom wants me to lie.

“Shit,” Brayden says, flicking his cigarette into the night. “That must’ve been some fucking accident.”

“Yo, let’s go back inside,” a guy dressed like a half-assed vampire says.

“Hope your face heals.” Brayden turns to follow the half-assed vampire.

Fuck, I’m gonna miss my chance. “I think you gave my sister and her friend Naomi a ride here.” He stops. Turns back. “Yeah, that chick Mona, right?”

“Maya,” I say, watching his teammates head inside. Rosie’s right, this guy’s a fucking tool. “She said Naomi’s obsessed with you.”

His eyes light up. “Yo, really?” I can smell the liquor on his breath. It’s sweet. Tangy. He sways a little. I take a drag of my cigarette and smile.

This is gonna be easy.

Rosie

Me and Naomi are right up near the speakers, dancing our faces off. Dripping in sweat. My whole body tingles. Suddenly the bass drops. The crowd screams. Naomi smiles at me as we both jump up and down. Waving our arms. I’m a speck in a sea of glowsticks. I’m a nebula floating through the universe. This is the best night of my freakin’ life. I don’t ever want this feeling to go away. I close my eyes and let the bass wrap around me like a warm hug. I can feel the music in every part of my body. It’s coursing through my veins. It’s pulsating behind my eyelids. It’s morphed into the beat of my heart. I start to wonder if I am the music. If I’ve suddenly turned into a thousand beats floating into people’s ears, burrowing down into the soft part of their brain.

Someone bumps into me. “Sorry,” mouths a girl dressed like Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction. She giggles and then goes back to dancing. I glance around. Naomi’s no longer next to me. I wonder where they went. I scan the party, looking for them. There are too many people. Too many strobe lights. Tallulah dances past me. I grab her. She’s wearing contacts that make her eyes completely black. I feel like I could get lost in them and never come out. She squeals and hugs me as if I’m a long-lost sibling. I think she’s tripping. Naomi mentioned the cheerleaders scored liquid acid from Tallulah’s older brother who’s home from Cornell.

“Where’s Naomi?” I ask. Tallulah’s mouth moves but I can’t hear what she’s saying. “What?” I yell.

Tallulah leans closer, her breath hot on my ear. “They went somewhere with Brayden.”

“Where?” I ask. Tallulah shrugs. I look around again, craning my neck, but I can’t see Naomi or Brayden. All the warm fuzziness that was coursing through my blood is gone. All I can feel is cold.

Talia

I open the burner phone and look at the series of text messages I’ve sent to Helen.

741

741

741

741

No response. I close the phone.

The animal part of my brain tells me Helen’s dead. The Armstrongs got her. They’re coming for us next. I glance out the window. The street is quiet. There are no black SUVs trolling the block. Just the last few trick-or-treaters wandering up and down, hoping people still have candy.

I glance at the clock on the oven. It’s half past ten. The kids are at some party. I turn on the TV. Freddy Krueger slinks across the screen and brandishes his glove with all the knives on it before slashing some terrified teen. I try to concentrate, but the animal part of my brain is screaming now.

Don’t just sit there, it says. Do something. Do something. Do something.

I text Dee. CAN WE MEET TOMORROW? I know asking Dee for help is tricky. But her husband is a homicide cop. Maybe he can get in touch with the police in Philly. I can’t call them myself. I’m afraid they’ll trace my number. I’m afraid they’ll ask questions. I’m afraid—

Ping! A text from Dee: COME BY TONIT. DANTE AN I OPENING A BOTTLE OF WIN. I think she means wine. I think she must be drunk. I contemplate turning down the invitation, but the animal part of my brain is so loud I can barely think. I text back a thumbs-up, grab my coat, and head out into the night.

—

Dee pours me a healthy glass of pinot noir. Dante puts on music. I think it’s Radiohead’s “Reckoner.” Dante’s back is to us. He’s swaying in front of the speakers. I wonder where their two younger kids are. I wonder if they’ll wake up and come downstairs.

“Maya and Naomi looked beautiful in their costumes,” Dee says. Her lips are stained with wine. She has a dreamy look in her eyes. I wonder if she’ll remember any of this tomorrow.

“Maya was excited,” I say. I hope she can’t see my worry. It’s a pinprick behind my left eye. I take a gulp of wine. I feel it warm in my veins. The worry starts to fade.

“Flavia Dougherty said Joey was in a car accident.” Dee tucks her feet up under herself. She looks like a teenage girl waiting for gossip.

“Oh, yeah. His injuries look worse than they are.” Dante is still swaying to the music. I wonder if he’s going to sing. I hope he doesn’t.

“I was surprised you texted.”

“Ahhh, yeah. Ummm…” I take another gulp of wine. “I have a favor to ask.”

“Oh?” Dee’s forehead tries to wrinkle. It can’t. I wonder what it’s like to never see your face age.

“I have a friend. A good friend. Almost like a sister. Her name is Helen McLoughlin. She lives in Philly. We keep in touch regularly. I think something’s happened to her. Something bad. I was wondering if, um, Dante knows anybody—any police there who could maybe do a wellness check?” I take another gulp of wine.

Dante turns. “Yeah,” he says. “A guy I went to the academy with works the Thirty-Ninth. I’ll call him tomorrow.”

“Thanks.” That was easier than I thought. “She lives in Fishtown. She owns a bar in the neighborhood called McLoughlin’s. It’s on East Susquehanna Avenue.”

Dante flashes me the thumbs-up sign. He’s still swaying. “Text Dee the information,” he slurs. His eyes are half-open. He won’t remember this conversation. I text Dee the information. Ping. Her phone lights up in its pink case. “It’s late, I should let you get to bed,” I say, standing.

“Can I show you something? Before you go?”

Dante turns. “Dee…”

“Stop,” she says.

He sighs. I wish I could translate that sigh. Dante shuts off the music. He tells us he’s going to bed. I watch him lumber out of the living room. I wonder what it’s like to have a Dante. I don’t mean Dante specifically, but a partner who has the same secrets you have.

“Have you seen this?” Dee asks, pulling me from my thoughts. She has a Vanity Fair in her hand. Vera is on the front cover. Vera. The room spins. My hands start to sweat. I want to run but I don’t think I should. The kids are at a party. I can’t just show up and yank them out of it without making a scene. Also, where would we go?

“I don’t read magazines,” I say, hoping it will end whatever conversation we’re about to have. I know it won’t.

“Back when Dante and I lived in Six Pines, people talked about her—well, them—the Armstrongs. There were rumors they were just like us. Did you ever hear that?”

I want to tell her they were right. I want to reveal all the horrible, weird things that family did to me in the short time I was living with them. I want to tell her how they killed their own son and then lied about it. But I don’t. Instead, I shake my head no. “Like I said, you were the first person outside my own family I’d met.”

“Right.” Dee’s fingers fumble for an earmarked page. She’s drunk. She’s very drunk. I wonder if she’d be doing this if she was sober. “This picture”—she points to a photo of Vera on the red carpet with a teenage Jonah—“it looks a lot like your son, Joey, which I thought was interesting.”

Fuck, Sam’s grown to look exactly like his father. The same piercing eyes. The same slightly bowed lips. The same sullen look. I stare at the photo as if it means nothing. As if it is just a photo in a magazine. As if it isn’t a picture of the father of my children. As if it doesn’t make my whole body suddenly ache with grief. I push the feeling away. I smile casually. “They say we all have doppelgängers.”

“Right.” Dee seems unconvinced. “I did some googling,” she continues, “and there doesn’t seem to be much on Jonah Armstrong. There’s a ton on the rest of the family. Interviews. Profiles. Pictures. But nothing about him after the age of fourteen or fifteen, except for his obituary.”

Vera is purposely tight-lipped about Jonah. She doesn’t want people poking around about his death. She doesn’t want people to know the real reason they have no relationship with us. She wants to find me on her own so she can kill me and steal my kids. It’s just taken her longer than she anticipated. I’m savvier than she assumed. My guess is whoever wrote this article went rogue. They will disappear. Or at the very least they will never write another article ever again. Vera’s very good at revenge.

“Liz?” Dee is waiting for me to say something.

“Why are you telling me this?” My voice is too high. There is an edge to it.

“The obituary mentions he has kids.” Dee leans forward. She puts her hand on my knee. “You can tell me anything,” she says. “People like us need to trust each other. We’re all we have.”

“We aren’t related to her.”

Dee searches my face. She’s trying to see if I’m lying. She won’t find any evidence. My performance is flawless.

“Mom?”

We turn. Dee’s youngest is standing in the doorway. He’s wearing Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle pajamas. He rubs his eyes. “I had a nightmare. I want you to lay with me.”

“Go upstairs, boo-boo. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“No,” the little boy whimpers, “I’m too scared.” His lip trembles. He’s about to cry. I remember when Sam and Rosie were this age. They were so fragile. Well, Rosie was.

A look of regret passes over Dee’s face. “Okay, bud. We’ll go together.”

“I should get going.” I’m trying not to look too relieved. “I can see myself out.”

“We’ll get in touch about your friend,” she says, smiling. It’s the same smile she uses in her ads. Her lips stretched wide. Her teeth clenched. I bet she spent hours practicing it in the mirror. I bet she practiced until it was perfect.

“I appreciate it.” I pull on my jacket and head for the door. I know this isn’t the last time she’s gonna poke around in my business. But until I hear from Helen, we don’t have the resources to leave. So, I tell myself for now, I’m safe. We’re safe.

I hope I’m not wrong.

Sam

I’m standing outside the barn about a hundred feet from where Brayden and Naomi went into the woods. I’m waiting for that familiar smell of fresh blood when I hear screaming inside the party. I turn. A handful of cop cars pull into the field, their red and blue lights flashing. The music comes to a screeching halt.

“Everyone must exit the premises. I repeat, everyone must exit the premises,” someone bellows over a bullhorn. Kids pour out from the barn. KennedyKelsieKyra appears. Her eyes are all glazed over. She’s chewing on her mouth like it’s a big wad of gum. “Can you drive?” she asks, brandishing her keys. “I did molly. Willa’s really sick. I think she drank too much vodka. We can’t get in trouble.”

I don’t wanna leave, but I have no choice. I can’t get arrested. My mom will freak out. We’ll move so fast I won’t see it coming. I’ll lose Naomi forever. I take the keys. As we head back to the car, I wonder if the cops will find Naomi and Brayden. I wonder if my plan will be foiled. I decide there are always other chances.

In the parking lot, Rosie grabs me. “Have you seen Naomi?” Her eyes are saucers.

“Why would I know where your fucking friend is?” She stares at me. She’s either too high or trying to figure out if I’m lying. Thank God we don’t have any sort of twin intuition.

“Do you wanna ride?” Sexy Panda slurs.

“No, I’ll get one from Tallulah,” Rosie says. She turns and heads back into the crowd, a lemming in crooked butterfly wings heading upstream.

KennedyKelsieKyra grimaces at the empty space where Rosie was standing. “Your sister and her friends act like they’re better than everyone else.”

“They’ll learn,” I say, getting into the car.

Rosie

The cops are rounding up kids and putting them into one of those big police vans. I can’t get arrested. My mom’ll shit a literal brick. I dip into the woods to call Naomi again, weaving through the trees, leaves crunching under my sneakers, until I’m away from the chaos.

I dial Naomi’s number. Ring. Buzz. Ring. Buzz. I pull the phone away from my ear. Naomi’s phone is buzzing in the distance. I follow the sound until I hit a clearing.

The phone’s on the ground, blinking my name. I pick it up. That’s when I see…

Naomi. They’re about ten feet away, their wings ripped to shreds, their hair disheveled. They are straddling something. Someone. They are hunched over. Sucking. Licking. I gasp.

Naomi glances up. Their eyes are wild. Their chin’s stained with red. They have bits in their teeth. I recognize the person underneath them. It’s Brayden. His face is frozen in shock. His whole torso is ripped open. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck.

Naomi tries to explain. The words run together. A blur of excuses I’ve heard a thousand times. From Sam. “It isn’t what it looks like. It was an accident. I found him this way. He tried to hurt me. Please, Maya. Please. Please don’t tell anyone. I don’t know why I did this.”

My head is spinning like an out-of-control propeller. I put my hand on a nearby tree to steady myself. To prevent myself from lifting off the ground. To prevent myself from flying away into oblivion.

“Maya…”

I close my eyes because I don’t wanna see the truth: Sam was obsessed with Naomi because some part of him knew that they were—That Naomi is—

“Maya, please…” They are begging now.

“It’s okay,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m not afraid. I know…I know what you are.”

Part III

Stuck

10

Talia

Rosie’s voice is on the other end of the phone. “Mom. It’s Naomi. It’s bad…”

I know what happened without pressing Rosie for details. I know because her voice is ragged at the edges. I try to keep my voice steady. “Tell me where you are.” Rosie drops a pin with her location. She’s in the woods, not far from the lake I took the kids to a few weeks ago.

I hang up the phone and make a beeline to Sam’s room. He’s lying on his bed. His headphones are on. I rip them off. “I told you not to say anything. I told you.” Every single part of me is angry. I could strangle the life right out of him.

“What are you talking about?” he asks.

“Naomi.”

“I didn’t say anything. I swear.” My son is a very good liar. It’s my fault. I trained him. But right now he’s telling the truth. I try not to look relieved. “Get your coat on. You’re coming with me.”

—

Naomi sits on the grass, staring into the middle distance. They’re ghostly pale. Their mouth is slightly open. I know that look. They are trying to comprehend how this is their reality. I crouch down. I take their hand and quietly explain that Sam and I have the same genetic disorder their family has.

I expect a barrage of questions, but instead Naomi whispers, “I think I should call my parents.” Their voice is hollow and far away. Their eyes are focused on the darkness in front of them. I guess shock manifests in different ways.

“I told them you’d be sleeping over at our place tonight.”

Naomi nods slowly. “Are you gonna tell them what I did?”

I thought about telling Dee that I was right to judge her. That she’s an idiot for trying to hide this from her children. But it’ll only make an enemy of her. I need Dante to find Helen. “I didn’t. I don’t think you should either.” I can’t tell if I’m doing the right thing or stepping over a line.

Sam and I wrap Brayden’s body in garbage bags. He keeps glancing over at Naomi. “Tell them it’s gonna be okay,” I say. He sits down next to Naomi. He whispers something to them. Naomi burrows their head in their knees, ignoring him. Later, I watch Sam sneak a piece of Brayden when he thinks I’m not looking. Normally I’d scold him. But I think he’s disappointed Naomi doesn’t want to talk.

Rosie digs up all the blood-soaked dirt and leaves and puts them in a trash bag. She scans the ground with the flashlight on her phone to make sure we haven’t left any traces of Brayden in the woods. She uses a broom to sweep away our footprints as we leave. My heart breaks over how good she is at cleaning up a murder scene.

It’s not fair my kids have to live this life. It’s not fair any of us have to.

—

In the car, Naomi mumbles something about Brayden trying to have sex with them. He forced them down on the ground. He was drunk. He was still angry about their breakup. Something inside Naomi snapped. One minute they were trying to push Brayden off, and the next they had their face buried in his gut, eating as if they’d never eaten before.

“I killed my friend.” Naomi chokes up. Tears roll down their face.

“He assaulted you,” Rosie says from the back seat. Her voice is sharp. I don’t think she liked Brayden very much.

“You don’t understand,” Naomi mumbles. Rosie stiffens and stares out the window. Her lips are pursed. She’s mad. Or she’s disappointed. I can’t quite tell. I feel bad. She got the same look on her face when I told Sam what he was. She knew they would never be as close as they were before. And now it’s happening again. Fuck. She’s like her dad. Even though she doesn’t have The Need, it’s in her blood. She’ll never escape it.

“Why wouldn’t my parents tell us this?” I glance in the rearview mirror. Naomi isn’t looking at me. Their forehead is pressed to the window. Their eyes are closed. They’re asking the universe this question.

I answer anyway. “Because they wanted to protect you.”

—

I load Brayden’s body into the retort along with all the blood-soaked detritus from the woods. I soak the garbage bags in the big metal sink with soap and water, trying to get rid of any evidence. On the way home, I’ll toss them in a bin behind the Walmart.

Rosie appears. “I thought you were keeping Naomi company in the car,” I say, kneading the garbage bags in the soapy water.

“They wanted to be alone.”

“You can babysit Sam,” I offer. Sam is playing lookout. He’s never done it before. I don’t trust him to pay attention the way I need him to. He’s used to being the criminal, not part of the cover-up.

“No thanks.” Rosie hops up on a metal worktable. She picks at her fingernails. I’m not going to ask her if everything is okay because I know it isn’t. I continue washing the garbage bags. The water turns brown with Brayden’s blood. “How long have you known?” she asks.

I unplug the sink and let the water drain out. “A few weeks. Naomi’s mom figured out what I was. She assumed you and Sam were the same. She was afraid you guys would say something to Naomi. She wanted me to talk to the two of you.”

“Why didn’t you?”

I have no reason to lie. “I knew you’d be upset.”

Rosie stares at me. “What about Sam? Did you tell him?”

Fuck. I can’t tell her the truth. I need us to be a team. “No.” I hope she believes me.

She stares at me for a second. Then she looks down at her nails. She chips off a chunk of sparkly nail polish. “We’re gonna move again, aren’t we?”

I can’t think about anything beyond the right here and right now. “Go upstairs and help your brother keep watch.” This isn’t an offer. It’s a demand. Rosie does as I ask. She always does. I’m not stupid. I know someday she won’t.

—

Back at the house, Naomi asks me to help them get clean. I’m surprised by this. I haven’t given anyone a bath in forever. They slip into the tub, which is water-stained and chipped. I wash their hair with Rosie’s shampoo. It smells like lavender and vanilla. They sit perfectly still as I run my fingers through, trying to get the tangles out. The clumps of blood. The bits of Brayden. The water around them turns pink.

