Chapter Thirteen: Lucy

CHAPTER THIRTEENLUCY

I try to avoid going by Hampton House. I tell myself that I do not need to see it, and that I really don’t need to risk running into Matt, who is living there with his new wife.

But I end up driving across town anyway. No one has ever accused me of making good decisions.

The sun has just slipped away when I arrive, the streetlamps clicking on. The lawns are still perfectly manicured, and there isn’t a single car parked on the street. The homeowners association is always watching.

I pull up to the curb in front of the house and turn off the engine.

It looks the same. The flowers I chose to line the front of the house are still there. So are the misters above the porch, my best effort to make the porch comfortable in the summer months (it didn’t work).

Through the front windows, I can see the white wood shutters I chose, shut tight. I guess it doesn’t make sense to get rid of custom shutters, but I’m still surprised she didn’t trash them. I might have worried they were cursed. I might have burned everything in a house where my new husband’s murderous ex-wife used to live.

I enjoyed decorating the house, even though I hadn’t really even wanted it. Matt was the one who was enchanted by it, by what it would say about us.

“That house will make us the stars of that town,” he’d said. “Everyone will be talking about it.”

He was right, of course. The whole town was buzzing about it. Matt’s right about everything, though. Just ask him.

I’d been reluctant to take money from Matt’s parents, the only way we could afford the house. He’d dismissed that concern. They’d put aside money for his first house years ago. He said it like, Obviously they did that. Who doesn’t put aside nearly a million dollars for their son’s first house? Obviously!

I’d never gotten the hang of the rich-person lifestyle. There was so much guilt involved. Every time his parents would come over there were little jabs thrown everywhere. Remarks about upkeep and resale value. A snide comment about the brewery (which they also paid for). I’d rather be broke in an apartment with a foot-fetishist landlord than deal with that.

A car turns onto the street, and I quickly turn the key in the ignition, turning my head so the driver can’t see my face. I watch it get smaller in my rearview mirror, and slowly let out a breath.

A knock on the window makes me jump.

I turn to look out the passenger’s-side window.

It’s Matt.