On a Quiet Street

Prologue

Nothing ever happens in Brighton Hills. Well, nothing you can see, anyway.

It all happens in whispers and behind closed doors: it swirls around in rumors and sideways glances, even though the surface is glossy and calm.

Underneath, though, it’s filled with desperate women who turn their heads from their husbands’ affairs so they can keep their Gucci and Birkin, and dads are buying recreational coke from a high-school kid to get them through soul-stealing jobs they hate.

It’s Abby Rosen, whose nanny stole her three-karat diamond to sell and replaced it with a cubic zirconia, and Abby never found out.

It’s Martin Landry, who eloped with his seventeen-year-old stepdaughter.

It’s a million stories like that that make up this lonely, unknowable place.

Who knows what’s true? The people seem too beige and plastic to be that interesting, but something is indeed happening beneath the manicured facade.

When you walk down the sidewalks of Brighton Hills, it’s green and tidy and.

..a lie. People are polite, and it’s always so quiet, but on this night, something very loud happened.

He just wanted to talk, but instead he found himself yelling, his voice choked with tears—he needed help.

The rain fell in torrents, and the thunder forced him to scream over the noise, but he wasn’t trying to be threatening.

It just sounded that way. As he stood in front of the car, dripping in the rain, he pleaded for understanding to the figure sitting inside it.

He apologized for everything, but it wasn’t enough.

There was a gunshot, he thinks. Who shot it? He felt far away from himself and couldn’t piece together what was really happening.

All he could see were headlights in the darkness, suddenly coming toward him.

The figure hit the accelerator, wheels howling against the wet pavement, barreling toward him.

There was no time to run: it happened too fast. He felt the impossible weight of the bumper crash into his hip, and then he was flying, floating.

He hit the ground so hard his head didn’t even bounce.

He felt his skull crack and soften, and then warm blood pooled around the base of his skull.

He closed his eyes against the black rain on his face and told himself it would be okay, he wasn’t going to die.

As the car pulled away, another must have passed as it pulled into the community, and he thought maybe he would be helped: he could be saved still, he was certain.

The car stopped. It stopped to help him!

Doors opened and closed, and he heard the voices of two people, a man and a woman.

“Oh, my God!” the female voice said. “Call—Oh, my—Jesus, call for help.” And just then the wail of sirens could be heard, blaring in their direction; he was sure they must be coming for him.

“Let’s get outta here!” the male voice said.

“What?” The woman kneeled next to Caleb, and he tried to reach out his hand but couldn’t make it move. The man pulled her away.

“Help is coming. We can’t be here,” he said.

He could feel her hesitate but then sensed that she wasn’t there anymore.

He heard the car pull away, and tears escaped the corners of his eyes, washed away by the rain.

Had the gunshot made the neighbors call the police?

They were probably coming. He waited, alone, the cold permeating his clothes and making him tremble.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, but before help could arrive, he was gone.