“Do my parents kill people?” they ask.

“No, they order meat off the dark web.”

“Have they ever killed anyone?”

I hesitate for a moment. I decide I’ve already told them too much. “I don’t know.”

Naomi runs their fingers across the bath water, leaving trails of Brayden’s blood. “Have you?” They look up at me. Their eyes are hopeful. They don’t want to feel alone. So I’m honest.

“Once,” I say. “But I didn’t want to.”

“What happened?”

“After Maya and Joey’s father died, I lived with his family for a little while. One night his brother woke me up and dragged me down to the basement in my T-shirt and underwear. He locked me in a room with a girl he’d brought home from a club. He said the only way to get free was to kill the other person. The girl was drunk and coked out of her mind and terrified. She would’ve done anything to save herself. She wanted to win. She didn’t.” I don’t tell Naomi how the girl begged for her life. I don’t show them the scars under my chin where she dug her nails in, trying to kill me. I don’t want them to know that eating that girl was the single most exhilarating moment of my entire life. I’ve never felt more alive. I’ve never felt more in my body. I don’t ever want Naomi or my kids to know that. Instead, I tell Naomi I could barely look at myself the next day. I tell them the shame has haunted me for my entire life. I tell them there are other ways to exist and not get sick. I tell them it’s possible to live a normal life.

—

In the middle of the night, Rosie crawls into my bed. “What’s up?” I ask as she snuggles under the comforter.

“Naomi wanted to watch TV with Sam.” Her voice cracks. I know she’s upset.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“I’m in love with them.”

“You’re gonna love a lot of people over the course of your life.”

“You haven’t.”

Rosie’s right. I haven’t. The only person I’ve ever loved is Jonah. “Maybe someday I will.”

I can tell from her silence that I’ve said the wrong thing. God, I wish Jonah was here. He’d understand exactly what she’s going through. He’d know what to say. Fuck him for being dead and leaving me here to do this on my own.

“Rosie…”

Rosie turns her back on me. I curl my arm around her, playing the big spoon, just like I did with her father when he was ill. Later, I wake up to the sound of her weeping. This is why I didn’t want to have kids. Being a parent means breaking their hearts over and over again.

Sam

Naomi sits at the opposite end of the couch. They grab the blanket off the back cushion and wrap it around themselves. I keep my eyes on the TV. I couldn’t sleep, so I came out here to watch The Office. Naomi hasn’t said one word since they sat down. I’m not surprised. They haven’t said anything to me all evening. I’m not sure what I expected to happen, but I definitely didn’t expect this. What’s the use of having another teenage cannibal around if they’re just gonna give me the silent treatment? Maybe I made a fucking mistake.

“You knew,” they finally say.

“Huh?” I’m playing dumb.

“You knew what I was when we were in the woods. Like, subconsciously.” Their voice is a harsh whisper. They still won’t look at me.

“Sure. Maybe.” I try to act casual. Like I don’t care. Like I didn’t set all of this in motion.

Finally, they turn to me, their eyes sharp, focused. Just like they were in the woods when they beat me up. “Did you say something to Brayden to get him to come after me?”

“Your friend was a douchebag. Ask any girl at school. Even my sister thought he sucked.”

“If I find out you had something to do with this, I’ll fucking kill you.”

Before I can say anything, Naomi is gone and I’m alone.

Again.

Rosie

I’m the first one up. The truth is, I barely slept. I bet Sam slept fine. My mom certainly did. She gave me shitty parent advice and then passed out. In fact, she’s currently snoring.

I could use one less cannibal in my life. Instead, I got one more.

Go figure.

I tiptoe back to my room. Naomi’s in there, asleep. I thought they would be with Sam. Their arms and legs are all spread out. They look like a beautiful starfish. I crawl in beside them. Their body’s warm next to mine. If I close my eyes, I can convince myself none of this ever happened. We just had a regular night. A perfect night, where we got high and danced and then went back to Naomi’s house and made out.

“Maya?” I open my eyes. Naomi’s face is inches away from mine. “Do you hate me because I’m…” Their voice is barely a whisper. I shake my head no. “Good.” They smile a sad smile. “This is all so…”

“I know.” I take their hand. They intertwine their fingers with mine. Maybe Naomi having The Need is a good thing. Maybe it means I’ll have someone I can be honest with.

“What did you think of Brayden?”

Ugh. I wanna say I hated him. I wanna say I’m glad he’s dead. But I know that’ll just make things worse. “Honestly? He was kind of lame.”

“But is he somebody you thought would…”

I shrug. “Clearly, he was.”

Naomi grimaces. “I never saw that in him.”

“People can be surprising,” I remind them.

“Yeah,” they say. “Who knew you were so good at covering up a crime?”

“It’s just something I’ve had to do.”

“It doesn’t freak you out?”

“It used to.”

“But it doesn’t anymore?”

I shrug. Naomi’s brow furrows. “Someday it won’t affect you either.” They don’t look comforted by this. In fact, they untangle their hand from mine. I feel bad for even saying it. “I mean, or not.”

Naomi nods, their eyes suddenly trained on the ceiling. We’re both silent. Our bodies barely touching. I try to match my breath with theirs. In and out. In and out. But I can’t. Somewhere down the street a leaf blower growls. “I thought I finally understood myself.” Tears tumble down Naomi’s cheeks. I squeeze their hand. Hard. I want them to feel safe with me. “What did your brother do when he found out?”

I wanna say the right thing this time, but I’m worried there isn’t a right thing to say. So I tell her the easiest version of the truth. “We were five. He didn’t seem surprised. I think he always knew. But you’re nothing like him.”

“Yeah.” They don’t sound convinced. “I guess I was right when I said he had serial killer vibes.”

“I know!” We both start giggling. It feels good. Like nothing’s changed. But then Naomi’s laughter twists into violent sobs. They bury their head into my chest, their shoulders shake.

“I’m a murderer, just like your brother. I killed my friend. I know he tried to…but I fucking ate him. I don’t want this to be true, Maya. I don’t.”

I wrap my arms around them. Holding them tight. “Then pretend it isn’t,” I whisper.

Talia

We drop Naomi off at their house mid-afternoon. Dee is waiting for us outside. She’s dressed in expensive yoga gear. She has a wild amount of makeup on for a Saturday morning. I guess she’s probably trying to hide her hangover. She hugs Naomi. “Did you have fun?”

Naomi nods. I can tell they’re having a hard time looking their mother in the eye. “Can I go inside? I’m kinda tired,” they say.

“Of course. I need to talk to Maya’s mom about something.” Dee seems unfazed by Naomi’s behavior. Thank God. Naomi waves at Rosie and Sam before heading into the house.

“Did you tell her what happened?” Rosie asks, quietly, so Dee can’t hear.

I shake my head no. I wonder if I should’ve. It feels too late to say anything now. Dee flashes her perfect smile. “Liz…do you mind?” She wants to speak to me privately. This can’t be good.

I exit the car. “What’s up? Did Dante hear anything?”

“About your friend? No, not yet. He said it’ll probably take a few days.” She pauses and pulls her cardigan tight around her body. “Brayden’s mom called me. He didn’t come home last night. They found his car in a field in the next town over. I know the kids got a ride with him to the party. Did they say anything to you about Brayden?”

Everything inside me tenses. A car? Why didn’t the kids say anything about a car? I try to act casual. I put on my lying face. “Nope, like I texted you, the party got raided by the cops. Naomi and Maya couldn’t find a ride, so they called me to pick them up.”

Dee nods. “Well, if you hear anything, give me a shout. Brayden’s a good kid. I know it would devastate Naomi if anything happened to him.”

“Of course,” I say. “How scary.”

She cannot tell I’m lying. In fact, she flashes a blissfully ignorant smile. “Thanks again for picking them up.” The rest of her day is probably filled with Pilates and soccer games and maybe a family barbecue.

I mimic Dee’s smile. I wonder if hers feels like a mask. As I head back to the car, I let the smile fade. I start to wonder what Dee’s face would do if she found out the truth…

11

Vera

The arrival of Joaquin has given me a new lease on life. I’m not Celeste-free. But I’m Celeste-less-frequently. She’s moved back to my peripheral. Once Joaquin is done, and we locate Rosie, she’ll be gone for good. Huzzah!

In honor of Celeste’s soon-to-be demise, I’ve decided to treat myself. A Lollia bubble bath. A La Mer face mask. A glass of Dom. One soup spoon of stracciatella gelato from Venchi. “Alexa, play Echo & the Bunnymen,” I say, just as the butler knocks on the bathroom door.

He tells me Jenny’s been chloroformed and put in the family’s holding cell. Jesus Christ, in the glow of Joaquin, I completely forgot that I had David lure the little mall rat to the house. “Ethan is still in Dubai. What should I do with her?” he asks.

Ugh, just when I need my son, he’s sticking his dick in underage girls abroad. “Let me think about it,” I say. The butler shuffles away. I close my eyes. I’m annoyed at Ethan. I’m annoyed at Jenny.

Suddenly, the bathwater goes cold. I glance down. Celeste peeks through the bubbles. She’s shaking her head in disappointment. “Go away!” I hiss at her. But she won’t. My evening is ruined. I feel like yelling at someone. I decide on Jenny.

Most of the staff has gone home or retired to their quarters. Down the stairs I go, until I’m in the basement, heading through the second kitchen and down the hall toward Ethan’s playroom. My fingers linger over the keys on the padlock. I can feel the Dom standing in the way of my memory. First, I try Ethan’s birthday. Beepbeepbeepbeep. It doesn’t work. Gabrielle’s birthday. Beepbeepbeepbeep. It doesn’t work. Jonah’s birthday. Beepbeepbeepbeep. The tiny light on the padlock flashes green, the door unlocks. I stumble inside and turn on the light. I’m startled by my own reflection in that dreadful floor-to-ceiling mirror. It seems I forgot to wash off my face mask before I came downstairs. I look like a ghoul. Oh well.

Jenny’s on the floor, in the fetal position, her mouth taped, her hands and feet zip-tied. She looks different out of context. Younger. Cheaper. Her eyes fly open as the metal door closes behind me. They look bluer than I remember. It’s the fear. I can smell it on her. It smells tangy, like overripe oranges on a summer day. Even Helen wasn’t this afraid. It catches something in the back of my brain. Something ancient and ugly that’s been lying dormant for decades. There is a small part of me that wants to run. But I ignore it, opting instead to kneel and get right in Jenny’s face.

“How dare you?” I hiss. “How dare you think you can blackmail me? I listened to your problems. I lent you money. And at the first opportunity you fucking blackmail me? You’re lucky to know me. I’m one of the biggest supermodels in the fucking world. I’m an icon. You should be grateful I let you into my orbit.” I’m no longer just yelling at Jenny. I’m yelling at Talia and Gabrielle and Celeste. And in some small way I’m also yelling at my mother, Evelyn, the first woman to find my existence untenable.

Jenny makes noise under the tape. I am on all fours, pulling it off her lips. I take the ball gag out of her mouth. She whispers something. I lean in closer to hear her. Teetering. My ear next to her mouth. “What?” I ask, hoping she will give me some revelatory answer. An answer that will help me understand why I have been hated and abandoned by all the women in my life.

Instead, she bites my ear, hard. I try to pull away, but she won’t let go. Pain shoots through my entire head. I could yell for help, but it wouldn’t be of any use; the room is soundproof. Instead, I claw at her head with my gel manicure. It’s Chanel Incendiaire, a color that reminds me of a scream. My pointer nail manages to sink into the soft part of her eye socket. She lets go of my ear and I stumble backward, grasping onto it, checking to see if it’s all still there. It is. But when I pull my hand away, it’s covered in blood.

“Please let me go,” she says, the words catching at the back of her throat. There are scratches across her forehead. They are red, angry-looking. As red as my blood on her lips. “My family knows where I’m at. I told them. They’ll come looking for me when I don’t come home.”

I laugh. “It won’t matter. We’ll turn them away. We’ll say you never came here. We’ll pay off the cops. We’ll plant stories in the paper with the same people who wanted to pay you. Do you think you’re the first person who’s ever been in this room? You aren’t. You aren’t special.”

A look of horror passes over her face. I know that look. It’s the look of someone who knows they’re going to die. That look makes every cell in my body tingle. I feel electric. Touch me and you’ll get shocked. Jenny bargains with me: “You have so much. I make sixteen dollars an hour working my ass off at the mall. What’s fifty grand to you?”

“It’s nothing,” I say. “It’s shopping at Dolce on a Thursday.”

Jenny’s eyes narrow. “Fuck you, you rich, stupid cunt. So what if you were pretty once, now you’re nothing but an old-ass hag who fucked a rich guy. Women like you should be fucking spit-roasted in the town square.”

My hands are suddenly on her shoulders. My face inches away from hers. “Do you think I got handed this? No! I scraped my way here from the gutter of fucking Toledo, Ohio. I’m a cockroach. A demon. I’m the thing that goes bump in the night.”

It happens so fast, my teeth at her neck, sinking in, pulling the flesh from bone, blood gushing into my mouth. “What are you doing?” she asks, gasping for air. “I have a kid,” she says. It’s a plea. “I have a kid.” But I’m not listening. I’ve moved down to her torso, ripping open her shirt, sinking my face into her soft belly, gnawing away the skin, pulling out her organs and stuffing them in my mouth as fast as I can. It’s as if I’m possessed.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the ghost of Celeste, in her powder-blue Chanel suit, hair perfectly coiffed, a smug fucking look on her face. “I knew this is what you were all along,” she says. “You were never good enough for this family.”

“Shut up!” I scream at her. “Shut up!” I scream at no one.

—

“Mrs. Armstrong.” Someone is shaking me awake. I blink open my eyes. It’s David. I nod and try to peel myself off the ground. Fuck, my limbs feel like they’re filled with wet sand. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Remnants of the La Mer face mask give me a corpselike pallor. The rest of me is caked in a thick crust of dried blood. I am a living nightmare.

“Is everything okay?” David asks. He’s trying to hide his judgment, but his eye is twitching. Ethan is the barbaric one. I’m steak tartare on an Hermès plate, not a salesgirl on all fours. Until now. The hope I felt earlier is replaced by another feeling, hot and prickly on the back of my neck. It’s shame.

“I’m fine,” I say, as if he’s found me asleep in front of the TV, instead of surrounded by Jenny. Her femur. A cheap gold watch. An ear with gaudy chandelier earring still attached.

“Mrs. Armstrong, the pills…this…you’re not yourself.” He wants me to take a week at Spa de Santé in Switzerland.

“It won’t happen again,” I say brusquely.

Celeste appears next to me. She’s dressed like Jenny. Even dead, she manages to make the cheap stretch jeans and flammable top look fashionable. Elevated. I hate her. “You’ll do it again,” she whispers. “It’s your nature.”

I run my tongue over my teeth, dislodging a piece of Jenny’s gristle from between two molars, savoring the taste before swallowing. Maybe I do need a reset. “Fine,” I say to David. “I’ll go.”

He tries not to make his relief too obvious. “I’ll ring the spa now.”

Carolyn

Sneaking off to New York City isn’t easy when you’re fifteen and live in bumblefuck. In fact, it’s close to impossible. I start doing nails for some of the kids at school to pay for the trip. It turns out to be pretty fucking lucrative. I charge five dollars less than the local salon. Plus, I do nail charms for extra, which they don’t even offer. I already have a couple hundred bucks, thanks to the entire varsity cheer squad getting matching nails for state finals. Diego seems bummed I didn’t include him in my side hustle. “I could’ve done facials,” he says. I shrug and tell him I’m saving for a car. I feel bad about lying. We’re definitely growing apart. He can’t see it, but I can.

I hide all the cash I’ve made in a plastic baggie under my mattress. I need to come up with a cover story. There’s no way my dad and my stepmom, Janice, are just gonna let me go to New York. Janice is afraid of big cities. She thinks they’re like The Walking Dead. But instead of zombies, it’s hordes of unhoused people. If Janice finds out I went to New York, she’ll ground me until I’m forty.

Then, like a gift from the heavens, some chick in my Family and Consumer Science class happens to mention that the drama club is going to Cleveland to see a bunch of musicals. I didn’t even know we had a drama club, but apparently the new English teacher who just graduated from Oberlin started one. They got some grant to cover the cost of the trip. I ask if anyone can go. “Sure, I guess. If you can get a parent to sign the permission slip,” the chick in my class says. It’s the perfect cover story.

Janice is mystified by my sudden urge to go to Cleveland. “Do you even like theater?”

“I’m trying to broaden my horizons.” This is technically not a lie, even though it feels like one.

“Is Diego going?” Janice thinks Diego is trouble. Or at least that’s what she says. I think she’s just homophobic.

“We don’t do everything together.”

“What about Margot?” I remind Janice that Margot moved away.

“How much is this gonna cost?” my dad asks. I’m pretty positive that’s all he cares about. I tell him it’s free, I’ll just need some spending money. Sure, I have the money from my makeshift salon, but I might as well try to hustle my dad for some more. He strokes his mustache with his forefinger and thumb. I think he’s sold.

“I dunno,” Janice says, turning the permission slip over in her hand. “Cleveland is very dangerous.”

“They’re not setting us loose on our own, Janice. There are chaperones.” Then I go for the jugular: “It would give me a chance to make new friends.”

Janice sighs and looks at my dad. My dad shrugs. “Let her go.” And with that, Janice signs the permission slip.

Rosie

Naomi isn’t in school all week. They say they aren’t feeling well, but I think they’re still screwed up about what happened to Brayden. I ask if they want me to come by their house. They say no. Mom tells me not to worry, they probably need a little space.

It’s better Naomi’s not at school. All anybody can talk about is Brayden’s disappearance. Kids crying in the hallways. Speculating about what happened. A guy in my English class thinks Brayden was so drunk he fell into the lake. Everyone gets mad at him for suggesting Brayden is dead. Apparently some parents are suing the guys who threw the party.

