CHAPTER 4

Perla's home always looked like a magazine shoot. Even in the crime scene photos that were leaked online, you could see how meticulous and beautiful it was, despite all the blood.

—Kennedy Wells, neighbor and interior designer

Eight years ago, we built our home, using an architect to create a custom floor plan that took our dreams and brought them to life. We analyzed the school districts and picked a private gated community in Pasadena that offered estate-size lots. We picked one of the bigger ones on a cul-de-sac that backed up to conservation land.

I had thrown any budget out the window and used my inheritance to fund the project. The result was a nine-thousand-square-foot home that paired twenty-two-foot ceilings with an all-cream interior, eight fireplaces, walls of bookshelves, fine art, and bold wallpaper prints.

We designed an expansive first floor with double living areas, a massive kitchen and pantry, dining halls, and his-and-her workshops and craft rooms. On the second floor was our giant primary suite, complete with a steam shower, spa, and three walk-in closets. Both our offices and a laundry room bisected that level, with two guest rooms and Sophie's room on the other side of the floor. The basement level held the theater, a gym, an extra guest suite, a wine cellar, and storage.

I kept the home in order—a place where dreams could come true. The problem was that some of our dreams were the stuff of nightmares.

I set one oven to 350 degrees and the other to Warm. Sliding open one of the island's wide double drawers, I surveyed the perfectly organized grid of long-stemmed silverware. After selecting a beverage whisk and coffee spoon, I placed them on the counter, then turned to Sophie. "Is your phone in the box?"

"Yep." She nodded toward the small wooden box where she surrendered her cell each evening after dinner. It was a halfhearted attempt to protect her from social media, predators, and the vacant soul suck created by an addiction to constant entertainment—but also provided a level of control that I relished.

"Have you gotten your father's order?"

"Oh yes." She pressed her palms together like she was praying. "He wants brownies and milk with a ..." Her forehead crinkled as she tried to remember. "With a ..."

I waited, already certain of what Grant would want. My husband was a man of order, precision, and consistency, which was how I knew that at that moment he was putting on his dark-navy pajama pants, gray socks, and a soft white T-shirt. Then he'd take a heartburn pill and brush and floss his teeth, despite the fact that he'd eat dessert and popcorn and have to do it again before bed. After sex—which would occur on top of the blankets, missionary position, followed by me on top—he'd shower, then dress in silk-blend boxer briefs and a fresh white T-shirt. No socks, because he enjoyed the feel of our mattress's heated footer function, which he set for two hours each night, on medium. He'd place his phone on the charger at least six feet away from his pillow before getting under the covers.

The predictability had annoyed me early on. Now I appreciated it. The ultimate power in a marriage is the manipulation ability of knowing how and when your spouse will act and react.

"Crap. Be right back." Sophie spun on her heel and darted toward the stairs. I got to work on the brownies, my preparations quick and efficient as I mixed the batter and poured it into a mini pan that would produce four brownies. The rest of the batter, I scraped into the trash. That was the last thing I needed—an extra plate of sugar and calories, tempting us all. Tonight would be bad enough on our diets. I pulled a tub of vanilla bean ice cream from the freezer and placed it on the counter to thaw.

Sophie, whose dessert order was also predictable, would want s'mores and a Coke. Grant would gripe at her over the negative effects of caffeine, all while sipping his own heart attack in a cup.

With the brownie pan in the oven, I created Sophie's s'mores, using the microwave to melt her marshmallow-and-chocolate sandwiches. By the time she returned, I was arranging the first one on a white china plate.

"Okay, he said he wanted brownies and milk and an Irish coffee."

"Got it," I said. "Do me a favor and whip his cream." I opened one of the island's lower fridge drawers and pulled out the whipping cream with one hand and a jug of milk with the other.

"He's pissed about what you did at dinner." Sophie took the items, her movements quick, the chore one she had done dozens of times. "Told me it was inexcusable."

I unscrewed the cap to the whiskey and poured an ounce into a glass. "And what do you think?"

"I don't know. I think it was pretty cool. Everyone clapped for you."

"Dad just doesn't want you to start lying."

"Yeah, but you did." She peered into the bowl, focusing on her task.

"Well, sometimes lies don't matter. I told them I was a doctor because I felt confident that I could help that woman and that the risk of side effects was low." I returned the liquor to its cabinet. "If you told people you hated math—"

"But I like math." She licked the end of the whisk, then stuck it back in the bowl.

"Okay, but let's say you told me you didn't. What's the potential side effect?" I scooped out a spoonful of sugar and added it to the cup, then placed the glass under the Miele spout and held down the button, releasing a stream of hot espresso.

"I don't know. I guess people wouldn't ask me math questions."

"Do people ask you math questions now?"

"No."

"See?" I pulled the steaming glass away from the machine. "So why does it matter if you lied?"

"Okay, so you won't be mad if I lie?" She was so opportunistic, this daughter of mine. Always looking for an inch, a shortcut, a permission. She shouldn't be asking; she should be taking. She'd learn that soon enough. If you waited for life to give you something, you'd never get half of what you deserved. If I had waited around, I wouldn't be married to Grant. I wouldn't have become George and Janice's daughter and eventual heir. I wouldn't have a life that looked anything like this.

Of course, you couldn't take everything. Sometimes there was interference, which was why Sophie was standing next to me when she should have never been born.

I used the spoon to move a dollop of fresh cream onto the top of Grant's coffee and tried to remember where our conversation had ended. Oh, right. Would I be mad if she lied? I cleared my throat. "Well, that's why your dad is worried. Because he's worried that you'll see me lie without repercussions and it will cause you to lie about things. Some things which might be really important and might have serious side effects. And I agree with your dad on that."

"Agree with me on what?" Grant entered the room with a warm smile. Maybe he'd forgive me quickly this time. Joining us at the island, he took the coffee from me. "The brownies smell good."

"They're almost ready. I was just saying that I agree with you, that lying is bad and something that Sophie shouldn't do."

She arched an eyebrow at me, and I winked at her.

"Well, that's something I can drink to." Grant took a small sip of his coffee, then did the loud lip smack that he always did when he really enjoyed something.

I hated that lip smack. I hated the sound of it, the tight pucker of his lips that preceded it, and I really, truly hated that I waited and looked for that smack of approval.

I had been the same way with my father, so desperate for his blessing. I learned back then how dangerous that trap was. I had held on to him so tightly, I'd lost him forever.

Sophie wrapped her arms around Grant's waist and smiled up at him.

Anger flared in my gut, and I turned away, unable to stomach the view.