1
FEBRUARY
It is the absolute shittiest day for a walk.
Rain has been pouring down all morning, making my drive from Center Point out here to Mountain Brook a nightmare, soaking the hem of my jeans as I get out of the car in the Reedsā driveway, making my sneakers squelch on the marble floors of the foyer.
But Mrs. Reed is holding her dog Bearās leash, making a face at me, this frown of exaggerated sympathy thatās supposed to let me know how bad she feels about sending me out in the rain on this Monday morning.
Thatās the important thingāthat I know that she feels bad.
She still expects me to do it, though.
Iāve been walking dogs in the Thornfield Estates subdivision for almost a month now, and if thereās one thing Iāve definitely figured out, itās that what matters most is how everything looks.
Mrs. Reed looks sympathetic. She looks like she absolutely hates that I have to walk her collie, Bear, on a cold and stormy day in mid-February.
She looks like she actually gives a fuck about me as a person.
She doesnāt, though, which is fine, really.
Itās not like I give a fuck about her, either.
So I smile, tugging at the bottom of my army-green raincoat. āCame prepared,ā I tell her, taking Bearās leash. Weāre standing in the front foyer of the Reed home. To my left is a giant framed mirror propped against the wall, reflecting me, Mrs. Reed, and Bear, already straining toward the door. Thereās also a distressed wood table holding a bowl of potpourri as well as a pair of diamond hoop earrings, flung carelessly when Mrs. Reed came in last night from whatever charity function sheād been attending.
Charity functions are big around here, Iāve noticed, although I never can figure out what theyāre actually raising money for. The invitations I see lying on end tables or fastened to refrigerator doors with magnets are a word salad of virtue signaling. Children, battered women, homeless, underprivileged: various euphemisms that all mean āpoor.ā
No telling what Mrs. Reed was supporting last night, really, but thatās another thing I donāt actually care about.
And I donāt let my eyes linger on the earrings.
Bearās leash is smooth in my hand as I give Mrs. Reed a little wave and head out onto the wide front porch. Itās painted cement, slick in the damp, and my ancient sneakers nearly skid across it.
I hear the door close behind me, and wonder what Mrs. Reed will do this morning while Iām off walking her dog. Have another cup of coffee? Chase it with a Xanax? Plan some other charity function?
Maybe a brunch to raise money for kids who donāt know how to yacht.
The rain has tapered off some, but the morning is still cold, and I wish Iād brought gloves. My hands look raw and chapped, the knuckles an angry red. Thereās still a light pink burn mark splashing across my skin between the thumb and forefinger of my right hand, a trophy from the last day I worked at Roasted, a coffee shop in Mountain Brook Village.
I remind myself that walking dogs sucks, but at least it doesnāt carry the threat of second-degree burns.
Bear tugs on his leash, sniffing every mailbox we come to, and I let him pull me along behind him, my mind more on the houses, the neighborhood, than on my charge. Behind every one of these McMansions is a bright green backyard, so it makes no sense that anyone would even need a dog-walker. But need is not a word people like this think of. Everything with them is want.
Thatās what all these houses are about.
Mrs. Reed and her husband live alone on Magnolia Court in eight bathrooms and seven bedrooms, a formal living room and a family den, an upstairs lounge and a āgentlemanās study.ā Every house in Thornfield Estates is like that from what I can tell. Iāve been in four of them so far because of course once one neighbor has a dog-walker, everyone else needsāwantsāone. I work for the Reeds, walking Bear, and now for the McLaren family on Primrose Lane, walking their dalmatian, Mary-Beth. Then thereās the Clarks on Oakwood with their shih tzus, Major and Colonel, and Tripp Ingraham on Maple Way just hired me to walk his late wifeās Labrador, Harper.
All in all, itās a good gig, certainly better than working at Roasted. Here, people actually look me in the eye because they want to be the kind of people who tell themselves theyāre not assholes if they actually call āthe helpā by their first name. āJane is like family,ā Mrs. Reed probably says to the other ladies at the country club, and they all make simpering sounds of agreement and have another Bloody Mary.
My sneakers squeak as I walk down the sidewalk, and I think of my apartment, how itās probably leaking in that one spot in the kitchen again, the ceiling a darker, dingy gray against the rest of the dingy gray. The apartment is cheap and not in a terrible part of town, but sometimes it feels like living in a little concrete box, and no matter how much I try to dress it up with posters from Target or pretty blankets Iāve picked up from thrift stores, the gray fights back.
There isnāt any dingy gray in Thornfield Estates.
Here, the grass is green no matter the time of year, and every house has flowerpots or window boxes, or huge bushes covered in colorful flowers. The shutters are bright yellow, navy blue, deep red, emerald green. If thereās any gray at all, itās soft and elegantādove gray, I heard Mrs. Reed call it. Thereās a constant hum of activity from lawn services, carpet cleaners, and housekeeping vans going in and out of driveways, even on a rainy day like today.