I wonder if this is what happens every time Sam kills someone. Like is Fairview all up in arms about Gary? Are Carolyn and Diego gossiping about him? Are the cops investigating? It makes me nauseous to think about how easy it would be for us to get caught. One drop of blood. One smart cop. One neighbor who raises suspicion about us and we could all be in jail.

At lunch, Tallulah mentions her mom drove by the barn on her way home from work. Brayden’s car was still there. The whole area had been marked off with yellow police tape. “She said there were like fifty state cops with police dogs combing the grounds. This shit is fucking serious.”

Later, I ask Mom what happens if the cops find evidence.

“They won’t,” she says. But she doesn’t sound convinced.

The next day, the police start questioning kids at school. I walk to first period with Tallulah. She’s wearing a button that says Keep 42 in Your Heart. Forty-two is Brayden’s jersey number. I think the PTA made the buttons. I feel like a hypocrite wearing it, so I tuck mine in my backpack. “The vibe is real weird today,” Tallulah says, cracking winter mint gum between her teeth. I glance around. Everyone has a look of panic in their eyes, and no one is speaking above a whisper. “Do you think you’ll get called down?” I shrug and head into Algebra like I’ve got nothing to hide.

Later, during Civics, my teacher gets a call from the office. “Maya, the police need to see you in the music room.” Everyone stares at me like I’m a criminal. I guess I technically am. I wanna run. Or throw up. Or run and throw up at the same time. Instead, I slip my backpack on and walk as slowly as possible to the music room. I now understand why Mom makes us move. She isn’t just protecting Sam from getting arrested, she’s also protecting me from the aftermath. Wondering if you’re gonna get caught is one of the worst feelings. I should apologize to Mom for being such an asshole about leaving. Because, right now, as my mouth goes dry and my palms turn slippery, I wish I was in the car barreling toward a new life.

Sam’s exiting the music room when I arrive. “What are you doing here?” I ask. Sam didn’t even know Brayden.

He shrugs. Mumbles something about some basketball players saying they had seen Brayden talking to him at the rave. “He asked me for a light. It’s not exactly front-page news.” Sam puts his hand on my shoulder. I think he can see I’m scared. I think he’s trying to be comforting, which is weird, because Sam has never once in the history of our relationship tried to comfort me. “You’ll be fine,” he insists and then slinks off down the hall. I wish my brother was normal. I wish he made sense.

“Maya?” I turn to see a woman with very curly hair and vintage glasses poking her head out of the music room. “I’m Detective Rovegno from the Missing Persons Unit. We’re ready to speak to you.” She doesn’t look like a detective. She looks like the quirky school librarian from one of those heinous tween shows on Disney. I don’t know if this makes me feel more or less uneasy.

I wonder if the cops talked to Carolyn after Gary disappeared. I wonder what she said. I wonder if she thought it was one of us. I hope not.

Detective Rovegno and her partner, Detective Reycraft, ask me a bunch of questions about Brayden, mostly about the night of the party. How well I knew him. Why I got a ride from him. If anything about his behavior struck me as odd. I start to relax when I realize they think he ran away.

“Walk me through what you were doing right before the cops showed up,” says Detective Reycraft. He has a mustache. There’s a crumb stuck in it. Maybe from a muffin or some toast. I want to tell him about it, but he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who would take this well. “I was looking for my friend Naomi. They disappeared earlier in the evening.”

Detective Rovegno leans in. I can smell her perfume. It smells like flowers, peonies maybe. It’s sickly sweet. My stomach turns. “Is this Naomi Rodriguez-Elmwood?” I nod. “Where had Naomi disappeared to?”

I lie. I tell them the story Mom came up with for both of us. “I dunno. I was looking for them but then the cops showed up. I hid in the woods.” Neither of the detectives respond. They jot stuff down in their tiny notepads. I wonder if they know I’m lying. If they can see the truth inside of me like Dante did.

Detective Reycraft smooths his mustache. The crumb falls on his suit jacket. “Did you find your friend?”

“Yup. They’d run up the road when they saw kids getting thrown in the police van.”

“Did they say anything about Brayden?” I shake my head no. “Weren’t you concerned? He was your ride home.”

“We figured he got arrested. Or ran like some of the other kids. So we called my mom.” I stare down at my hands. I’ve chipped off all the nail polish on my thumb. It’s iridescent. The little flecks make my jeans sparkle. I think the color is called Last Ride. I almost laugh at the irony. I hope the cops are done asking me questions.

“And Brayden at no point during the evening mentioned anything about going to another party or meeting other people?” I watch the crumb on Detective Reycraft’s jacket fall to the floor. I wish I was that crumb. Or at least not here in the music room answering questions. “Maya?” The detectives are staring at me.

“Nope, he didn’t say anything.” The bell rings. “I have Bio. The teacher gets pissed if you’re late.”

“Okay, we’ll let you know if we need anything else from you,” says Detective Rovegno.

I grab my backpack and head out. I should feel relieved. I should feel like I passed a test I didn’t know I was gonna have to take. But I don’t.

I’m hustling down the hall toward Biology when Tallulah grabs me and pulls me into the girls’ bathroom. She’s done her eyeliner so the ends spiral. It makes her look like a fancy bird. “Oh my God,” she whispers once we’re hidden in a stall. “My cousin has a friend who trains dogs for the K9 unit, and she heard that the cops found a little piece of Brayden’s jersey in the woods. It has blood on it.” My mouth goes slack. I stare at the giant pin on Tallulah’s sweater so she can’t see the horrible truth lurking in my soul. But it feels like the pin is screaming at me: Keep 42 in Your Heart, Rosie! Keep Him in Your Heart! Keep Him! The world gets fuzzy. I grab the toilet paper roll to steady myself. I can’t pass out. “Dude, he might be dead,” Tallulah whispers.

“You don’t know that for sure,” I say.

“Should we tell Naomi?”

“He might not be dead,” I say again, even though I know that’s not true. The bell rings a second time. “I have to get to Biology. If I’m late the teacher’s gonna make me take a pop quiz.” But I don’t go to class. Instead, I head out the front doors and run all the way home.

Sam

By the end of the day, everyone at school thinks Brayden is dead. Some rumor about the cops finding part of his jersey covered in blood. Mom’s gonna have a shit fit.

KennedyKelsieKyra and her followers are sitting outside the library holding hands and weeping like they cared about Brayden. Like he wasn’t a creeper who tried to assault one of them. I think it’s so bizarre that when someone dies, people only remember the good parts. No one’s ever like, Hey, he was a total asshole! Or Thank God she’s dead, she was an emotional terrorist! Instead, they’re like, What a loss for humanity, even if the person was total trash. I wonder if anyone will remember my good parts when I’m dead. I’m not sure if there are any.

KennedyKelsieKyra says a bunch of kids are going to Bob’s Burger Barn after school to drink milkshakes and pray for Brayden’s safety. I’d sooner carve my eyes out with the tiny butterfly clips holding back KennedyKelsieKyra’s hair. But I can’t tell her that. So I lie and say I have to help my mom at work. KennedyKelsieKyra grabs my hand. Her bottom lip is trembling. “I really need you right now.”

“I’m not your boyfriend,” I say. She tells me I’m an asshole and storms off. I close my eyes and lean my head against the wall and wish myself someplace else. To say I regret siccing Brayden on Naomi is an understatement. Maybe Rosie’s right. Maybe I do ruin everything. Fuck.

My phone buzzes. It’s a text from an unknown number. CAN U MEET ME IN WOODS BY MY HOUSE?

WHO THIS? I text back.

NAOMI.

I guess I owe it to them to show up. I text back a casual thumbs-up.

When I arrive, Naomi’s pacing back and forth by the creek. They’re wearing a winter coat over stained pajamas. Their hair looks like it hasn’t been washed since Mom gave them a bath. They have dark circles under their eyes. “Hey,” they say, barely looking at me.

“What’s up?”

They shrug, stare down at their Air Force 1s like they’re trying to decide what to say. We stand there in silence for way too long. The woods are fucking freezing. My breath is a visible cloud. My nose a faucet. I run my cuff across it like I used to when I was little. Jesus, I wish I had a heavier coat. I shove my hands into my pockets, hoping it’ll warm me up a little. It doesn’t work. I shouldn’t have come.

“I’d love to stand out here with you all day,” I say, “but I’m turning into an icicle.”

“The cops interviewed me last night,” they finally say. “They came to my house. It was weird. My dad plays soccer with Detective Reycraft on Saturdays. He’s at our Christmas party every year. But last night they were in our kitchen asking me if I knew where Brayden might’ve gone.”

“Yeah, they were at school today. They interviewed me and Maya.”

Naomi pulls their winter hat down farther over their ears. “I lied to them.”

“Good.” I flex my hands in my pockets. I wish I had fucking gloves.

“I dunno how you can be so chill about lying.”

I shrug. Naomi traces a circle in the dirt with their toe. A hawk flies overhead. I wonder if it’s looking for prey. I stare at Naomi, who’s still running the tip of their sneaker through the dirt. I wish they would embrace what they are. But obviously they can’t. Maybe someday. “Can I go?”

“How are you okay with killing people?” they ask. “Maya said you’ve done it before.”

I wonder if Mom knows that Rosie’s been confessing shit to Naomi. “It’s food, I guess?” Naomi looks horrified. “Does a coyote feel bad for eating a neighborhood cat?”

“It’s not the same.”

“It isn’t?”

“Brayden was my friend.”

“Then don’t eat your friends.”

Naomi starts laughing. It doesn’t sound like their normal laugh. It’s low with frayed edges, like something’s been ripped apart inside them. Something that will never be put back together. “Awesome advice, bro,” they say sarcastically.

“Your parents have been feeding you human meat your whole life and you didn’t feel guilty.”

“I didn’t know what it was.”

“Well, did you feel guilty when you found out bacon was made from pigs?”

“You’re a fucking sociopath.” They kick a rock into the creek. It makes a plopping sound and then sinks to the bottom.

“Maybe,” I say. I dunno if I am. If I was, I don’t think I’d regret setting all this in motion. Instead, I’d be sitting back watching everything spiral out of control with a sense of deep satisfaction. “I have a genetic condition. I can’t change that.” They kick another stone into the creek. This one skims across the top of the water and then sinks. “If it makes you feel any better, I killed my friend Gary. He had a really shitty life. He’s better off.”

“That’s what you tell yourself.”

I shrug. “Sure, yeah. There’s a version where I didn’t and Gary becomes like a fucking robotics engineer for NASA, but there’s also a version where he stays a stoner loser who can’t get a job. I can’t predict the future. I can only see what’s in front of me.” I could tell them what KennedyKelsieKyra’s friend said about Brayden, but I don’t think that matters. “Look, on the bright side, you can protect yourself in a way most people can’t.”

“His family is destroyed. How am I supposed to live with that?” Naomi starts to cry.

I’m not sure what to do. Being comforting isn’t my forte. I stare up at the sky. It’s the same colors as the day Naomi beat me up. This time I don’t feel alive. I feel like a dead man walking. “He tried to assault you,” I say, knowing full well it isn’t going to make anything better. “You saw the situation. You made a choice.”

Naomi’s sobbing now. Big fat tears land in the dirt. “But when will this feeling go away?”

Rosie once read that your brain changes when you kill someone. Permanently. You can never go back to who you were before. “Sometimes it doesn’t,” I say, closing my eyes to the world, feeling the cold on my face.

Talia

Rosie wants to know what we should do. “Nothing,” I say. “There’s nothing to do. It’s just rumors.” I haven’t heard back from Dante about Helen. I’m sure it’s the last thing on his mind.

I never watch the eleven o’clock news. But Rosie’s desperate for information. The three of us sit with our eyes glued to the screen as the perky blond anchor named Jill tries out her best somber voice as she tells the metro area that new evidence suggests Brayden Carson may in fact have been murdered. “If anyone has any information—” I shut off the TV before the anchor finishes her sentence. We know what happened.

Rosie immediately starts in with questions. They come in rapid-fire succession. She doesn’t even wait for an answer. “What if they find more evidence? What if Naomi tells the truth? What if they already did?”

“They didn’t,” Sam says.

“You talked to them?” Rosie’s voice is suddenly shrill. She starts chipping away at the nail polish on her forefinger. “What did you guys talk about?”

Sam shrugs. “I dunno.” He leans back on the couch, closes his eyes. He’s been doing that a lot lately.

“How do you not know? Did you black out after your conversation?” Her voice is an octave higher than it was a minute ago. She’s about to freak out.

“Rosie…” When she was younger and got like this, I used to grab her from behind, hold her tight until she stopped. I think about doing that now.

“Naomi won’t see me, but they’ll see him?” Rosie points an accusatory finger at Sam.

“Naomi’s going through a lot of things that Sam’s gone through. They probably just had questions, right, Sam?” I look to him for help. I wish he would engage with his sister instead of shutting her out. I think it would calm her down.

Sam opens his eyes. He sighs. “Yeah, sure.”

It isn’t enough. Rosie’s face twists. Her cheeks go pink. Her eyes fill with tears. I try to stop the inevitable. “Rosie, it doesn’t mean Naomi doesn’t care about you—”

“Sometimes I wish I was like you guys. Or that I was in a normal family. But I can’t live between two worlds anymore. I can’t…” I move to hug her. I want to bury my face in her hair. I want to pluck the sadness and confusion from her. I want to sew up her broken heart. But as I reach my arms to scoop her up, she races out of the room. Rosie is an impression left on the couch. She is footsteps pounding down the hall. She is a door slam. Sam turns the TV back on, I assume so he can’t hear her sobs, which are a knife twisting through the center of my own heart.

Later, when the kids are asleep, I lie on my bed, staring at the water stain on the ceiling. I think about everything that’s come before this moment. I think about every choice I’ve made for myself, my kids. I wonder if they were all wrong.

When I was six, my parents breezed into town for a week or two. This was back when I still got excited to see them. This was back when I still thought they’d stay. This was back when I believed my gran when she said that someday they were gonna get better.

My mom was beautiful back then. It was before her arms were covered in track marks that oozed with infection. It was before her brown hair turned thin and greasy. It was before she had the same pallor as the dead people Gran worked on in the mortuary.

One afternoon, she took me to my favorite park. It had swings. The ice cream truck would come by on hot days. Mom was wearing her green dress with yellow flowers on it. I liked that dress because it showed off the tattoo of my name and birthday on the back of her shoulder. That tattoo showed the world she was mine.

Mom got me a vanilla cone. I ate it on the swings. The ice cream melted down my arm, making it sticky. She licked it off and smiled at me. “Gran said she told you about how we’re different.” I nodded. “What do you think of that?” I shrugged. I was still young. I didn’t really think about it at all back then. My mom leaned in. She was so close the tips of her brown hair tickled my knees. “Someday you might try to run from what you are. But it will always catch up to you,” she said.

“What does that mean?” But she was already swinging. Her head tilted back as she went higher and higher. When she reached the top, she jumped off. Her legs spun through the air. I thought she might fly away. Instead, she landed in the grass with a thud. She lay there, not moving. I got scared. “Mama? Mama, are you okay?”

My mom rolled over. She was laughing. It wasn’t a happy laugh. There was darkness behind it. “No, baby. And I never will be.”

Years later, when I was sneaking out of the Armstrong house in the middle of the night with nothing but a backpack and the kids, I thought of my mom’s words. I thought of those words as I strapped Rosie and Sam’s car seats into the junker I’d bought on Craigslist with money I’d stolen out of Ethan’s wallet. I thought of those words as I drove out of the city. I thought about how it was seriously fucked up to tell a little kid that. But my mom was fucked up. My dad was a ghost. I was determined to give Rosie and Sam something different. As I crossed into New Jersey then down into Delaware and over to Maryland, the words got blurry until they disappeared completely. I started to believe my mom was wrong. I started to believe nothing would catch up to us. If we could just ditch the past, get to a new town, give ourselves new names, everything would be okay.

But right now, as I lie in the dark, the comforter pulled up to my chin, staring at the water stain on the ceiling, I think about how I’m fucked up and Jonah is a ghost. I think about how our situation looks different, but it has the same rotted core. I think about how the cycle continued even though I tried to break it. I pull the covers over my head, hiding from the truth. My mom’s words ring in my ears: “You might try to run away from what you are. But it will always catch up with you.”

For the first time ever, I can feel it in the deepest part of my bones—my mom was right. I think our time is almost up.

12

Vera

Upon arrival at Spa de Santé, my doctor diagnoses me with an acute loss of self, a depressed lymphatic system, and anger trapped in what little fat I have on my body. He prescribes a series of detoxifying treatments meant to right all the things that have ever gone wrong in my life: whole body photobiomodulation, one hour a day of breathing ambient air, a specialized hydro massage that targets only angry fat cells using water jets that pulsate to the rhythm of “Fleur de Lis.” They also feed me a series of foams inspired by different Oscar-winning films.

Normally, a week being tended to by the soft hands of professionals would bring me back to myself. But this time it doesn’t.

Celeste is there at every turn. On the first day I spot her in the dining room, a bit of foam inspired by 1986’s Oscar winner Platoon clinging to the corner of her mouth. I close my eyes but she’s still there, staring at me from the inside of my eyelids.

On day three, during my absolute favorite treatment—a microcurrent massage where they fly in a singer from London’s Royal Opera House to perform La Traviata while thousands of electrical currents zap your muscles—she’s lying under the treatment table.

Near the end of my stay, I’m sitting in a soaking tub—this one filled with the tears of melancholy French babies—listening to a duchess tell me some endless story about how gleeful she was firing her assistant for having a “strange hairline” when Celeste appears wearing a bathing cap and swimsuit made of half-eaten bits of Jenny: fingers, toes, eyelids. “They know what you are!” Celeste screams over the drone of the duchess.

“Shut up!” I scream back, covering my ears. “Shut up!” The duchess looks at me like I’m insane.

