CHAPTER 8

People act all surprised now, like there were no clues of the insanity inside that house, but I could tell you within minutes of meeting that family that it was a messed-up dynamic. It's why I never let my daughter play with Sophie. I knew right away something was off with them.

—Lydia Lee, Brighton Estates mom

The Pasadena farmers' market was packed by the time we arrived at ten after ten. Grant eased the nose of my Range Rover into a tight space between a Tesla and a Porsche SUV.

"Watch the doors," I said sharply to Sophie, who had already unbuckled and was grabbing her bag from the floorboard.

"Money?" she asked, holding out her hand.

Grant shifted in his seat, pulling out his billfold and opening it up. After looking through the contents, he withdrew a crisp fifty-dollar bill, then handed it to her.

"Thanks," she said cheerfully, folding it into thirds and then tucking it into her bag.

"Try and stay close to us," Grant reminded her. "You got your phone?"

"Yep." She held it up.

I checked my watch. "Let's meet at eleven thirty at the food tent and eat."

"Sure. I got to go, Jordan and Bridget are already here." She cracked open the door, gauged the distance to the adjacent vehicle, then squeezed out.

I looked at Grant. "Fifty dollars is way too much. At her age, my dad would have given me five."

"And George would have given you a hundred," he said dismissively, unfolding the reflective sun shield and positioning it against the interior of the windshield. "Different circumstances allow for different things. She isn't spoiled. We're strict enough with her to prevent that."

Maybe. Still.

Grant locked the doors, double-checked that our parking pass was displayed, and then fastened the key chain's carabiner clip to his khaki's belt loop. He reached for my hand, and we wandered toward the entrance, our fingers loosely linked. It was a beautiful Los Angeles day, sunny and with a slight breeze.

We caught up with Sophie by the pet-adoption tent, where she turned to us, a big brown rabbit in her arms. "Look!" she called out. "It's Piketo!"

Grant's hand stiffened and I released it, scraping my nails gently on the top of the rabbit's head, then placing a kiss on that spot. "And what a beautiful bunny you are!" I cooed.

"Put it back," Grant called out, and I pretended it was due to his allergies and not our age-old argument over the story of Piketo and its role in our child's upbringing.

"Put Piketo back," I whispered to Sophie and gave her a conspiratorial grin. "You know your father hates that reference."

She tucked her lips in and nodded, her dimple peeking out as she tried not to smile. Twisting back toward the pen, she bent forward and dropped the floppy-eared bunny onto the straw.

I returned to Grant, grabbing his hand. I went in for a kiss but he pulled away.

"My allergies," he protested.

"Don't be a wimp." I grabbed him by the shoulders and rose onto my toes, kissing him square on the mouth. He allowed it and I grinned against his lips, then withdrew. "Fruit stand?" I suggested.

"Lead the way."

Piketo the bunny was a story my father had told me. I had waited until Sophie's sixth birthday to tell her the tale, because that's when he had told it to me.

As Grant had cleared away the wrapping paper and started unpackaging her new Barbie doll, I'd held her tiny hand in mine and told her the story.

"Piketo the bunny lived with her family in a big green field with lots of flowers and areas of shade."

Sophie had been staring at the Barbie, and I'd squeezed her hand to keep her attention. "Piketo knew a special secret, one that only she and her family knew. It was a juicy secret—the location of a hidden garden of carrots." I'd widened my eyes and raised the octave of my voice, amplifying the tale. "Because Piketo and her family knew about the garden, they could enjoy the carrots all they wanted, and as a result, Piketo's family was always happy."

"Happy." Sophie had beamed and swung her legs under the table, accidentally hitting my knee with her shoe. "Mommy, can I have some carrots?"

" May you have," I'd corrected automatically. "I'll have to see if we have any. But listen, Sophie, because the story is just getting good.

"Piketo was bursting to tell someone about the garden. Every time a bunny would brag about a carrot he found, or whenever there would be discussions and arguments about where to find the best carrots, her secret would bubble up in her little bunny chest, and she would have to pin her whiskered lips together to keep from telling the secret."

I'd held my hands together in front of my chest, my fingers pointing down like bunny paws, and pinned my mouth closed, then puffed out my cheeks. Sophie had burst out laughing as Grant chuckled from his place by the trash can.

"One day, Piketo couldn't keep the secret any longer and broke the rule. She told just one friend. A safe friend. Her closest friend. A friend that would never, ever, ever tell anyone." I had dropped my voice, making it sound serious and dark.

Sophie's eyes had narrowed as her little brain worked through what story possibilities would come next.

"A week went by, and her family continued their life of happiness and bliss. Another week passed, and all was well. In the third week, do you know what happened?" I'd placed my palms on the table and looked solemnly into Sophie's eyes, just as my father had when he'd reached this part of the story.

She had shaken her head quickly, making her little blonde curls bounce.

"Piketo's family was all asleep in their little rabbit beds, dreaming about green fields and sunshine, when the town came for them, furious that they had hidden the secret carrot garden from the others."

I had glanced at Grant, then continued. "Rabbits have extraordinarily long front teeth, and they used them to rip open the bellies of Piketo's sisters and mom. They tore out the eyes of Piketo's father and brothers. Within minutes, everyone in Piketo's family was bloody and dead."

"Jesus." Grant had sworn. "She's six, Perla. You're going to give her nightmares."

I had held up my hand to silence him and watched Sophie, making sure she was listening. Her eyes had been huge, her mouth a little O of surprise, and I'd known how she felt because I remembered my own reaction when I'd first heard the story. The twist of my belly. The fear it introduced in my heart. It had cemented this idea, this lesson, in my head—and in hers.

"Piketo didn't realize what she was doing, but her actions caused the death of everything that she knew and everyone that she loved. When we are told to keep secrets, Sophie, you must take that responsibility seriously. Especially the secrets of your family. Do you understand?"

I had reached out and grabbed her hands, squeezing them hard. "Sometimes something might not seem serious to you, but then you wake up and everyone you love is ripped open and dead."

"Okay, I think that's enough." Grant had picked Sophie up under her arms and swirled her through the air. "Who wants to go swimming?"

"Me!" Sophie had shrieked and smiled, but there was a moment when her eyes connected with mine, and there, for just that moment, I saw the confirmation. She had heard. She had understood.

I didn't need to do what my father had done. I wouldn't give her a baby rabbit for Christmas, one that would later end up gutted. I understand why my father bought the rabbit, why he brought the story's main character to life. The psychological impact of Piketo's tale was instrumental in creating a relationship of ironclad confidentiality and trust.

Grant had thought I was being too graphic, but I'd needed to give Sophie a small dose of the awareness I had received as a child, and if that could be done with vivid words instead of actual blood—less mess to clean up. Fewer questions to answer.