Bear stops to pee against a curb, and I use my free hand to push the hood back from my head, cold rainwater slithering down my neck as I do. The rain jacket is old, and the seam on the left side is torn, but I canāt bring myself to buy a new one. Itās an expense that doesnāt seem quite worth it, and sometimes I wonder if anyone around here would notice if an older raincoat went missing.
Too big a risk, I remind myself, but I still spend a solid two minutes imagining walking through this neighborhood in something sleek and pretty, something that doesnāt leak cold rainwater all over me. Something like the Burberry jacket Mrs. Clark had hanging up by the door last week.
Donāt even think about it.
So instead, I think about the diamond earrings at Mrs. Reedās, how if both went missing, well, that looks suspicious, but one? One couldāve fallen off the table. Could be pressed into the carpet at the country club. Could be loose in a pocket somewhere.
Bear stops to smell another mailbox, but I pull him on, making my way toward my favorite house.
Itās at the end of a dead-end street, set back farther from the road than the others, and itās one of the few that doesnāt seem to have a steady stream of people going in and out. The yard is just as green as the other lawns in the neighborhood, but shaggier, and the pretty purple bushes that bloom out front have climbed too high, blocking off windows on the first floor.
Itās the biggest house in the neighborhood, rising taller, two massive wings sprouting off either side, two oak trees climbing high on the front lawn. It was clearly older than the other homes in the neighborhood, probably the first house ever built here.
The sameness of Thornfield Estates means that eventually, all the houses blur together. I like thatāa beautiful blur is better than the depressing monotony of my part of townābut thereās something about this house, all alone at the end of a cul-de-sac, that draws me back every time.
I step off the sidewalk, and into the center of the road, to get a closer look.
This part of the neighborhood is always so quiet that it doesnāt even occur to me that standing in the street might not be the safest thing to do.
I hear the car before I see it, but even then, I donāt move, and later, Iād look back at that moment and wonder if I somehow knew what was going to happen. If everything in my life had been leading me to that one spot, to that one house.
To him.
2
Almost all of the cars in Thornfield Estates are the same, some version of luxury SUV. Theyāre basically movable versions of the housesānotably expensive, bigger than could ever be necessary. I barely notice them anymore, just register them as champagne or midnight-blue tanks that roll through the streets regularly.
The car that comes flying out of the driveway of my favorite house isnāt an SUV, though. Itās a sports car, an older one with a growling engine, and candy-apple red, bright as a wound against the gray day.
Bear barks, dancing on his back legs, and I try to move out of the way, my fingers getting tangled in the leash as the carās bumper rushes toward us.
The asphalt is slick with rain, and maybe thatās what saves me because as I step back, my foot skids and I fall, landing hard enough to rattle my teeth. My hood drops over my face, so I canāt see anything except army-green vinyl, but I hear the squeal of brakes, then the soft crunch of metal. Bear is barking and barking and barking, moving nervously, and the leather leash bites into my wrist, making me wince.
āJesus Christ,ā I hear a man say, and I finally manage to push the hood back.
The back half of that gorgeous car now rests against one of the fancy streetlights that line the road. He hadnāt been going all that fast, but the car was so lightweight that the metal had crumpled like paper, and my mouth suddenly goes dry, heart pounding heavily in my chest.
Shit, shit, shit.
A car like that is worth more than most people make in a year. It would take me ages at the coffee shop to even afford a down payment on something like that, and now itās seriously fucked up because Iāve been gaping at this guyās house from the middle of the street.
The driverās door is open, and I finally make myself look at the man standing there, one arm slung across the top of the door.
He doesnāt look like the other men Iāve seen in Thornfield Estates. They wear polo shirts and khakis, and even the ones who are young and in good shape have a sort of softness to them. Weak chins or bellies that sag slightly over their expensive leather belts.
Thereās nothing weak or sagging in this man. Heās wearing jeans and boots that are meant to look lived-in, but I know are expensive. Everything about him looks expensive, even his rumpled white button-down.
āAre you alright?ā he asks, stepping toward me. Even though itās raining, heās wearing a pair of aviator sunglasses, and I can see myself reflected in them, the pale oval of my face against the dark green of my hood.
And when he takes off the glasses, hooking them in the collar of his shirt, his eyes are very blue. A trio of wrinkles pop up over the bridge of his nose as he looks down at me.
It had been a long time since anyone looked at me like they were actually worried about me, and thatās almost more attractive than the nice clothes, the gorgeous car, the perfect bone structure.
I nod at him as I push myself to my feet, yanking on Bearās leash to bring the dog closer.
āFine,ā I tell him. āI shouldnāt have been standing in the street.ā
One corner of his mouth kicks up, revealing a dimple in his cheek. āI shouldnāt have been pulling out of the driveway like a bat out of hell.ā
He leans down then, giving Bear a ...