I try to play it off. “Your story was incredibly dull,” I snap as I get out of the tub. I leave the spa a few days early.

—

Our driver, Rodman, picks me up from Teterboro. “How was the trip?” he asks.

“Terrifying,” I say. I’m weary of being terrorized by Celeste. I need to go somewhere she can’t find me. “Take me to a mall in New Jersey, just not the Shadybrook Mall.” We end up at some place called The Mills. I give Rodman cash and a list of items to purchase. He returns twenty minutes later with a bag from Marshalls. Inside are clothes I would never wear in my real life. A shapeless cotton blouse. Some khakis. A pair of Crocs. I grab a wig from my suitcase. I always carry a wig with me on trips. I don’t have a head for hats, so a wig is necessary in case of a hair emergency. This one is brunette. It’s nicer than my blond wig. I finish off my look with a baseball cap Rodman procured. I look terrible. Suburban. Like a woman who enjoys boxed wine and coupon collecting. It’s perfect.

The mall is a little nicer than what usually scratches my itch. There’s a Tory Burch. A Tommy Hilfiger. I skip those and instead take a twirl around Mandee. The mall is full of mothers with sticky-looking children. Teenage girls who wish they had enough to fill out a bra. Bored home health aides wheeling around their half-dead elderly charges. But no Celeste. I close one eye. I close the other. No Celeste there either. I go into the Bath & Body Works—I won’t let Jenny’s betrayal ruin my love of a scented candle—and purchase a few holiday scents: Sweater Weather. Tree Farm. Mahogany Teakwood Intense.

Finally, I grab a seat at the bar in Chili’s. I order a Tito’s Punch and a Quesadilla Explosion Salad and pick at both. I want the taste, not the calories. A woman wearing jeans and a sweater cut for a much smaller person sits a few stools away. She strikes up a conversation with me, which I don’t mind. I’d rather not be with my own thoughts. The woman’s name is Becki. With an i. How quaint. She works in HR. She hates mean people but loves margaritas. I wonder what it would be like to be someone like Becki. To live in a townhouse in Linden with a husband she’s known since high school, and a desk job where she sits all day, feeling the contours of her body pressing against her cheap pantsuit. In another life, that could’ve been me.

Becki is nattering on about a cruise she went on with her cousin, when suddenly she stops talking. Leans in. “Oh my God,” Becki says. “I know who you are.”

I gulp down my Tito’s Punch. The mix of vodka and sugary fruit juice is sticky on the back of my throat.

“You’re that model who was on the front cover of that magazine. What are you doing here?”

My mouth opens and closes but nothing comes out.

“I totally wanted to be you when I was a teenager. Oh my God! Can I have a picture? My cousin will be so jealous.” She whips out her phone. It’s wearing a case shaped like a foot with bejeweled toenails. I’m horrified that this loud woman not only wants to take a picture of me but wants to do so by aiming this bejeweled foot at my face.

“I’d rather not,” I say. But she presses. Turns to the bartender, a beleaguered young man who looks like he’d rather be anywhere but Chili’s, and tells him that I’m famous.

Just like with Jenny, I can see the opportunities that have arisen in the last few months fizzling if I capitulate to this photo. If it goes on her social media. If TMZ picks it up. Fashion won’t go near a Chili’s eater with a ten-foot pole. More importantly, I’ll never hear the end of it from Celeste. There’s only one way out of this.

“I know a place where there’s better lighting,” I volunteer.

—

We’re in the back seat of the SUV. Rodman stands outside smoking. Becki holds up the camera, but before she can press the button, my hands are on her, pressing her against the locked door. My teeth in her skin. Then her diaphragm. She looks at me, eyes wide. “What are you doing?” she squeals. Her phone drops to the floor as I plunge my fist through the hole I’ve gnawed into her stomach. I reach up under her ribs and yank out her heart. Becki goes silent for the first time since I met her. I take a bite of her heart even though I’m not hungry. It has an acrid taste. Years of alcohol and fatty foods. You are what you eat.

Rodman steps back into the car. I tell him to call our security team. “They’ll take care of this,” I say, gesturing to Becki.

“Shall we head home?” he asks, barely batting an eyelash.

I glance down at myself, covered in Becki’s blood, her heart still gripped in my left hand. I know I can’t go home looking like this. Ethan is there. My transgression will only justify his own.

Celeste is suddenly in the passenger seat. She’s eating a Cinnabon, a drizzle of cream cheese frosting on her chin. “You didn’t have to kill Becki. You wanted to do it. You’re disgusting.”

I cover my eyes with my hands. I know I can’t shut her out. Celeste is everywhere. But I can shut out the shame of Becki. “Take me to Martin’s old place,” I say.

Joaquin

Being stuck up in Westchester at Williams’s giant house with no proximity to an actual member of the Armstrong family is not what I had in mind. The longer I’m here, the more I realize I made a mistake. Even if I was at their house in the city, what would I do? I’m not a detective. I’m a geneticist. And if I’m honest, this situation calls for a fucking magician.

Upon closer look, it turns out Williams’s whole project was a scam. From top to bottom. Well, not entirely a scam—he was trying to develop a gene therapy for Jonah Armstrong, he was just never successful. Not even close. He gave Jonah a placebo back in 2011 and then lied about it. No wonder the guy died of kuru. No wonder Williams became a drunk. He literally killed someone. Then he spent the next fifteen years puttering about, taking the Armstrongs’ money, and making it seem like he was always just on the verge of a cure. I knew deep down Williams was a scammer. But this is next level. What a fucking mess.

I try calling Jie, but she doesn’t answer. Not surprising.

The house creaks and groans in the cold. It’s a space meant to be populated with a family, not a solo thirtysomething shuffling around furniture covered in sheets and dust bunnies the size of a fist looking for alcohol to ease his nerves. I find a bottle of gin tucked in the back of the freezer. It’s overgrown with ice. I carefully chip it out with a corkscrew The bitter taste is a welcome relief. I scroll through social media, looking at pictures of former colleagues living regular lives—going to weddings, weekends in the Hamptons, drinks with friends—while I sit here hoping my new boss doesn’t feed me to her son.

Life is absurd.

I think about putting all the info I have on a zip drive, anonymously dropping it with the police, then disappearing for a while. I wonder if they would take it seriously or think it was some kind of joke. Probably the latter.

I stare at the bottle of gin and decide that maybe I’ll just leave. Vera probably can’t even remember my name. Her assistant David isn’t going to track me down. Is he? I’ll go to Delaware, just for a bit, to figure out my next move. No one’s gonna look for me in Delaware. No one thinks of Delaware. It’s like a place that doesn’t really exist. Fuck it. I shove the gin back into the freezer and head upstairs to the bedroom I’ve been sleeping in. Packing takes two minutes. I didn’t bring that much with me. I figured I’d be back and forth to the city, not stranded up here.

I drop my suitcase at the bottom of the stairs and then head back down to the lab. Might as well put everything on a zip drive. When I’m done, I grab my computer and a few of Williams’s handwritten journals—you never can have too much insurance—and head upstairs to call an Uber.

As I close the lab door and key in the code to lock it, I hear footsteps. Upstairs. The lab is soundproof, so I’m not surprised I didn’t hear anyone enter the house. But who the hell would break in here? It’s in the middle of nowhere. The driveway’s literally a mile long.

I peek out the window. There’s no car outside. Huh. I tiptoe into the kitchen and grab a butcher knife out of a drawer—just in case—and then head upstairs. On the second-floor landing I stop and listen again. Nothing but the wind outside. The sound of my own breathing. Maybe I was imagining things. Conjuring the ghost of Williams to haunt me as I log yet another failure. I decide to look around anyway, peeking my head in one pitch-black room after another, until I get to the end of the hall. In Williams’s bedroom, there’s someone curled up in the fetal position on his bed. Their back is to me.

I tiptoe into the room. At first I think it’s the housekeeper because of the way she’s dressed. But as I get closer I realize, Oh my God, it’s Vera Armstrong. A splash of moonlight illuminates her. She’s asleep. Clutching a pillow. Dried blood crusted across her lips. Covering her hands. Up to her elbows. She looks like she walked out of one of the slasher films I used to watch through my fingers, trying to prove I was brave.

This is the kind of evidence I need. Paired with the zip file, it’s the full package. I try to keep my bearings. The smell of death is acrid, nauseating. I slowly pull my phone out of my pocket and aim it at her, hoping the moonlight will be enough to capture the horror of what is passed out in front of me. But just as I move my thumb to take the photo, her eyes flutter open.

“What are you doing?” she asks, breathlessly.

I want to rewind time. I want my finger to press the shutter button before her eyes open. I want to know I have a get-out-of-jail-free card. Instead, I tuck my phone in my pocket. I tell her I thought she was an intruder.

“Are you done with the project?” she asks. “Please tell me you’re done.” I think she’s weeping. It’s too dark to tell.

“Almost,” I say. Now she’s crying. Sobs.

“Will you cuddle me?” she asks. “I don’t want to be alone. Martin always cuddled me.”

I do not want to cuddle her. But I’m afraid of what will happen if I don’t. “Sure,” I say, slipping into bed next to Vera and wrapping my arms around her blood-soaked clothes.

Carolyn

New York City is like the whole world being on Adderall while you’re on Oxy. I can’t move fast enough. People jostling me. Telling me to move the fuck out of the way. I get why people find it intimidating, but I love it. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to go back to Fairview. Maybe when I find Margot, wherever she is, I’ll convince her to go to medical school here. I hope she’s okay. I hope her brother hasn’t done anything to her or her mom. I hope—

My phone starts buzzing. It’s my stepmom, Janice. Ugh. I talked to her while I was on the bus, but she’s been calling nonstop ever since. I wonder if she’s figured out that I’m not on a drama club trip. I press ignore and text her HAVING GR8 TIME CALL U LTR. That should hold her off for a few hours.

I duck into a coffee shop around the corner from Port Authority and get a pop and a turkey sandwich. It’s the one meal I get today. I need to save my money for a place to stay. New York is crazy expensive, but there seem to be some hostels I can afford, at least for tonight.

I pull out the file LaShonda put together for me. Near the top, there’s an article from some magazine called Architectural Digest about the Armstrong house. There’s a picture of the outside. It’s fucking huge. A mansion. Like it has gargoyles and everything. I didn’t think places like that existed in real life. The article says the house is on the Upper East Side and overlooks Central Park. Even though it’s cold out, like the kind of cold that makes your nose run and your fingers feel stiff, I decide to walk. I wanna see as much of the city as I can.

The air is different in New York. It’s full of possibility. Like at any moment I could have a wild adventure or disappear down a black hole. My bones are tingly thinking about it. I feel alive for the first time ever.

Twelve thousand steps later, I reach Central Park. There are actual horse-drawn carriages going up and down the street. I’m tempted to take a picture and send it to Diego. He’d be so jealous. He loves watching old episodes of Gossip Girl. XOXO, I’d text him. But I can’t. No one can know I’m here.

I wander up Fifth Avenue, trying to match the picture in the article to one of the buildings. I’m almost to the Metropolitan Museum of Art when I see it—the house. It’s across the street. I take a breath and run through what I’d prepared to say to whoever answers the door. If no one’s home, I’ll wait on the steps of the Met, like Blair Waldorf.

I cross the street and ring the doorbell. My stomach is full of bees, a daily occurrence since Margot and her family disappeared. Shit, I have to remember her real name is Rosie. Rosie and Sam.

A butler comes to the door. I thought butlers only existed in books. He looks exactly like what I imagined a butler would look like: tall, bald, with tiny glasses. His shirt is crisp, white. He has perfect cuticles. I wish I could take a picture of him, but that would be super rude. “Can I help you?” he asks.

“Hello, sir,” I say, the bees in my gut making my voice shake. “My name is Carolyn Cooper. I’m a friend of Vera’s granddaughter Rosie. Actually, I know her as Margot. I’m wondering if I could speak to Vera? I think Rosie might be in trouble.”

All the color disappears from the butler’s face. His cheeks are no longer pink. They’re a shade of gray. “Hold on one minute,” he says and then disappears inside the house. I wait on the front steps. The sun’s gone down, but the city’s just as busy—maybe even busier—as it was during the day. I stick my hand in the pocket of my jacket and rub the drawing I found in Jamie’s room between my thumb and forefinger to remind myself not to give up.

The door opens again. This time it’s a much younger man. He’s in jeans and a sweater. He reminds me of a muscular version of that actor Leonardo DiCaprio—all slicked-back hair and twinkling eyes. He looks me up and down. Strokes his goatee. For a split second, a tiny voice in the back of my brain tells me to run. Then the man smiles and the voice in my head disappears. “I’m Ethan, Rosie’s uncle,” the man says. “Come on in.”

Rosie

Tonight there’s a vigil outside Brayden’s house. Sam doesn’t wanna go, but Mom’s making him. “We need to pretend we’re like other people,” she says. We end up parking several streets away because there’s literally hundreds of people at the vigil. The PTA’s handing out fake candles wrapped in Brayden’s school picture. Tallulah waves at me. She’s with some other girls from school. I wave back but decide to stay with Mom and Sam. It feels like we should be together.

Brayden’s house is even bigger than Naomi’s. There’s a circular driveway. Fancy landscaping. Freakin’ pillars. It looks like something a Real Housewife would live in. I’m not surprised. Brayden oozed with privilege. I bet they have a game room downstairs. Or a pool in the backyard.

I bet they didn’t think bad things could happen to people like them.

News reporters are set up on the lawn. Their cameras pointed at the front porch. The chief of police gets up and makes a speech. Her voice is monotone as she gives all the details about Brayden’s disappearance. She says the Vernon police suspect “foul play.” I’ve only heard that term used in movies.

Foul play. It sounds so polite.

Brayden’s parents make a plea, asking anyone who has any information about Brayden to please come forward. His dad’s stone-faced. His mom breaks down. She falls to her knees. Wailing. They lead her back into the house. It hurts to watch. I’ve never seen anyone that upset.

I try to remind myself that Brayden was a dick. That he deserved what happened to him. I hate how life isn’t black and white. The grayness is endlessly confusing.

I glance over at my mom. Her face is perfectly still, but tears stream down her cheeks. Sam’s picking at a hole in the cuff of his sweatshirt.

The principal gets up and asks us all to turn on our candles. Then the school choir starts to sing “Too Cool to Die” by Post Malone, which is like an odd choice for a vigil, but who am I to judge? I guess it was Brayden’s favorite song.

I’m not really watching the choir. I’m watching Naomi. It’s the first time I’ve seen them since that night. They’re standing on the porch with Brayden’s family. I’m not sure if that’s because Dante’s a homicide cop or because of how close Naomi was with Brayden. Anyway, Naomi’s hair is hanging in their face, like a wall protecting them from the world. I watch as they suddenly bolt off the porch and disappear into Brayden’s backyard. Dee starts to go after them, but Dante stops her.

I realize this is my chance to talk to Naomi. “Be right back,” I tell Mom, before making my way through the crowd. I slip around the side of Brayden’s house. Naomi’s at the end of the yard, past the pool, sitting on a swing attached to an old oak tree. They look like one of those Japanese horror movie ghosts.

“Hey,” I say. Naomi looks up. They have the eyes of someone much older than fifteen. Rimmed in red. Full of pain. I wanna ask why they haven’t texted me. But that seems selfish. “Are you okay?”

“I can’t watch everyone wonder what happened to him when I know the answer. It’s eating me alive.” Their voice is hollow, like part of them is missing. I open my arms to hug them. “Please don’t,” they say, putting up their hands.

My cheeks burn. I clutch my arms around myself. Holding them tight. Like I’m punishing them. Like they should’ve known better.

“I can’t keep this inside anymore,” they say. I can feel their desperation and confusion. It’s sticky with humanity. I realize I haven’t felt that way about death in a long time. I used to think Naomi was too dangerous for me to be friends with. But maybe I’m the one who’s dangerous. “Not many people could live the way we do,” my mom said. She was right.

“You can’t tell Brayden’s family,” I whisper. “My mom could get in huge trouble. We all could.”

“I know, but—”

“But what?”

“Hi, kids.” I turn. It’s Dee. Her breath makes perfect white clouds in the night air. “Maya, are you holding up okay?” I nod, keeping my eyes toward the ground. I’m worried if I look directly at Dee, she’ll see the truth lurking inside me. Dee puts a gentle hand on Naomi’s shoulder. Squeezes it. “It’s time to head home, sweetheart.”

As Naomi gets up, I ask them if we can hang out later this week. There are stones in my throat. I hope Naomi can’t hear them. They shrug and follow their mom.

As they disappear around the side of the house, I know it’s over between us. But I don’t understand why. I don’t understand what happened in between Naomi leaving my house the day after Halloween and now. All I know is that a bomb’s gone off in my heart and I am suddenly a million tiny pieces scattered in the November cold.

Vera

I spent a few days up in Westchester actively ignoring my shame. Having Joaquin around made it easier. I ordered him to run me a bubble bath twice a day and tell me everything is going to be okay. I’m paying him gobs of money. It’s the least he can do. If I was Benny, I would’ve poked around about the project, asked informed questions, made him take me through his research thus far. But I don’t have a brain for those sorts of things.

Instead, I took him at his word that things were going swimmingly. I know having someone continue Martin’s work should put me in an ebullient mood, but my transgressions have outweighed any excitement.

I would’ve stayed up in Westchester forever, just to avoid the ghost of Celeste, but David calls. “You have several charity dinners this week. Also, Ethan has a teenage girl tied up in his playroom.” Normally I would’ve bristled at the thought of having to clean up yet another one of Ethan’s messes, but considering my last few encounters, I cannot judge. Besides, David informs me that the girl knows my granddaughter, Rosie.

So here I am, in Ethan’s playroom, sitting across from a petrified teenage girl with ridiculously bedazzled fingernails. She’s out of her depth. She is an Abercrombie sweatshirt. A cup of Pinkberry. A Taylor Swift lyric. She doesn’t belong in New York City and certainly not in my basement. But here we are.

