Chapter 38
Most of the book club energy drinks are sweating on the coffee table untouched.
The seaweed flakes are even less popular.
A dozen neighbors are packed into Wren’s home, with knees knocking and voices stacked on top of one another like kindling.
Wren’s front door bangs open with a violence that rattles a piece of abstract art hanging in the hallway, and imprints the plaster with the doorknob.
“I’m here! Don’t start without me!”
Ivory bolts up from her seat. Wren spills purple energy drink on her erratically patterned carpet, so she grabs a paper towel to dab up the liquid. The rest of us are too occupied staring at the stranger standing in the entryway whose glare locks directly on me.
She is a blinding splash of color, wearing a hot pink pantsuit that looks like it belongs in an eighties movie. But it’s not the outfit that makes the air leave my lungs. It’s her face, and the way she isn’t blinking as she stares at me. I don’t know her, but she seems to know—and hate—me.
I look at the stranger, then I swivel to look at Zala sitting next to me. Then back to the stranger. It’s like looking at a split screen. Same high cheekbones. Same almond-shaped eyes. Even the same perfect little nose.
“What the—” I’m too confused to notice the dry seaweed crumbling in my hand.
Leaving the front door open behind her, the woman in pink carelessly kicks off her heels—also pink—and struts into the circle, beaming. “Hi, everyone. Sorry I’m late. Traffic was a nightmare.”
“Who are you?” Zala asks on behalf of the whole room, because no one appears to know her.
“Hi, I am Gillian.”
And I am mortified.
Gillian Szabo—Ramsey’s girlfriend and Zala’s doppelg?nger.
The woman Janet Vick was following is here in the flesh, and she isn’t Zala after all.
How could I be so thoughtless to tell Detective Yankovic that Zala was Gillian Szabo and possibly connected to Ivory’s disappearance and Janet’s murder?
All because I thought they look so much alike.
And yet when I really examine them—Gillian’s pink heels compared to Zala’s thick-soled comfort shoes, or Gillian’s high-maintenance makeup compared to Zala’s fresh-faced woke-up-like-this look—they are nothing alike.
Gillian tilts her head. “And wow, do you have a mirror? Because I feel like I’m looking at one.” Her gaze drifts down Zala’s body and she reassesses. “Well, an older poorly-dressed version.”
Zala doesn’t seem to notice the dig as she steps forward, one eyebrow cocked as she scans Gillian’s body. “I’m Zala,” she holds out her hand, which Gillian limply shakes, “Zala Yankovic.”
Yankovic. You’ve got to be kidding me. Zala must be Detective Yankovic’s sister.
No wonder she knew about the missing shirt detail from Janet Vick’s murder investigation.
Her brother must have leaked it to her. And now it makes sense, the disdain he showered me with when I laid out my theory of Zala being Gillian.
I thought he was just being a dismissive cop, but he wasn't. He was pissed off because I was accusing his sister of sleeping with a married man and then murdering someone. I am an absolute, colossal idiot.
“Yankovic?” Gillian repeats, ignoring the tension radiating off the rest of us. She looks Zala up and down, then points a manicured finger at her face. “Wait a second. You have the Szabo cheekbones. Are you from Pie??any?”
Zala’s defensive posture melts instantly. “Yes, in fact I was born on Spa Island! I used to explore the underground treatment corridors… well, before they were sealed shut. We moved to the United States when I was a teenager.”
“The Spa Island?” Gillian shrieks, clapping her hands together. “My father—my tatko—wouldn’t shut up about it. He said the mud cured his gout.”
“Do you know my aunt, Magda Yankovic?”
“Aunt Magda!” Gillian screams. She lunges forward and wraps Zala in a hug that looks like it might crack a rib. “What a small world. My dad is her cousin, Jozef. That would make us… second cousins?”
Zala laughs and wraps her arm around the hot pink back of Gillian Szabo, then draws her into the circle of seats. “I haven't seen Jozef since I was a child. That explains it. The resemblance… it’s uncanny.”
“We Slovaks have strong genes. Look at us!” Gillian pulls back, holding Zala by the shoulders. “We look like a before-and-after photo for a makeover show!”
No one but me seems to notice the drop in temperature from the open front door sucking the heat out, or the wind whipping inside, ruffling the coats hanging on a coat rack in the entry.
Instead, the room erupts into confused but inviting greetings aimed at our newest book club member who has taken an intense interest in watching me.
In a way, I’m relieved to finally put a face to the name of my newest enemy.
Wren asks if anyone needs an energy drink refill. Zala and Gillian hijack the conversation, prattling away in a mix of English and what sounds like Slovak, bonding over a place called Spa Island and their shared cheekbones that women would kill for.
But I can’t smile. I can’t join in this warm welcome. Gillian is here for an agenda, and I know it revolves around me.
A prick of unease starts at the base of my neck and works its way up.
I watch Gillian laughing, her sleeve brushing against Zala’s arm.
The pink is strikingly familiar—in fact, it’s the same blinding pink I’d seen at the waterfall.
Another piece clicks into place when the letter that I thought was a Z in the water’s reflection was actually an S… for Szabo.
Gillian Szabo has to be Fred’s mistress, and she shouldn't be here. Not just in this house, but here, in this moment. Ivory needs the truth, and I’m going to get it for her. So I stand up, though my legs feel heavy. The commotion dies down as I step into the center of the room.
“Gillian,” I demand her attention.
She turns to me, her smile bright and vacuous. “You must be Shari. I’ve heard so much about you.”
“We didn't invite you,” I say flatly. Zala’s expression turns stern, because of course she thinks I’m being rude. But I’m not. I’m being protective and proactive. “This is a private book club. Zala didn't know you were coming. I didn't know you were coming. Wren didn't know you were coming.”
Gillian’s smile falters, just a fraction. With a flip of her hair she steps toward me.
“So,” then I take a matching step toward her, because I will not back down—not now, not ever again, “how did you know we were meeting here tonight? Who told you about it?”
No one posted about this book club meeting outside of our private Facebook group. And beyond that, Wren only invited the neighbors verbally, in person because she insists texting “spreads misinformation,” like she’s chairwoman of some HOA version of the CIA.
The room goes dead silent except for the crunch of shoes on leaves somewhere outside.
The joy of the Slovak family reunion evaporates, replaced by the suffocating weight of suspicion.
Gillian stares at me, and for a second her bubbly exterior slips.
Her gaze darts to the window, where the darkness presses against the glass.
“I…” she starts, but stops.
“Why are you really here in Doomwood Falls, Gillian?”
Before Gillian can answer, a heavy thud comes across the front porch. The front door slams shut, followed by the distinct sound of a deadbolt sliding home.