Too Close to Home

Prologue

Regan

The last days of summer have felt endless, bringing with them an insufferable, dripping heat and something bleak hanging in

the air. An unease I haven’t been able to explain—something intangible in the background like a distant, electric buzzing.

Almost everyone in the Cloverhill Lakes community attends the Labor Day party. It’s always held on the little beach between

the Millers’ docks and the country club, and it’s usually something I look forward to, but tonight I’m just ready to go home.

Something is off.

“Sasha, hi, sweetheart,” I say, waving as she arrives, a potato salad in one hand and a bottle of prosecco in the other.

She’s trying not to get her stiletto heels stuck in the sand while remaining graceful at the same time.

I see someone gave her—the newcomer to the neighborhood—the memo: that even though we call it a barbecue, we still wear sundresses and carry our good handbags.

She waves back and looks for a place to set her things, but it seems someone has not, in fact, given her the memo that around here, barbecues are catered.

I pretend not to see her toss her offering into the trash can

when she registers this.

I sit at a picnic table in the gazebo and stir my martini. The strings of fairy lights twinkle in the trees and the crickets

take their turn playing the night’s soundtrack between the deejay’s sets of pop music. There are round tables and folding

chairs set up across the grassy bank of the lake, small plates of cake in people’s hands and lots of champagne bottles poking

out of buckets of ice. It almost looks like a Seurat painting minus the parasols. I even fan myself with a paper plate and

very much feel like I’m having “a fit of the vapors”—a joke I want to share with Andi as she plops down next to me with something

fruity and frozen in her hand, except I’m certain she wouldn’t get it.

“God, she’s an absolute twat,” Andi mutters.

“Who are we talking about?” Sasha asks, walking into the gazebo and pouring herself a margarita from the sweating pitcher

on one of the tables.

“When Andi is using the word twat or cow or slutbag, it’s only ever in reference to . . .”

“Tia Hainsley,” Sasha interrupts. “Right. I do know that. Sorry.”

We all look in Tia’s direction and watch her hanging on her new husband’s shoulder, showing a small group of women her blingy ring.

I was certain everyone had already seen the thing, but I guess I was mistaken.

There are a couple people left on the planet who hadn’t.

It is a notable size—something you could probably see from space.

I see Andi’s eye twitch as the circle of women’s squealy shrieks waft over the soundwaves of Beyoncé coming from the deejay’s speakers and echo off the vaulted gazebo ceiling, but she ignores the giggling admirers and swears she doesn’t care about Tia and Ray.

Perhaps she is actually over her ex-husband’s marrying Tia freaking Hainsley.

I mean, she has remarried herself, so she really shouldn’t care, but .

. . methinks the lady doth protest too much.

“It’s not a good color on her,” Sasha says. “I mean, in case that’s helpful.” We all look back to Tia again, flinging her

hair over her shoulder and tossing her head back to laugh. I fight the urge to laugh myself when I see she’s wearing—not a color but a rainbow-striped dress. Sasha was clearly just reaching for anything to say to be supportive.

“Yeah, she looks like a packet of Smarties,” I add in solidarity. Andi sighs.

“Thanks, guys.”

We sit in a row, sipping our drinks and watching the crowd. An occasional bark of laughter pierces the air, glasses clink

and our kids dance in bare feet on the makeshift dance floor on the sandy patch by the water. Hallie sees me watching her

and waves at me. I blow her a kiss. It’s these times when I miss Jack the most, like really miss him, where the wave of it hits me unexpectedly and it’s like realizing for the first time . . . that he’s gone. It steals

my breath. I hold my chest and stand, walking away from the others.

“You okay?” Andi asks.

“Fine,” I say, futzing with a jar of olives, keeping my back to them until I can collect myself. I drop a couple stuffed olives into my drink, pop an Ativan under my tongue and breathe. It’s not the place for an anxiety attack. Breathe in for four, out for eight.