“I’m not going to let anyone hurt you,” I say, trying to walk back whatever villainous inanity my son put her through. Had I been the one to answer the door, I would’ve given her petits fours and one of those ridiculous boba teas the kids like. I would’ve acted like a sweet grandmother. I would’ve made her feel comfortable, not like a potential meal. But unfortunately that ship has sailed, thanks to Ethan, who is outside the door, coked up out of his mind, his face pressed against the glass like a zoo animal eager for lunch.

I gently move the hair out of her face. “I promise you’re okay, darling.” She nods. Maybe I’ve won her over. Maybe this will be different from Helen. I can’t let myself get excited.

I glance at a photo Carolyn took of Sam on her phone. The phone that Ethan confiscated from her so she couldn’t call for help. The photo could easily be of Jonah; the boy looks just like him—same jawline, same tousled black hair and pale skin. Even in the photograph, I can tell he’s all sharp edges. The photo pulls the scab off my grief. It feels raw and exposed, like Jonah’s death was just yesterday, not over a decade before.

“I think Jamie—I mean Sam—killed a kid at our school,” this Carolyn suddenly says. Her hands are shaking.

“What makes you think that?” I ask, trying to suss out if she knows what we are. She tells me some long, rambling story about Talia and the kids disappearing the day after some boy named Gary went missing. It’s apparent from the narrative that Carolyn has no clue what lurks inside my grandson. Although she does hand me a wrinkled scrap of paper with a graphic drawing scribbled on it. I’m quietly devastated that Sam has turned out more like his uncle than his father. It’s surely Talia’s fault. I knew she would be a terrible mother. “Why did you come here?”

“Margot’s my best friend. I’m worried about her.” Carolyn nervously twists a lock of her hair as she tells me she hired someone to track Rosie down. Instead, they found me. “I thought you might be able to help me like locate her.”

“You could’ve called rather than coming all the way to New York.”

“LaShonda did. No one got back to her.” Ethan knocks on the door. I ignore him. “Are you gonna kill me?” she asks, her bottom lip trembling.

I tell her no, of course not. Again, I wish Ethan had treated her like a guest rather than a prisoner. I’d have more options.

Celeste is suddenly in my ear. “Don’t lie to the girl,” she says. Her breath smells like rot, as if she’s recently crawled out of the grave. I gag and loosen the top button on my Prada blouse, but Celeste is still there, breathing in my face. “Give me one minute,” I say, exiting the room.

Out in the hallway, Ethan looks at me with hopeful eyes. “Do I get her back?” he asks. My son can be so desperate about food. Like he’s a pit bull we’ve left chained in the yard. Not a fucking Pomeranian who gets whatever he wants. I hate this side of him. It’s disgusting. Sometimes I wish I’d murdered him like Celeste, but then I’d have the two of them haunting me. One ghost is frankly enough.

David peeks around the corner. The last few weeks have worn on him. He’s wearing two different shoes. “Kevin’s on the line. He traced those texts on Helen’s phone to a place called Vernon. He thinks that’s where Talia and the kids are hiding out.”

We’ve been down this road before and have always been outsmarted. But something feels different this time. I glance through the window at Carolyn. Maybe she’s my good luck charm. “Have Kevin stop by here on his way out of town. I have something he can use as bait.”

Talia

Sam’s at school. Rosie didn’t want to go. She’s knee-deep in heartbreak, so I let her stay home. I offered to play hooky with her. She used to love that. We’d check out old movies from the library that Sam had no interest in watching: Mermaids, The Professional, Irreconcilable Differences. I’d make peanut butter M&M pancakes. Sometimes we’d do a puzzle.

But today she wasn’t interested. “I’m not hungry,” she said. Her voice was a rasp. Her face was drawn. She’s currently moping in her room.

I’m getting ready for work when the doorbell rings. Dee’s on my front porch. She doesn’t look like herself. She isn’t wearing any makeup. Her hair is thrown back into a messy ponytail. She’s in a sweatsuit. “I need to talk to you inside,” she growls. I know why she’s here. Rosie warned me that Naomi might crack.

“How fucking dare you!” Dee screams once the door is closed. “Naomi’s not your child. Do you know what this has done to them? What it’s done to our family?”

I try to explain to her that Naomi was in trouble. I try to explain to her that they were scared. I try to explain to her that I was worried she would blame me or my kids for what Naomi did. The more I say, the more obvious it becomes that she’s right—Naomi’s not my kid. I should’ve called Dee the minute I arrived in the woods. I stop mid-sentence. “I’m sorry,” I say. “You’re right.” Dee seems taken aback by my admission of guilt. Her mouth opens and closes, but no sound comes out. “Are you going to pin Brayden’s murder on us?” I ask.

“What? No,” she says, a confused look on her face. “Dante will take care of it. It just—it would be easier for him to cover this up if he knew about it when it happened.” I apologize again. Dee nods. She looks lost, like she came for a fight and doesn’t know what to do now that there isn’t one. We stand there in silence.

“How do you know how to clean up a murder scene that well?” she finally asks. I don’t want to tell her. But my silence is an answer.

“I see,” she says. “Naomi’s agreed that it’s best to pretend this never happened.” Her eyes narrow. Her mouth purses. Her finger is in my face. “I knew you were trash the minute I saw you. If you or your kids come anywhere near my family, I will turn this entire town against you.” She storms away. Peeling out of our driveway in her BMW. The wheels screeching as she disappears down the street.

I’m not surprised by her threat. I always knew Dee was a Karen cannibal in Lululemon. I think back to that night we had drinks. I should’ve turned down the invite. There’s no way for me to have friends. Especially friends like Dee. I’ve lived this life for too long. I have a fucked-up view of the world. I’m paranoid. I’m scared. I’m feral. I’m—

Rosie sticks her head out of her room. “What was that about?” I want to ask her if I’m a bad mom. Instead, I say, “Nothing. Grown-up stuff.” Rosie ducks back into her room. Even if I’m not always a bad mother, I’m a bad person. There’s no way I’m not. I’m a cannibal, for fuck’s sake. Bad is written in my DNA.

13

Carolyn

I’m somewhere in upstate New York near the Canadian border, in an SUV with tinted windows and no way to get out of the back seat unless Kevin lets me out. Kevin is weird. Not weird like Ethan. Ethan’s American Psycho weird. He looked at me the same way my dad looks at the sirloin sampler at Cracker Barrel. It gave me the willies. Kevin looks like he does a lot of push-ups and puts protein powder in everything. But he also made me listen to Brené Brown’s podcast on the way up to Vernon and mentioned he likes to watch Below Deck before bed. He’s got layers.

One thing’s for sure—he didn’t wanna bring me. “You’ve failed on every occasion,” Vera said to him. Which made me think Vera’s been looking for Margot and her family for a while. On the way upstate, I asked Kevin a bunch of questions: Why is Vera looking for Margot? How come they’re estranged? Why did Margot’s mom change their names? Kevin grunted, “I don’t ask questions. You shouldn’t either.” Since then, he’s ignored me.

The silence has given me a lot of time to think about my life choices. Was coming to New York by myself a total fucking mistake? Yes. Does it mean that I’m never gonna take a risk ever again? No. This has been the scariest twenty-four hours of my life, but I’ve also never felt more alive, which is weird because I thought I was dead meat when Ethan put me in that cell.

Anyway, next time I’ll plan better. If there is a next time. Look, I don’t think Kevin’ll kill me, but I’m not so sure about the Armstrongs. “What’s gonna happen if this doesn’t work out?”

Kevin glances at me in the rearview mirror. “They’ll eat us.” I laugh. But Kevin’s not kidding. “They’re fucking cannibals,” he says. “You didn’t know that?”

A thought pops into my head. It feels like an answer: Jamie ate Gary. Fuck. That’s why Margot hates her brother so much. He eats people.

Suddenly everything makes sense, and nothing makes sense at all. It feels like finding out there are tiny people hiding in the walls who take one sock from each pair out of the laundry. But this is scarier. Way scarier. I say a little prayer that we find Margot. Or maybe we don’t want to find Margot. I can’t tell anymore who I should be rescuing her from. Her grandma? Her brother? Maybe both? The bees in my stomach are buzzing so loud I can’t hear my own thoughts. I take a breath. I try to see a way through this mess. I can feel tears racing down my cheeks. They are warm and salty.

I don’t want to die.

“Put your oxygen mask on first,” Janice always says. I know that if we don’t find Margot, I’m dead meat—literally. So I tell myself it’s okay to help Kevin find Margot. I need to help Kevin find Margot. Finding Margot is my oxygen mask. Once we find her, I’ll figure out a way for both of us to escape.

I wipe the tears off my face and glance out the car window. Kevin is lingering outside a dentist office located in this kinda quaint downtown. He approaches a teenage girl and her mom and shows them the picture I took of Jamie. “Have you seen this kid?” he asks. So far nobody’s said yes, including this teenage girl, who shouts “creep” as she walks away. Kevin gives off kidnapper vibes. I think it’s the wraparound sunglasses and the windbreaker. Any reasonable person would keep their mouth shut unless they knew Jamie was a killer.

Kevin gets back into the SUV. I press my face up against the grate that divides the front from the back. Now that I have a plan, I feel braver. Wild. Like I’m a storm. “Maybe you should let me do the asking,” I suggest. “No one’s afraid of a teenage girl.”

“Nice try,” Kevin says, “but I’m not giving you the opportunity to escape.”

“I’m not trying to escape.”

“We’ll find the right person.” Kevin starts up the car. That’s when I see it—a bench advertising Woodland Realty. There’s a picture of a woman. She’s wearing a blazer and has a big plastic smile on her face. Dee Rodriguez, Winston County’s #1 Realtor the bench says. Janice’s sister is a realtor in Fairview. Peg knows everything about everyone.

I poke my head back through the grate. “I bet the local realtor knows where they live.”

Sam

Rosie’s been crying in her room for days. Mom’s been acting like a fucking lunatic. I have this awful feeling in my gut. I guess it’s guilt? I dunno. I don’t understand why I feel this way now. I didn’t even kill Brayden. I was just the architect of his demise. Whatever. I wish Helen would surface so we could move. Forget about Vernon. Forget about Naomi.

Speaking of Naomi, they’re back in school. The only reason I even showed up today is to talk to them. I want them to eradicate this fucking feeling from my brain. But they’re constantly surrounded by a gaggle of footwomen, tending to their every need. It’s fine. I have a plan.

At lunch, KennedyKelsieKyra says she heard Naomi told the cops Brayden assaulted them. Naomi fought him off. “Everyone thinks Brayden killed himself,” KennedyKelsieKyra whispers. “I mean, wouldn’t you? Naomi’s dad’s a fucking homicide detective.”

I wonder if Naomi came up with the plan on their own. Or if it was their dad’s idea to tell a half truth. Probably their dad. Regardless, everyone is less sad that Brayden is dead. As they should be, frankly.

“Did your sister know Naomi got assaulted?” some sophomore nose ring asks me. I shrug. A pair of too-tight jeans sits down at the table with an apple and a chocolate shake. “Yo,” she says to me, “there’s some dude in an SUV looking for you.” I look at her, confused. Jeans said she was coming out of the dentist with her mom when some guy in a black SUV approached them with a picture of a kid that looked like me. “He asked me if I knew you.”

My mom’s gotten spooked by random SUVs before. I always thought she was being crazy, but maybe there was something to it. Maybe someone knows what I’ve done. Maybe they want to punish me. The thought kind of excites me. “What did you say?”

Jeans looks offended I even asked. “I’m no snitch.” She takes a bite out of her apple. KennedyKelsieKyra asks why someone would be looking for me.

“I’m a serial killer,” I say. “Guess the cops finally caught up with me.” Everyone laughs, including me. I’m the only one who knows that statement is true.

After school, I follow Naomi. Off campus. Through the woods. I think they know I’m on their tail, but they don’t stop until we’re right near their neighborhood. Finally, they whirl around. “What the fuck do you want?”

I tell Naomi what I did. How I knew what they were. How I wanted to tell them but I couldn’t. So I decided to force it out of them.

Their whole body is a live wire. “Why would you do this to me?”

“Because I was tired of being the only one.” I watch them grit their teeth, flex their right hand, then curl it into a fist. “Go ahead, hit me,” I say. This is why I followed them. I want them to annihilate me. It’s the only way to stop this fucking terrible feeling. I close my eyes. Wait to feel their fist connect with my face.

Instead, I feel their breath, hot on my cheek. “I wouldn’t give you the fucking satisfaction,” they hiss. When I open my eyes, they’re gone.

Rosie

YR PSYCHO BRO TOLD BRAYDEN I WANTED TO FUCK HM. I shove Naomi’s text into Sam’s face. “Is this true?” I ask. Every single cell in my body is pulsating with rage. Sam nods. He doesn’t even look ashamed. “What is wrong with you?” He shrugs. He freakin’ shrugs. I rush at him—I don’t even think about it—and knock him down on the living room floor. He lies there as I pummel him. WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! I’ve never punched anyone, but each time my fist hits his face I can feel a little bit of that rage disappearing. “You ruin everything!” I scream. Blood spurts from his nose. WHAM! His lip splits. WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! Naomi was right. It does feel good to hit. So good. I hit Sam until there isn’t a drop of rage left inside of me. I’m empty. I’m reborn.

When I’m done, I stand up. Sam’s laughing. Mouth open, guffawing like I just told a funny joke. I can feel the rage starting to bloom again in my chest, but I know if I keep hitting him, I’ll kill him. I don’t know if Mom would be upset that he’s dead, but I don’t want to find out.

“I hate you!” I scream and run out the door. I don’t know where I’m going, but I can’t be in that house. Not with him. My knuckles throb and my head doesn’t feel like it’s attached to my body anymore. I’m so pissed at my brother that I don’t even see the SUV or the man who gets out of it until he grabs my arm. “What the—?” I say as he puts a cloth over my mouth. I try to fight him off but my whole body goes soft in his arms. Like I’m made of marshmallow fluff. He lifts me into the car. As the world goes fuzzy, I hear a familiar voice. “Margot! Margot, it’s me, Carolyn.” Then everything goes to black.

Sam

My sister gave me exactly what I needed, and I didn’t even have to ask. Weird how the world works that way. I think she cracked a tooth. She definitely broke my nose. Blood trickles into my mouth. I want to always look like this. Monstrous.

I watch Rosie as she runs out of the house, leaving the door open behind her. I hear a car come to a stop outside. I hear my sister say something. I peel myself off the floor just as some juiced-up cop-type in his mid-forties shoves my sister in the back seat of a black SUV. The black SUV that too-tight jeans was talking about at lunch. The one that’s looking for me. The man gets back into the car. I try to run after him, but my head’s fucked up from getting punched so many times. The whole world swivels and by the time it slams back into focus, the SUV is in motion. “Take me,” I say. “You’re supposed to take me.” But the SUV is gone.

Talia

Vera found us.

I’ve thought about this moment a thousand times. But in every scenario, we get away. I never let myself live with the possibility that we won’t. I never let myself believe that Vera’s goons could snatch Rosie from right under my nose.

Sam calls me at work. I’m halfway through embalming an eighty-year-old man who died of prostate cancer when he tells me that Rosie is gone. For a split second I think about blaming Sam. I think about screaming, How could you let them take her? But I know it’s not his fault. It’s mine. “I’ll be home in ten minutes,” I tell him.

—

Sam throws his duffel bag into the trunk of my car. I’m trying to stay focused. I’m trying not to freak out. I’m trying, but I know what Vera is capable of. I know how much money she has access to. She can get whatever she wants, whenever she wants. She can make whole people disappear with one phone call. I know how to keep my kids away from her. I’m not sure how to get them back once she has them.

Sam gets into the car. His face is beat to shit. Again. “What happened?” I ask, pulling out of the driveway and onto the road.

“Do you really wanna know?”

I don’t.

Sam stares out the window. “You know who took Rosie, don’t you?”

This is the moment I’ve been dreading since we left the Armstrong house. I could lie, but what would be the point? It’s time to tell him the truth. “Your grandmother. She’s a really bad person. She’s part of the reason we’ve been on the run.” I glance over at Sam. He’s crying.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry for everything.” I can’t remember the last time Sam apologized. Something is torn inside of him. I can feel it. I want to pull over to the side of the road and hold him like I did when he was younger. But we don’t have time.

Instead, I put my hand on his. “Me too.”

Part IV

Home

14

Vera

I had Kevin bring Rosie and her little friend straight to Martin’s house in Westchester. I’m not sure what I’m going to do with Carolyn, but I didn’t need Ethan and his appetite forcing my hand. When I arrive, both girls are being held in the lab’s examination rooms. Benny had the rooms put in right after Talia gave birth. You need a keycode to get in and there’s no way to get out.

Rosie is lying in her hospital bed, asleep. I always imagined she would look just like Gabrielle—red-haired, an athlete’s body, the kind of face cameras love. But as I get closer to her, I’m disappointed to discover she looks like Talia. That round face. The smattering of freckles, listless hair that’s been dyed too much, used clothing. Pimples. Frankly, it makes me physically ill to look at her. I tell David to make an appointment with my hairdresser and my esthetician. The minute we’re done with this gene therapy business, I’m going to turn this sad lump into somebody worth looking at.

Rosie wakes up in a panic. “Where’s my mom?” she asks, breathless, trying to wriggle free from the bed restraints. I figured she would be shocked, disoriented. That’s why I wore my Hugo Boss crossover jumpsuit. I find it has a calming effect on people. Makes me seem less intimidating. I tell Rosie everything. Our great family’s history. My mother’s tragic normalness. Martin’s very important work. Her father’s untimely death. I show her pictures in an old album. My performance is Oscar-worthy. I even cry a little. When I’m done, she looks at me with big, unblinking eyes. “I wanna go home,” she says, her lip trembling.

