Every Last Secret - A.R. Torre Page 0,10

on communication skills but the highest on aptitude.

“Yep. I think his exact quote was, ‘We don’t need the Kumbaya stuff to save lives.’ Which”—he pulled a hand towel off the rack—“I agree with. I told Neena to steer clear of him.”

Neena. No longer Dr. Ryder. I notated it, then dismissed it, aware that everyone at Winthorpe was on a first-name basis. Even the janitorial staff referred to William by name.

He tossed the towel beside the sink. “Come on. Steaks are almost ready.”

I remained a moment longer, waiting until she turned away from our house and back to hers. Her husband appeared in the open garage door, and she pointed to the box. I folded the hand towel into thirds and placed it back in its position. Pulling a Pellegrino from the cooler, I glanced out the window. She was gone, swallowed by the house. At a second-story window, I watched a maid spray cleaner on the glass and wipe a cloth across the surface.

I didn’t understand anyone moving into a dirty house. It was like skipping past blank pages in a notebook and then starting your story on one that was already half-full. It was bad karma.

CHAPTER 4

NEENA

I was on a ladder beside our bedroom wall, a pencil in hand, when the power went out, the abrupt event punctuated by a clap of thunder that shook the home.

“Neena?” Matt’s voice came out of the black, somewhere to my right. “Are you okay?”

“I’m on the ladder,” I snapped. “Can you help me get down?” The darkness was disorienting, and I clutched the top rung, forcing my panic down.

“Just a second . . .” Matt’s phone’s flashlight illuminated, sweeping over the interior of the room and blinding me as he moved closer. I chanced a descent, making it down one rung before the light bounced, then swung wildly as he tripped over something. He cursed and I paused, my foot hovering in space.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” He grunted, and the flashlight refocused on me. “Here. I’ll help you down.”

We worked in silence, and my tension eased once I was back on firm footing. Making our way downstairs, we stared at the fuse box in ignorance, then discussed our options. Outside, sheets of rain peppered the roof and poured loudly from uncleaned gutters.

“It’s got to be the storm. Probably blew a transformer. I bet the whole neighborhood’s out.” Matt swung the fuse-box door shut and latched it.

I shook my head. “I saw the lights on next door when we came down the stairs.”

“They probably have a generator.” He moved past me and headed to the dining room. Peering through the glass panes of the window, he jumped when a bolt of lightning lit up the sky. “I vote we wait it out, unless you want to drive around and see what areas have power. I’ve got a small generator at the shop. It could get us through the night, if you don’t mind being a little hot.”

I kept close to him, uncomfortable in the dark house. “I could go next door and speak to William. And Cat.” I hadn’t intended to separate their names, but it happened, the gap hanging in the sentence like an out-of-place comma.

“What?” Matt pressed a button on the side of his watch, lighting up the digital dial. “It’s almost nine.”

“No one’s in bed this early. We can ask them how long these outages normally last or—if it’s just us—if there’s an electrician they recommend.” I warmed to the idea. I’d spent most of the day wondering if I should head over to say hi—and being a little surprised they hadn’t shown up here. Wasn’t it a common courtesy to welcome someone to the neighborhood? Or maybe that sort of thing was done only in our old neighborhood, where the homes didn’t have private gates, uniformed staff, or police officers who patrolled the streets on horseback.

“I don’t know,” Matt said slowly, and this was why he’d never really amounted to anything. As I had just told that Asian doctor at Winthorpe—Allyson Cho—you had to act decisively and take the consequences. Grab life by the balls. My husband liked to tickle them with a feather and then wander away.

I rerouted my path and navigated to the back door, my decision made. This was a blessing, actually. The perfect excuse to pop in. Maybe Cat would be in pajamas, her makeup off, and I could replace my Instagram-perfect images of her with something more attainable. I thought of William and wondered what he’d