“We have an emergency,” I hear a panicked voice say behind me, and I turn to see Ally Whitlock speed-walking around the tables

in the gazebo, plucking at a couple bags full of paper plates and napkins and opening the coolers along the wall.

“Oh no.” Sasha stands. “What happened?”

“We’re out of ice. Seriously? I mean, how does that even happen? This is a disaster,” Ally says. She’s the unofficial coordinator

of the Labor Day party because she inserts herself into the committee’s business, and they let her do whatever she wants and

micromanage all she pleases because she’s willing to do all the work—delighted to, even.

“Should I call the fire department?” I ask.

“Regan. I don’t appreciate that. I did a lot of work making sure everything was . . .” She trails off, opening one last cooler

and then standing, hands on hips.

“People expect a certain experience each year. The bar can’t run out of ice. It’s not a good look.”

“I would offer to go get ice, but this is my second . . .” Andi shakes her glass.

“Same,” I say.

“I’ll go,” Sasha offers, because of course she does.

“No, this is your first year, darling. You stay, but please order the signature drink from the bar. I have fifty pineapple

coolers melting into oblivion. I took a poll. People voted ‘pineapple cooler.’ Why no one is drinking the damn pineapple cooler

is beyond me.”

“Of course,” Sasha says.

“I’d go myself, but I came with Connie and I can’t find her anywhere. She has the keys.”

“Here.” I take my keys out and toss them to her. “My car is in the first lot.”

“Oh, wonderful. If you see Connie, tell her I didn’t leave. I’ll be back in a few . . . and oh, God, the wind took the paper

plates right off the . . . Ugh. Good Lord! What next?” She holds her head in her hand a moment and then shakes it off. A warm

breeze nudged one paper plate off a table and somehow it’s Hurricane Sandy about to destroy the party and then the whole town.

“We got it, Al. Don’t worry,” I say.

She nods with exasperation and rushes off to my car to go get her emergency ice. We watch her hold her skirt down so it doesn’t

blow over her head as she makes her way down the grassy embankment to the lot.

“Do you think her and Connie are . . .”

“Are what?” Sasha asks.

“Like, you know?” Andi says.

“What?” I say.

“Doin’ it?”

I actually spit out my drink.

“Oh, like you don’t already think that!” Andi says.

“Well, you’re not supposed to say it out loud, for Christ’s sake. They’re gal pals.”

“Lady friends,” Sasha agrees and holds up her drink. We clink glasses, chuckling at this.

“And that’s okay,” I say.

“Good for them,” Andi adds.

And that’s when we hear it. A noise so loud it hardly seems real.

At first, I think it’s fireworks because I see sparks in my peripheral vision. Sometimes folks light a few fireworks at the Labor Day party, although it’s more likely for people to do sparklers on the beach. But this sound is not fireworks.

It’s an explosion.

I don’t clock that right away. I’m paralyzed with shock as everyone around me starts to scream. To run. A few people run toward

the blast to help, and some hold others back from running toward the danger. It’s sudden chaos and screaming. I just stand,

motionless.

“Oh, God!” I hear Andi say, and then after what seems like minutes but was probably only a few seconds, I move—I run, calling

out for Hallie, and I hear Sasha and Andi crying, panicked, running for their kids, too, and everything blurs and moves in

slow motion as I see Hallie, sobbing, running toward me with her arms outstretched and fear flashing in her eyes. I hold her

in my arms and the terrified crowd moves around us, and people don’t know what to do with what they’re seeing—they can’t make

sense of it.

At the stop sign at the end of the parking lot, a car has blown up. My car. My car has exploded into the night air like a firework sending shrapnel and . . . flesh scattered across the pavement.

Within minutes, the area is swarming with police, paramedics and the fire department. Families and friends huddle in small

groups, terrified but seeking answers—me, most of all. After some time, the fire is out and officers are surrounding the car,

taking a closer look. Suddenly, several officers rush toward the crowd, shouting, “Clear the area! Clear the area!” They’ve

found an explosive device on the car. This wasn’t an accident.

Ally Whitlock is dead. And it was meant to be me.