“You are home,” I tell her. “Well, not this home. Eventually we’ll move you into the house in the city. Then we’ll retrieve your brother. No more running. No more changing your name. No more scraping by. Here, you’ll have access to anything you want.”

“What about my mom?”

I realize she loves Talia. I need to tread lightly. “We’ll find a place for her,” I say, wearing a lying smile. “Joaquin needs to take your vitals.”

“Why?”

I realize I haven’t told her the best part. I take her hand, like a grandmother would. “We’re finally going to restore the Armstrong lineage to its pure form. Joaquin’s going to give you gene therapy. You’re going to be one of us.” I expect her to hug me. To thank me. I’ve just handed this sad little girl everything I dreamed of as a child.

“I don’t want to be like you!” she screams right in my face. I’m suddenly twenty years younger, in the kitchen, watching Jonah scream at me, a knife in his hand. Rosie, it seems, has all the worst parts of both her parents. Jonah changed his mind. So will his daughter.

I close one eye so I can’t see her face. “It’s going to be a wonderful life,” I tell her. Then I leave her screaming and writhing as I walk out the door.

Joaquin

What the fuck have I gotten myself into?

Yes, spooning Vera and running her a warm bath made me uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable. But it wasn’t hurting anybody but me. Imprisoning two teenage girls against their will? I was a convict, for fuck’s sake. I’m not a warden. I can’t be a warden.

This is not what I signed up for.

I sneak out to the woods behind the house and call Jie. For the first time in weeks, she answers. I tell her everything. Even the shit I’m not supposed to reveal—that one of Vera’s employees kidnapped two girls for her. That Vera expects the gene therapy to be ready ASAP. That when I told her I didn’t think that was possible, that science takes time, she asked me how much money it would take to make it possible.

“What did you say?” Jie asks.

“I said a hundred thousand dollars. She wrote me a check right there.”

Jie gasps on the other end of the phone. “Did you take it?”

“What was I supposed to say, no? They’re gonna kill me if I don’t come up with something by the end of the week. The least I could do is get some money out of it.” I glance up at the sky. It’s snowing. Big, fat, wet flakes land in my hair. “Maybe I could take the girls and run.”

“Where?” Jie asks. “They’ll find you.”

Fuck. She’s probably right.

Jie asks if I’ve gotten any evidence proving the Armstrongs are murderers. I say I’m close. I don’t tell her Vera stayed up here for several days. I tried to get her to confess to what she’d done. I had my phone in my pocket. My finger on the record button like I’d seen in movies. But she just popped Xanax by the fistful and blathered on about how she misses Williams. “He understood me better than anyone,” she repeated over and over in her drug haze. I started to feel bad for her. I don’t want to tell Jie any of this. She’ll just focus on how I failed to get a confession. Instead, I say it’s hard to gather evidence because they’re keeping me in Westchester away from the family.

“It’s your only get-out-of-jail-free card,” Jie says. “Take an Uber to the city and poke around.” Her voice is sharp. She’s clearly upset with me. “You can’t whip up a gene therapy by Friday.” I tell her I could do the same thing Williams did—give the girl a placebo. No one would be the wiser.

“Until she ends up dead from kuru.” Jie lights a cigarette. I hear the click of her Zippo, the embers crackling as she takes her first inhale. “So, you’re Williams now?”

Her words cut deep. “That’s not fair—”

She interrupts. “Clearly, you are. You took the money. God, I knew this situation was fucked. It’s why I didn’t agree to help you.”

My mouth falls open. A few snowflakes land on my bottom lip. They’re cold, wet. I’m not sure how to respond. I value Jie’s opinion, deeply. It stings that she doesn’t think I’m someone who would do the right thing. Maybe I’m not? I don’t know anymore. Fuck. I haven’t felt this way since juvie. I imagine her looking at me with the same disdain the guards did. It makes the back of my neck itch. I stare at the sky, wishing I’d never ticked off Williams. That I’d just waited it out until he died.

“Hello? Joaquin?”

I sigh. I’m in handcuffs yet again. I have nowhere to hide. I either do the right thing or I don’t. “Fine. I’ll poke around at their house in the city. I need someone to watch the patients while I’m gone. Can you do it?”

Rosie

Joaquin comes in to check my vitals. He seems nice. Normal. Not like my grandma. She spoke to me like she was performing a scene in a movie. She even tried to cry at one point but couldn’t get any tears out. Before she left, she closed one eye and pulled back the sides of my face, like she was imagining what I would look like with plastic surgery. It was fucking weird.

Anyway, Joaquin talks to me like I’m a human, not a prop. “Bet you didn’t expect to be here, doing this,” he says, wrapping a blood pressure cuff around my arm.

“You don’t know the half of it.” I knew my mom was a liar, but I didn’t realize the extent of it. Now I get why she was always telling us that having extended family was overrated. That we were better off without grandparents. She wanted to protect us from this. I suddenly feel bad about all the shit I gave her. Every time I threw a fit about moving. Every time I complained about not having a normal family. My mom was doing what was best for us. I wish I could apologize to her.

“I didn’t expect to be here either,” Joaquin says, his eyes sad. He unwraps my arm and pushes the blood pressure machine to the side.

I look him in the eye. “I don’t wanna be like them,” I say, hoping he’ll let me go.

Joaquin doesn’t respond. Fuck. He just takes out needles to collect blood. “Let me know if this hurts. Blood draw isn’t my forte.” As he tries to find the vein, I remember something my mom said a long time ago. “A kidnapper’s never going to let you go, no matter how much you beg them.” She told me and Sam to find the kidnapper’s weak spot and work on it. “Even getting a small concession from them could be the key to freeing yourself.” I thought it was weird when she said it, but now it makes sense.

Joaquin mumbles “Fuck this” under his breath as he struggles to find a vein. “Sorry, I just don’t want to hurt you.” He doesn’t realize it, but he’s showing me his weak spot. A plan forms in my brain. Quickly. Like suddenly remembering the answer to a pop quiz.

When he finishes taking my blood, I will myself to cry. It’s not that hard. I’m fucking terrified. “Please,” I say, choking back fake sobs, “can you at least let me out of these restraints? They hurt.” He stares at me for a moment. I wonder if I was wrong about him. I wonder if this isn’t his weak spot.

Joaquin sighs. “Don’t try anything. Please.” He undoes the cuffs around my wrists and ankles. When he’s gone, I close my eyes. I think about how a few days ago, my biggest worry was Naomi. That feels like a nothingburger compared to this. Like, I’m still enraged with Sam. But I’d also give anything for him to break me out.

I don’t wanna be a cannibal.

I don’t.

I put up with the way we live because I know that the minute I turn eighteen I’ll be free of it. That I’ll have a chance to finally be a regular person. But now…I feel a scream being born in the back of my throat. I shove my fist in my mouth to keep it from ripping into existence.

“Margot!”

My old name is a whisper coming from the vent near the floor. Oh my God, it’s Carolyn. Suddenly, I remember seeing her in the car. I leap out of bed. My feet on the cold concrete. The back of my hospital gown flies open. I have the sudden thought, Who put me in this? Was it Joaquin? Did he undress me? My cheeks burn with embarrassment. I push the thought into a little box in the back of my brain and squat down in front of the vent. “Carolyn?”

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“I’m just happy to hear your voice. I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

Carolyn and I tell each other everything, crouched low, our faces pressed against the slats of the vent. She doesn’t freak out when I tell her about my family. In fact, she knew. Some guy named Kevin told her. “It really clarified a ton of shit for me,” she says. “Especially why your uncle stared at me like a fucking rack of ribs.” I laugh even though it isn’t that funny. Carolyn joins in. We laugh until we can’t breathe. Then we’re both quiet, gasping for air as if the reality of our situation sucked all the oxygen out of our rooms.

“Your brother killed Gary, didn’t he?”

“Yeah. It wasn’t the first time he’s done that.”

“I figured. But you still love him anyway.”

She says it like a statement. Like she knows that’s how I feel. I’m quiet. It’s so hard to talk about Sam. I can hear the hum of the air conditioner. Carolyn breathing. Joaquin’s music in the next room.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“No,” I say. “I wish my feelings about my brother were black and white. But he’s nothing but gray in my heart. He always will be.” This is the most honest I’ve ever been with anyone. It feels good. Like someone clipped my wings and they’ve finally healed.

“I get it,” she whispers.

I want to hug her, or at the very least lay my head on her shoulder. Instead, I put my hand up to the vent and close my eyes and imagine she’s doing the same. “You’re really brave,” I tell her.

“Or stupid,” she says, her voice cracking. “I didn’t know they wanted to hurt you. I just didn’t wanna die.”

“I know.”

“I had the idea to talk to the real estate agent to get your address.”

“What real estate agent?”

“Dee something.” My stomach is a fist. Dee ratted us out. I wonder if Naomi knows. I can’t think about that now. I tuck Naomi into the same dark box I put Joaquin seeing me naked in. “I was gonna make a plan to escape and then…” She trails off.

I can feel her fear through the vent. It’s bigger than mine.

“They’re gonna eat me, aren’t they?” Carolyn is weeping now. “Your uncle’s gonna have me with a nice Chianti like Hannibal Lecter.”

“No, he’s not.” I try to sound confident. I try to hold Carolyn’s fear in my heart. I try to make her feel like it’s gonna be okay. “He’s not gonna eat you because we’re gonna escape.”

Talia

Sam and I sit in the Armstrongs’ formal living room waiting for Vera. It’s just like I remember. That creepy painting of Jonah’s grandmother. The stiff furniture. The hotel smell. I can feel the grief of losing Jonah. It’s a wool sweater, hot and itchy on my skin. I jam a fingernail into the palm of my hand until it’s gone.

I glance over at Sam. His eyes are on the ground. He’s pulling at a loose thread on the cuff of his sweatshirt. He hasn’t said much since we left Vernon. I’m sure his head is spinning.

Vera enters. She’s wearing some sort of boxy suit. Her eyes are rimmed in kohl. Her hair is slicked back. I’ve thought about this moment so many times. What I would do. What I would say. Now that I’m here, I can’t remember any of it.

Vera closes one eye. She’s never been able to look at me with both. I have no idea why. “Talia, it’s been too long.”

I’m not interested in pleasantries. “How did you find us?”

She tells me my friend Helen was ever so helpful. “She made a rather wonderful Irish stew.”

I want to mourn Helen. I want to fall to my knees and scream. But I can’t look weak in front of Vera. She isn’t just a cannibal; she’s an emotional predator as well. “I want Rosie back. Now.”

Vera laughs. She points at Sam’s mottled face. “Clearly they’re not safe in your care.” I leap for her, my nails out. I want to destroy her perfectly symmetrical face. I want to wrap my hands around her throat. I want her to beg me to stop. I want to listen to her gasp for air. I want to feel the weight of her limp body in my hands. But before I reach her, the house manager—a red-faced man with baseball mitts for hands—appears. He grabs me. His fingers bruise my flesh.

Vera orders him to bring me to the basement. I know he’s taking me to Ethan’s kill room. I haven’t been in there since he made me fight that woman from the club. I scream and try to wriggle out of the house manager’s grasp, but he tightens his grip.

Vera turns to Sam. “You know, your mother never wanted you.” He looks at me. He is wondering if this is true.

“She’s lying!” I yell, but I wonder if the damage is already done. The years on the run. My impatience with him. The way I’ve punished him for being who he is. My lies.

As the house manager drags me downstairs, I think about what I should’ve done with Vera. I should’ve sweet-talked her. I should’ve been compliant. But that’s not in my nature. The house manager pushes me into Ethan’s kill room so hard I go skidding across the marble floor. I stare at myself in the mirrored wall. I’m on all fours. My hair is a mess. My eyes are a storm. I’ve lost my home, Gran’s mortuary, Helen, Jonah. And now, because I’m a fucking animal, I’ve probably lost my kids.

Sam

After my mom gets dragged off to God knows where, I stare at my Converse, willing this batshit bitch to disappear. This is what I’m related to? No wonder Mom ran. Vera tips my chin up with her forefinger. “Even with the injuries you look just like him,” she murmurs. Her face goes soft. I assume she’s talking about my dad. I’m fully aware this is my opportunity to ask about him, but I don’t care. I just want this all to be over.

Vera hugs me. “I’ve waited so long for you to come back.” I hug her back because I don’t wanna get locked up. One of us needs to be free. Everything about Vera is bony. It’s like being hugged by a very tall bird. There’s nothing comforting about it.

She finally lets go. “I have a luncheon to attend. David, my assistant, will show you upstairs.” A terrified-looking man wearing two different loafers and a mismatched suit appears out of nowhere. “Take him up to his father’s room. Also make an appointment with Dr. Neffler about that face.” David nods like his head’s gonna fall off. “Oh and by the way, Sam,” Vera says, “if you try to run away or go to the cops, I’ll kill your mother.” Then she smiles and squeezes my hand as if the threat never existed. I know that move. I do it all the time. I feel nauseous seeing it parroted back to me. “I’m so very glad you’re here,” she says. “I’ll be back after my meeting. I’m the new face of J’adore by Dior.”

I have no fucking idea what she’s talking about. “Congrats,” I say. It’s the first time I’ve talked in hours. My voice sounds older. Tired.

When Vera’s gone, I ask David if I can see my mom. “Please,” he says in a crazed whisper, “please just do what she asked.”

I can smell the fear on him. It smells like hot dogs. He thinks I’m gonna eat him. I almost laugh. “Where’s my sister?” I ask.

“If I tell you, will you go upstairs?” I nod. He says she’s in Westchester. It sounds far away, so I follow him up to the second floor.

My dad’s room is huge. It’s almost the size of our house in Vernon. A big four-poster bed. A walk-in closet with nothing but black clothes and combat boots. Walls covered with carefully framed posters of bands like Have Heart and Defeater. I think it’s weird to frame hardcore posters. They seem like the kinda thing you tack up. Anyway, I guess we have the same taste in music. I know I should be excited by that, but it just makes today feel more complicated than it already is. I lie back on the bed and close my eyes. I keep thinking about how Mom said my dad wasn’t like the rest of his family. But what if I am? I decide I don’t wanna learn about my dad or his family. I decide that sometimes living with questions is easier.

Vera

I meet the executives from Dior Perfumes at Le Bernardin. My agent, Louise, and publicist are there as well. We’re seated at a large circular table in a private room. There’s one empty chair—a vice president caught a stomach bug. Champagne is flowing. Everyone’s laughing. Gossiping about this former model or that tired celebrity. “Ugh, their latest Instagram post proves they’re just a poor imitation of you, Vera,” quips one of the cattier executives.

The universe is as it should be. I’ve won.

The chief executive has just started her toast when, suddenly, Celeste appears in the empty seat. A nightmare late to lunch. She’s swollen with seawater. Her skin’s a dark greenish color. It peels back in places, exposing bright pink muscle. She flashes a toothless smile, blood and foam spilling from her lips. A sea bass violently gasps for air on her lap. I can barely hear the chief executive above Celeste’s gurgled screaming: “That Talia is going to outfox you!”

I try to stay calm. I clasp my hands in my lap. I take long breaths through my nose. But my left eye starts to twitch. Violently. I put my hand over it. My agent leans over. “Is everything okay?” I nod, but it’s not.

Celeste crawls across the table. Her hands and knees in plates of salmon caviar with horseradish emulsion and bacalao under a cloud of saffron brandade. An eyeball slips out of its socket and lands in my agent’s flute of Krug with a violent plop. “You’ll never get rid of meeeee!” Celeste screeches. My body is an earthquake, shaking with abandon as Celeste gets closer and closer. I shut my eyes.

I have done everything I was supposed to do.

I have Talia locked in Ethan’s playroom.

I have Sam and Rosie in my care.

I have Joaquin working overtime on a cure.

Why does none of this matter? Why hasn’t Celeste disappeared? I open one eye. Celeste is inches away from me. Seafoam spills from her mouth into my lap. Her empty sockets are an abyss. “Why are you still here?” I scream. “Why??” Celeste smiles a lipless smile. In her rotted teeth and bloated gums is the answer I’ve been looking for.

Suddenly, my agent’s hand is on my arm. “Maybe we should reschedule,” she says to the room. I look around. There is no more Celeste, only a handful of Dior executives looking at me with wide eyes and thin lips. I’m a dying sea bass gasping for air.

Later, outside, my agent and publicist try to spin what happened into something positive. But I’m not listening. I’m thinking about Talia. I’m planning how to kill her. It’s the only way to get rid of Celeste for good.

15

Rosie

I’ve searched all over the hospital room for a way out. Carolyn’s done the same. We’ve come up with nothing. There are no windows, just a vent and cement walls. We must be in a basement.

I close my eyes and try to formulate a plan. But all I can see is Naomi on that swing. I tried to tuck them in the box at the back of my brain, but they keep popping out. The thought of them makes my heart feel like someone’s squeezing it. I try to take a breath, but I can’t. The room goes blurry and then snaps back into focus. I feel my blood pressure rising. I try to take another breath, but it’s like my lungs won’t expand. I push the emergency button. Once. Twice. An alarm rings outside of my room. I’m down on all fours, trying to force my body to take in air, but it won’t. I can hear Carolyn through the vent asking me what’s wrong. I try to make words, but my body seems to have forgotten how to run on its own. As the room goes blurry again, I feel Joaquin lifting me up.

“You’re having a panic attack,” he says.

He sets me down in a chair in the main part of the lab. Forces my head between my legs. Rubs my back. Tells me to breathe, repeating the word like it’s a magical spell that will heal me. I finally get enough air in my lungs. “I want Carolyn, please,” I sputter. Joaquin stares at me for a second. I think he’s trying to deduce if I’m faking. If this is just some piece in a bigger plan we made to escape. Honestly, I wish it was.

“Fine,” he says. I keep my head between my knees, letting the air come in and out. I hear the beepbeep as he presses in the keycode. The click of the door unlocking. And finally, Carolyn’s bare feet on the linoleum floor. She swoops me up in a bear hug. “I thought you were fucking dying.” I bury my face in her hair and let my body sink into her arms. Finally, I can breathe again.

Later, Joaquin Postmates Domino’s. We eat cheese pizza and Parmesan bread bites. He apologizes for keeping us locked up. “The truth is, the gene therapy is bullshit.” He says if me and Carolyn can just trust him and stay put for another day or so, he’s got a plan. He explains how he’s gonna go to my grandmother’s house in the city to find tangible evidence that they’re murderers. If it works, Vera will go to jail and the rest of us will be able to get out of this unscathed.

“What if it doesn’t?” Carolyn asks.

He stares at his bread bite like he’s looking at his future. “Then I’m dinner. Literally.” I ask Joaquin for my phone. “No way, I’ve given you too much leeway already.”

I grab a napkin and write down my mom’s cell. “You’re gonna need someone to get you into the house. I guarantee my mom’ll help you.”

“How do you know she’s there?”

“She’s spent her whole life trying to prevent my grandma from taking me. Believe me, she’s there.”

Sam

I guess I fell asleep, because suddenly some guy with greasy hair and beady eyes is shaking me awake. I sit up, glance over at the window. It’s dark outside. “How long was I out?” I ask him.

“How the fuck should I know? I just woke up myself.” He thrusts his hand toward me, expecting me to shake it. “I’m your uncle Ethan,” he says. “Wanna go get fucked up?” Uncle Ethan doesn’t look like someone you say no to. Uncle Ethan looks like someone who would rip you limb from limb in a coke-fueled rage. Maybe getting fucked up would be fun. Maybe getting fucked up would make me feel less guilty.

“Sure,” I say.

We head downtown in an SUV driven by a guy named Felix. He’s apparently Ethan’s private driver. “I have a bunch of DUIs.” Ethan does a few bumps of coke as he natters on and on about how he used to work for his dad’s music label, but he decided to retire when his dad sold the company. “The new people taking over were real dick licks. No taste.” He wipes his nose on his sleeve and then hands me the vial. “Want some?”

I snort a line. It burns on the way down, reminding me I am alive. I press my forehead against the window and let the city lights wash over me. Everything here is big and loud and fast. I bet living here means you don’t have to sit in your own thoughts. I bet you can’t even hear them over the sound of the city. I bet no one here ever feels alone.

Ethan tells me about his sister Gabrielle and how famous she is. He says I probably won’t meet her because she’s in a fight with Vera or something. Ethan gets why his sister is mad. His mom does fucked-up shit. In fact, she took this nice little snack he’d procured and hid her up in Westchester.

David said my sister is in Westchester. I doubt she’s the snack. This guy’s a wild card but I don’t think he’d eat his own niece. My grandmother could be holding my sister and the snack in the same place. “Maybe we should go to Westchester,” I say, seeing an opportunity. He waves me off. Mumbles something about maybe going up there later.

I don’t press. Ethan doesn’t seem like the type who responds to being pressed. I glance out the window again. We are at a stoplight. A homeless guy is wandering back and forth, screaming at the top of his lungs. I wonder what that would feel like—to just be. I bet Ethan knows.

“What do you wanna be when you grow up?” he asks out of nowhere.

“I’m not gonna grow up,” I say. He thinks I’m kidding. Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not. “I wanna be a boxer. The face is practice.” I’m lying, but he believes me. Puts a firm hand on my shoulder.

“I’ll take you to my trainer. Show you some real moves.”

“Dope,” I say, even though it sounds like a nightmare.

“I can’t believe Jonah and Talia are your parents. You’re nothing like them.” He means this as a compliment, but it makes my head feel like it’s weighed down with bricks. He tells me he wasn’t close with my dad. “Jonah was fucking weak,” he says. He can’t wait to take me under his wing. “I bet your mom’s a real hard-ass. I bet she had loads of rules.” I shrug. “Now that you’re here, you can do anything you want.” He grins. His teeth are too white. I think I hate him.

We finally pull up in front of a hotel in what looks like some kind of warehouse district. The streets are teeming with people. No one seems to notice what anyone else is doing. I bet it’s fucking easy to kill here. I always thought that would be nice. But it probably sucks all the fun out of it.

We take a private elevator that opens directly into a suite that overlooks the whole city. The place is already packed. Purple and red strobe lights. Velvet furniture. Nineties hip-hop blasts at a deafening volume. Uncle Ethan points to the speaker. “Your grandpa discovered these guys,” he screams over the music.

The suite belongs to some DJ from London. He seems like the kind of guy who thinks hot tubs are sexy. He’s surrounded by women who look like they subsist on vape and the hope that someone in this room will make them famous. “I saw him spin at the Venetian in Vegas,” Ethan brags. “It was life-changing.”

“Cool,” I say as if I care.

“You can have anyone you want in here. Just let me know. I’ll figure out a way to get them back to the house.” I know what he’s referring to. The old me, the one before Naomi, would’ve been grateful to have Ethan. To have this evening. To have this opportunity.

The new me isn’t. The new me glances around the room. It’s a sea of bodies slimmed down by Ozempic and then puffed up again with filler. Not the most appetizing bunch. But even if they were, the new me would still feel the same way. Empty.

A bug-eyed guy in oversized clothes and a bucket hat walks by with a bowl of pills. “Yeah, take one, yeah,” he says. Bucket Hat smells like tequila and cheap men’s cologne. I bet he tastes like that paprika chicken my mom made once. My stomach roils at the thought. Ethan elbows me, so I take a small yellow pill. “Have fun, kid.” Bucket Hat smiles, exposing jewel-studded incisors.

I stare at the pill. I have no idea what it is. I hope it makes me disappear. “What are you waiting for?” Ethan says. I swallow the pill dry. I wish I had a glass of water.

Ethan tells me he has some business to conduct, which seems weird considering he’s retired, but whatever. I stand at one of the big windows and stare out at the city, waiting for the pill to kick in. It’s all neon and black skies. It’s weird how a place can feel vast and claustrophobic at the same time. The bass from the speakers reverberates so hard it feels like it’s pushing me toward the glass. I wonder what it would feel like to fall from this height. Would it be terrible? Or liberating? I can’t decide.

Suddenly, I can feel every inch of my skin. The backs of my knees are sweating. My eyes feel too big for their sockets. The pill must’ve kicked in. I turn around. The whole room feels like it’s been sped up and stretched out like a funhouse. A woman with gigantic red lips hands me a lollipop. The DJ snorts a line of cocaine off a woman’s leg. A guy with heart-shaped sunglasses and a lizard in his arms laughs at nothing. The elevator keeps opening and closing. Ping. Ping. Ping. People spill into the suite. Fuck me. This is the opposite of how I wanted to feel. I wanted to feel like a void. Instead, I’m on a roller coaster in the ocean. I stare down at my feet so I don’t puke. I stare down at my feet like they aren’t my own. I stare down at my feet and wonder how long I’ve been staring down at my feet.

When I look up, I’m in a bedroom. Like I time-jumped. Like I’m magic. What the fuck did that guy give me?

I sit down on the bed. I try to will myself sober. That’s when I hear it—grunting. Light spills from the bathroom. The door is ajar. My uncle’s inside. His pants around his ankles as he slams himself into a barely conscious woman who’s bent over the sink. I shudder. Not because I’ve caught Ethan fucking some random. I shudder because the look in his eye is unnerving. I know that dead-eyed look. I’ve had it in my own eyes every time I’ve fucked KennedyKelsieKyra. It’s the look you have when emotional connection with regular people is impossible because everyone is a potential meal. I used to think being around other people with my genetic condition would make life easier. I realize it won’t. Nothing will. I will always feel an arm’s length away from the rest of society. Always.

I stumble out of the party and down through the lobby, where one of the bellboys asks me if I’m okay. “Is Westchester near here?” I ask. He laughs. “What about Central Park?” He points north.

Outside, the cold feels like a welcome punishment. As I walk uptown, letting the winter air numb every part of me, I think about this guy, Jeff, that we lived next door to in Florida. He was in a surfing accident. A wave slammed him into a rock and broke his neck. Everyone thought he was gonna walk again, but he could barely shrug his shoulders. I used to watch him wheel up and down the ramp his brother built so he could get into his house. He acted like he was grateful just to be alive. But I knew he was pretending. One night while he was home alone, I snuck into his house and ate him. He smiled as I sank my teeth into his trachea. I’m the angel of mercy. I put other people out of their misery. I was never supposed to end up like Jeff or Gary or any of the others—stuck in a life I hate.

I stop for a second and look around at the people passing by. Twentysomethings on their way to get fucked up. A family leaving dinner. An older couple heading into the subway. I wonder if they’re happy. I wonder if I’ve ever been happy. Like really happy.

I don’t wanna go back to life on the run with my mom. But if I stay here, I’ll end up just like my uncle. I don’t want that either. I start walking again, knowing in the deepest part of myself that there’s only one way out.

Joaquin

I let Rosie and Carolyn go upstairs to watch TV in one of the bedrooms. I know it wasn’t the smartest idea. I know if they run, I’m screwed. But I can’t bear to keep them locked up. I know what it’s like when your whole world is a tiny cell. I can’t do that to someone else. Especially two girls who didn’t do anything.

I’ve tried texting Rosie’s mother at least sixteen times and I’ve heard nothing back. Maybe Vera took her phone and that’s why she’s not answering.

Rosie mentioned something about a brother but said he’s untrustworthy. I guess I’m gonna have to do this alone. Summon my inner teenage criminal. The guy who could break into anything. At least this time I’ll be using my powers for good. I text Jie to make sure she’s on her way.

She texts back: AT LAB. BE THERE SOON.

I stare at the hundreds of thousands of dollars of lab equipment, knowing this is no longer my future. I will not be a geneticist. Williams ruined that. I guess I’m a whistleblower now? A detective? If the Armstrong house proves to be a dead end, I dunno what I’ll be. Lunch?

The day I got released from juvie, my dad sat me down in the kitchen and explained that in life there’s always two choices: continue down the path you’re already on or pick a new one. He said that he and my mom had spent too much time hand-wringing over my behavior. Now that I was home, they were gonna choose a new path—one that was devoted to making sure that I was set up for a successful future, no matter what that future looked like. He made me sign a contract that said I was willing to do the same. He’d drawn it up on a piece of my mother’s floral stationery so that it didn’t feel too intimidating. Years later, he framed it and gave it to me as a present when I graduated from Harvard. My father isn’t a crier, but he had tears in his eyes as I pulled off the wrapping paper, exposing the contract wrinkled with age and trapped under glass. “Your mother and I wanted you to have a permanent reminder that when you’ve hit a dead end, there is always another path.”

I pick up the phone. Dial my dad. He answers after two rings. “Joaquin, son, it’s so late. Is everything okay?” I tell him I just called to say I love him and to thank him for everything he’s done for me. “You don’t sound right. Are you sure you’re okay?”

I can’t tell him the truth. I want him to think I’ve taken the right path. Instead, I tell him I’ve come into some money, and I want him and my mom to have it. I ask him for his bank account and routing number. I’m going to transfer them the money. Tonight. My father’s understandably confused. “Please,” I beg him, “just do it.”

Upstairs, I hear the beep the Ring camera makes when the front door opens. Fuck. The girls must’ve snuck out. I tell my dad I’ve got to go. “I love you.” I hang up before he can respond. I can’t bear to hear him say he loves me back.

Upstairs, the front door is open. But it’s not the girls. Ethan is standing in the foyer, his head swiveling wildly. Cocaine rimming his nose. He’s sweating even though it’s gotta be twenty degrees outside. “Hey, man, what’s up?” I say, closing the door.

“Where is she?” he barks. “The girl my mom took from me. Where is she?”

Oh fuck. I know what he wants. Two paths, I repeat to myself. Two paths. “Hey, dude,” I say as gently as possible, like I’m trying to coax a bear away from a muffin. “Why don’t we go into the kitchen. Have a beer.”

“Fuck off,” he says, cracking his knuckles.

Two paths. I have the dark thought that I could let him eat Carolyn—that would be the evidence I need. But I know I’d never forgive myself. Then a sudden brilliant idea pops into my brain: If I lure him downstairs, I can lock him in one of the examination rooms until he sobers up. “She’s down in the lab,” I say. “I’ve been keeping her in one of the secure rooms.” He mumbles something unintelligible as he pushes past me toward the basement door.

The time it takes him to key in the code feels interminable. He keeps pressing the wrong numbers. My gut twists each time I hear the error noise. I offer to do it myself, but he refuses. I glance upstairs, praying that the girls don’t make a sound.

Beepbeepbeep click. Ethan is pulling open the door when—

Laughter from upstairs. Fuck…

Ethan turns. “You fucking lied to me, dude.” A vein throbs in the middle of his forehead.

Two paths. I put my hand on his chest, a gesture of de-escalation. “She’s just a kid. She has her whole life ahead of her.” The vein practically jumps out of his forehead. His hand is suddenly grabbing my arm. His grip is insanely strong. Ethan opens his mouth. He has a set of expensive veneers coming straight for my throat. I know I’m done for.

They say when you die, your life flashes before you. But it doesn’t. All I see is my father. “It’s okay, mijo,” he whispers sadly, before everything goes—

16

Vera

While I’m getting dressed, our chef is downstairs preparing a lovely hors d’oeuvres plate for Talia and me. There won’t be any human meat involved; I can’t have her stronger than I am. That won’t be any fun. Instead, he’ll prepare canapés, maybe a cheese platter, some crudités. Champagne laced with a little Xanax. It’s all for show. Well, not the champagne. I have several decades on her, I need something to even the playing field.

I dug out my old Duran Duran shirt. I haven’t worn it since I murdered Celeste. I feel like it will bring me good luck this evening. The shirt is threadbare, but it still fits. I put it on with a pair of Balmain high-waisted flares and my Loewe suede sneakers in case Talia runs. As I pull my hair back, Celeste appears in the mirror. She looks exactly like she did that night at the beach.

“Alexa,” I say, “play The Cure.” As Celeste unleashes an ear-splitting scream, I head downstairs.

Carolyn

It all happens so fast. Me and Margot—I mean Rosie—are watching old episodes of Parks and Rec when suddenly there’s a yelp downstairs. “Did you hear that?” Rosie asks. I nod. She orders me to wait in the bedroom, but I won’t let her go alone. We’re finally reunited; I can’t lose her now.

As we tiptoe down the hall, the smell hits me—metallic, like someone spilled a thousand pennies. The hive deep in my gut, the one that buzzes when things aren’t right, tries to tell me to turn around, but it’s too late. We’re at the landing. “Don’t look,” the hive says. But I don’t listen. Joaquin is splayed out on the bottom of the stairs. His mouth is frozen in a scream. Ethan, Rosie’s uncle, is on all fours. His face is buried in Joaquin’s torso. He’s slurping down Joaquin’s intestine like a spaghetti dinner. There’s blood everywhere, bright red pooling under Joaquin, bright red shooting up the walls, bright red all over Ethan. For a split second I think, How did I get here? Just a few months ago I was a regular kid, worried about getting asked to homecoming and whether I’d ever get out of my dumbass town, and now I’m in an A24 film watching my friend’s uncle eat someone. Life is truly wild.

I feel my mouth slip open. I hear the gasp escape. I know I’ve made a mistake. Ethan glances up. He looks right at me, like into my soul, and smiles. “There you are,” he says.

Rosie turns. “Run!” she cries. I’m historically a terrible runner. Like my grandma who has arthritis could beat me in a race. But apparently all I need to get my ass in gear is the very real threat of being eaten. We manage to get into the bedroom and slam the door shut before Ethan hits the landing. Rosie fumbles for the lock. I start to push the dresser across the room so we can barricade the door, but it’s really fucking heavy.

“Can you help me?” I wheeze.

“Yeah, sorry,” Rosie says, joining me. We push. Our arms outstretched, our socked feet slipping on the wood floor, our bodies suddenly drenched in cold sweat as Ethan starts jiggling the knob.

“Let me in, you little bitch!” he screams.

We push harder. “Remind me never to buy oak furniture,” I say. “It sucks in an emergency.” Rosie laughs and for a split second it doesn’t feel like I’m about to die. But then Ethan starts slamming his body against the door and my stomach fills with bees. Fuck bees. The bees have abandoned me after I didn’t heed their warning. My stomach is full of hornets, their stingers nicking my insides. “Do you think the door’s gonna hold?”

Rosie looks at me with big eyes and I know the answer is no. We both push harder, but getting the dresser against the door feels impossible. Ethan’s screaming again. The doorframe shakes as he continues to slam himself into it. “I don’t wanna die,” I whisper to Rosie. Hot tears stream down my face so fast they splash on the floor. I’ve never been this scared, ever. I wanted to let the wind take me and now I’m in the center of the tornado and all I want is to be in Fairview sitting in my room doing Diego’s nails.

Suddenly, there’s a BANG.

Another BANG.

A THUD.

And then quiet.

Rosie and I stare at each other and then at the door. Blood seeps into the bedroom. What the fuck? There’s a timid knock and a woman’s voice: “Girls? It’s safe to come out. I’m not gonna hurt you. I promise.”

“Who the fuck is that?” I whisper. Rosie shrugs and opens the door. Standing on the other side is this Asian woman with sharp bangs and big black glasses. She has a tiny gun in her hand. At her feet is Ethan, a bullet hole in the back of his head. “I’m Jie,” she says. “I’m a friend of Joaquin’s.”

Rosie

Me and Carolyn are down in the lab putting our regular clothes back on when Jie appears. “Did you guys find your phones?” Both of us shake our heads no.

Jie wrinkles her brow. “Hmm,” she says. “Someone must’ve destroyed them. You know, so you couldn’t be found. No worries, the cops should be here any minute.”

I go white. “No,” I say. “No cops.”

“It’s a murder scene,” she says, as if I missed everything that happened over the last hour.

I scramble to put my Vans on, but my hands are shaking and tying them feels like an impossible task. “I have to get out of here before they arrive.” Carolyn nods. She understands. My brother has done bad things. Not here, but other places. If the cops start asking questions about me, about my mom, they could discover what Sam’s done. I can’t be the one to get him arrested. Carolyn grabs my jacket for me.

Jie’s visibly frustrated. “But they’re going to want a statement from you.” Carolyn pulls Jie aside and tells her my family is complicated. She begs Jie to let me go. “We can’t even tell the cops she was here. It’ll fuck up her life in ways you can’t even imagine.” Carolyn’s got her hand on Jie’s forearm. Her nails are painted with little smiley faces, but right now they all seem like they’re pleading with Jie.

Finally, Jie gives in. “Okay, but you have to get out of here now.” Carolyn and I are sudden manic grins. We hug fiercely. Our arms wrapped so tight we feel like one person, not two. “Thank you,” I whisper in her ear.

“Thank you,” she whispers back. “I got out of Fairview because of you.” We smile and press our foreheads together. “I’ll see you in LA,” she promises.

“I’ll be at UCLA and you’ll work for Kim Kardashian.” Sometimes there are promises you know you can make good on and other times a promise is just a way to keep someone special alive in your heart. From the look in Carolyn’s eyes, she knows our promise is the latter. Before I go, she whispers her phone number. I repeat it until it is tattooed on my soul.

Outside, there’s an SUV parked in the driveway. It must be Ethan’s ride. The driver’s bent over, scrolling on his phone. I knock on the window. He looks up, startled. “Ethan said you can take me into the city,” I lie.

He nods and unlocks the door. “Where to?”

“Was there a woman with dyed blond hair and a teenage boy with a beat-up face at my grandmother’s house?” He nods. My heart swells with pride. I knew my mom would come for me. “Take me there, please.”

A few minutes after we get onto the main road, a handful of cop cars pass us heading in the opposite direction. Red and blue lights cutting across the darkness. Sirens blaring. “I wonder what’s going on,” the driver says, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.

“No idea,” I reply, focusing on the road ahead.

Talia

I’m scouring Ethan’s kill room for any small avenue of escape: a crack in the marble, a gap behind the mirrored wall. The place is perfectly smooth. There isn’t a seam visible. It’s just like I remember.

Suddenly, the house manager enters and drags me upstairs. He has one arm tightly around my waist. I struggle, but it’s no use, his grip is a vise. He dumps me in the formal living room, tossing me hard onto the ground. My head bounces on the wood. I see stars. Then I see Vera. She has a glass of champagne in her hand. She’s moving seductively to The Cure’s album The Head on the Door. This strikes me as odd. I never pegged Vera for a dancer or a Cure fan.

I peel myself off the ground. There’s enough hors d’oeuvres for a whole party. Trays of meat and cheese, various crudités, canapés all growing less edible by the minute. I have a sudden memory of watching the staff throw out platefuls of food. I asked the housekeeper why the staff didn’t take it home themselves. She revealed they’d be fired. “The Armstrongs would rather have it in the garbage than our mouths,” she stated without a lick of emotion.

Vera flashes a tense smile. “That’ll be all,” she says to the house manager. “You can go home for the night.” He seems surprised he’s being excused. I quickly scan the cheese plate for a knife to stick in Vera’s gullet, but there isn’t one. In fact, there isn’t anything I could use as a weapon. I wonder what Vera is planning. I wonder if this is a trap.

I just want my kids back.

“Where’s Sam?” I ask, staring down at a plate holding some kind of puff.

“Out with Ethan, I think,” Vera says, twirling. I try not to show how terrified I am that my son is with Ethan. I know there is a part of Sam that yearns to be feral like his uncle. I hope the other part of him, the one I’ve tried to instill in him, wins out. But who the fuck knows with Sam.

Vera hands me a glass of champagne. “Dance with me,” she says as she pulls me into the center of the room. Her hand wrapped around mine. Like we’re friends. She’s never touched me like this. It’s always been a grab. Or a slap. Or a scratch. I’m not sure why she’s being kind. It unnerves me.

“Catch bees with honey,” I hear my gran say.

I am the bee.

We dance, apart at first, swaying to Robert Smith’s sorrow-drenched crooning. Vera has her eyes closed. She rolls her hips to the music. It’s as if we are two old friends having a party, not mortal enemies. “Drink your champagne,” she says. I don’t want to. I don’t trust her. But I know defying her won’t get me my kids back. The things we do for our children, I think. I keep my eyes on her as I swill the alcohol. It feels sticky in my throat.

Now Vera is the bee.

“Close to Me” comes on. “I love this song,” Vera squeals, taking my hands, pulling me into her. We are inches away from each other. I can feel her breath on my face. Smell her expensive perfume. Our bodies find the same rhythm, moving back and forth like we’re one. Our hearts beating in sync. She is staring into my eyes, mouthing the words. I want to look away, but I can’t. It feels like she can see inside of me. The longer we dance, the looser my body feels. My face goes slack. My fingers are warm. Fuck, there was something in my champagne. Of course there was. How stupid of me to drink it. I try to stay present, but my thoughts are slow to develop and hard to hold on to.

“You and I are a lot alike,” Vera says. She can see the surprise on my face. “My past is a myth created by Celeste, Benny’s mother. She hated me because I grew up poor, in Ohio, with a single father.”

“I just want my kids back. Please.” I’m not quite sure whether I’ve said this or just thought it. I open my mouth to say it again but the only thing that comes out is a puff of air.

“I was excited when Jonah brought you home. I thought we’d be fast friends. But you were so unlikable. So obstinate. So unfriendly. I wasn’t surprised your parents chose a life of heroin over you.”

My face is hot. “My kids. Please,” I whisper. “I just wanna see them.”

“They don’t wanna see you.”

My breath catches. “That’s not true,” I slur. I’m slurring. Oh fuck.

“Sam was very excited to go hunting with his uncle. He was tired of your diet of day-olds and Rosie told me she’s relieved not to be on the run anymore. She’s like her father, eager to do the gene therapy if it means she can get the things you can’t provide—a stable home, money for college.”

My kids wouldn’t turn on me. I know they wouldn’t. Or do I? The life I’ve provided for them isn’t ideal, but I did my best. They know that, don’t they? “I love them,” I say, trying not to slip away into the ether. “I love them.” I’m saying it to her and I’m saying it to them, wherever they are.

“I guess you’ll die knowing that wasn’t enough,” she whispers in my ear.

Vera

Talia’s eyes go wide when I wrap my hands around her throat. She tries to wriggle out of my grasp, but the Xanax has made her limbs weak and rubbery. Her voice is a distant rasp as she begs me to please, please stop. I push her down onto the floor, straddling her so she can’t move.

As I squeeze Talia’s neck tighter and tighter, Celeste appears. She’s sitting in the Louis XVI chair in her powder-blue Chanel suit, petting that rat of a dog just like she is in her godawful portrait. For the first time ever, I’m glad she’s here. I need her to bear witness to this. I need her to see that everything worked out just like I wanted it to. I have the kids. And Talia will die thinking they hate her. “You see!” I scream at Celeste. “You see, you cunt, I won! I—”

There is a sharp pain in my back. It splinters across my shoulder blades. Then another sharp pain, this time lower. I glance down at Talia. There’s a trickle of blood on her face. I think it’s mine. I turn. Sam is behind me, clutching a butcher knife from the kitchen. He stabs me again and again. I think I hear Talia sputtering back to life. But when I turn back to look at her, all I can see is Celeste. She’s laughing at me. The sound pierces my heart.

“No!!!” I scream. “NOOOO!!!”

Celeste’s mouth gets wider and wider until all I can see is a black cavern of nothing as she swallows me whole.

Talia

I blink once. I blink twice. Sam is still standing over me with a bloody butcher knife in his left hand. Vera is on the floor next to me. Dead. Her eyes open. Her mouth slack. “We have to go,” I slur, trying to roll over. “We have to go before someone finds us.”

Sam’s smiling. “It’s over.”

My limbs weigh a thousand pounds. “Drop the knife,” I mutter as I will myself onto my hands and knees. The butcher knife clatters to the floor. Sam reaches down and pulls me up to my feet. We amble out of the house, passing David, Vera’s assistant, who is crouched behind a potted plant, weeping. He puts his hands up defensively. “I saw nothing,” he repeats over and over as we head out the front door.

I have no idea what time it is, but it must be late because the street is relatively empty. A woman walking her Pomeranian stares at our bloodstained clothes for a brief second before scurrying away. I scan the street, desperately trying to remember where we parked the car, when an SUV pulls up in front of the house. My chest tightens, worried it’s Ethan. But it’s Rosie who leaps out of the back seat. I almost fall to my knees.

“Mom!” she screams. We hug, the three of us. I take in their scent. I listen to their breath. I squeeze them too hard. They are mine. I might never let them go.

“Please, Mom. I wanna go home,” Rosie begs. “I don’t care where that home is.”

“The car’s across the street,” Sam reminds me. Rosie takes my hand, like she used to when she was little. Her fingers are tangled in mine. We race across Fifth Avenue, dodging cabs heading downtown. When we get to the other side, I turn back. Sam isn’t with us. He’s still standing on the other side of the road. “Sam!” I scream.

Sam

Mom is yelling for me. So is Rosie. But I can’t cross the street. I can’t go back, and there is no way forward. So I wave to them. They both look confused. I don’t think they realize this is goodbye. I wonder how they’ll feel after I’m gone. I hope they’re sad and then they’re relieved. Maybe my mom will take her first real breath. Maybe my sister will feel like she has a future.

Maybe…

I could be like that girl in that stupid play Our Town and wax poetic about how wonderful the earth is. But I don’t feel that way. Rosie probably does. But I don’t. In fact, I don’t feel anything right now. Not happy. Not sad. Not angry. Or lonely.

Nothing.

“Sam!” my mom yells again. This time she sounds panicked.

“Sam!” Rosie echoes.

I ignore them. As they scream my name. As they start to move toward me. As the panic becomes evident not just in their voices but across their faces.

Instead, I stare up Fifth Avenue. There’s a city bus barreling down the street. Twin headlights barely a block away. I’m not scared of what’s about to happen. I’m not even sorry. I’m ready. I know this is the best thing, for everyone. Right before the bus passes me, I close my eyes.

I jump in front of it.

I give myself a way out.

Epilogue

Pawleys Island • June

Rosie

Everyone blames Ethan and Vera’s deaths on Sam. The newspapers, the TV, social media. “Teenage Maniac Kills Prominent Family and Then Himself” was the headline in The New York Times. They call Sam Alex Richman, and write that he’s a homeless teen with schizophrenia. I ask Mom why the newspaper would print a whole bunch of lies. She says the arm of the Armstrong clan is long. They know how to cover things up. “Even though they hated Vera, they don’t want one of their own implicated in something like this. They don’t want people to ask questions.”

I ask Mom how many Armstrongs there are out there. She shrugs and tells me it doesn’t matter. “We should be grateful they gave us anonymity. It means we don’t have to run anymore.” I don’t expect to hear from any of them, but a few weeks after the deaths are all over the news, we get a package. It’s Sam’s ashes. There’s a note from Gabrielle, Vera’s daughter. It says, “I’m sorry.”

There’s never any mention anywhere about Carolyn or Jie and only one small line about Joaquin being a casualty. When I talk to Carolyn, she tells me she’s not supposed to tell anyone because she signed a crazy NDA, but the Armstrongs gave her and Jie like millions of dollars to keep their mouths shut. “When I turn eighteen, I’m gonna open my own nail salon.” I grin because I’m happy for Carolyn.

I haven’t heard from Naomi. I googled them. Apparently they ran away a few weeks ago. I ask Mom if we should look for them. She says we should leave it alone. I hope Naomi’s okay. I hope they’re happy being out of Vernon. I hope they found what they were looking for.

—

We’re in South Carolina. I guess Mom used to come here with her gran when she was little. “The ocean feels like bathwater down here,” she says as we get into the car and head to the beach.

The air is sticky. The sky seems endless. Seagulls squawk overhead as we take off our shoes and wade into the ocean, until the water wraps around our knees. Mom was right—it does feel like bathwater. She unscrews the urn holding Sam’s ashes and shakes them out over the waves. Tears race down my face as I watch little bits of him get pulled into the vast blue beyond. Sam is dead. He’s never coming back. Even though we hated each other ninety percent of the time, that truth still feels heavy. Like if I said it out loud it would sink to the bottom of the ocean.

I didn’t think I’d be this sad. I thought I’d be relieved. Happy, even. I guess I’m both. His death gave me brand-new wings, but it also gave me a brick in my gut. On second thought, I shouldn’t be surprised I feel this way. Like I told Carolyn—Sam is always gray in my heart.

Mom cried a lot when Sam first died. Big heaving sobs behind closed doors. I think she blamed herself. Now she squints at the horizon. Like she can see him in the distance saying goodbye to us all over again. Even though her face is stained with tears, it’s relaxed, like she’s made peace with him being gone. She asks if we should say a little prayer in his honor.

“No, he’d think that was dumb.”

Mom laughs. “He would, wouldn’t he?” We are quiet for a moment, just watching the last bits of Sam float away. There’s no good kid or bad kid. There’s just me.

Mom turns. “Where should we go now, Alice?” That’s my new name: Alice McLoughlin. Alice because I’ve been down the rabbit hole. And McLoughlin in honor of Mom’s friend Helen. The name change was my choice. Rosie doesn’t exist anymore. She was a girl with a brother who always had to run. That life is over.

“Hello, anybody in there?” Mom says, waving her hand in my face.

I shrug. I’m not sure where we should go. We can go anywhere. Los Angeles. Seattle. We could move to the mountains. Or get a bungalow on the beach. I can graduate. I can go to college. Mom can open her own mortuary. The people we’ve chosen to be in this moment are the people we get to be until the day we die. For the first time ever, we are free.

Or at least I hope we are.

I hope we are.

I hope.

Acknowledgments

There are so many people I need to thank. This book wouldn’t have been written without their much-needed help and encouragement.

A huge thanks to my book agent at UTA, Kelly Karczewski, who believed in this book when it was a mere eleven pages. Kelly worked with me tirelessly to get The Need into shape. I’m so appreciative of your willingness to take this ride with me. This book probably wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for you. A big thanks also to Ciara Finan at Curtis Brown in the UK. Your notes and support were invaluable.

To my editors Tricia Narwani at Del Rey and Nicole Witmer at Transworld, I couldn’t have asked for a better pair to guide me through this process. You saw the book for exactly what it was and only made it better. I will forever be grateful for your thoughtfulness and care. Also, much love to Ayesha Shibli, Cindy Berman, Melissa Churchill, and the rest of the team at Del Rey and Transworld for their hard work.

Endless thanks to my team: Merideth Bajaña (who first suggested that this was a book, not a play) and Alex Platis at Untitled, as well as Jonathan Levy (who connected me with Kelly), Tim Phillips, Orly Greenberg, and Olivia Fanaro at UTA. Also, so much gratitude to Sophia Sunderland, Maya Bhat, and Morgan Boyd for taking care of all the nitty-gritty.

Thank you also to Amy Israel, Madison Heim-Jinivisian, Kellyn Morris, and Josh Stein of North Road, as well as Riley Keough, Gina Gammell, and Claire Bargout of Felix Culpa, for your love and support of this book as it takes its next steps.

I’m so appreciative to Wayne W. Grody, MD, PhD, director of the Molecular Diagnostic Laboratories and Clinical Genomics Center, UCLA Medical Center, for answering my genetics questions. If there’s anything in the book that’s incorrect, that’s on me, not him. And a huge thank-you to Roberta Cruger, senior outreach specialist, Hollywood, Health & Society at the USC Annenberg Norman Lear Center, for connecting me with Dr. Grody and being such a wonderful conduit between us.

Thank you to my early readers: Lina Patel, Ken Woodruff, Kathryn Borel, Lauren Augarten. Your kind words kept me going. To Rey Pamatmat and Jamie O’Brien, for our little writing dates. To Lio Sigurson, Priscila Garcia-Jacquier, and Mae Smith for Survivor nights.

A big thanks to my support network: Mia Rovegno, Laura Beck, Sean Reycraft, Lucy Thurber, Jenna Worsham, Jocelyn Pierce, Sarah Kate Jackson, Antonia Ford-Roberts, Jess Brickman, Mimi O’Donnell, Ashley Allen, and Melissa Ross. You guys are the bee’s knees. I don’t know what I would do without you.

To my family, especially my mom and dad, Maureen and Howard. You were the first people who encouraged me to be a writer. You gave me the space to be as weird as I needed to be (and I was fucking weird). You identified early on that being involved in the arts—whether it was theater camp or art classes or keeping me stocked with plenty of notebooks for writing and drawing—was how I would flourish as a human. You emotionally supported my creative endeavors but also gave me the tools to figure out how to financially survive on my own. I would not be the person I am today if it wasn’t for you. And to my uncle and aunt, Mark and JJ, thank you for always championing me.

To Jordan, the love of my life, who believed I could write a novel when I didn’t. Thank you for nudging me, for always being in my corner, and for holding my anxiety when it becomes too heavy for me to carry. I truly don’t know what I would do without you. I guess I’d probably be curled up in a ball somewhere.

And finally, a thank-you to my fuzzy assistant, Ellroy, who kept me company through most of this process. You sucked at getting me coffee, but you gave the best cuddles. Rest in power, little Budders. A piece of my heart left when you did.

About the Author

Megan Mostyn-Brown is a playwright and TV writer/producer who has written for shows on Fox, Netflix, AMC, Amazon, and Paramount+. This is her first book. She lives in Los Angeles with her partner, Jordan, and her dog, Tuesday.

Instagram @meganmostynbrownwriter

What’s next on
your reading list?

Discover your next
great read!

Get personalized book picks and up-to-date news about this author.

Sign up now.

_157683634_