CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Deb Mosley had stopped pretending the evening was going well.
Carol Fen sat opposite her at the dining table, cutting a roasted potato into smaller and smaller pieces without eating any of them.
The baked chicken had begun to cool between the green beans and carrots.
A bottle of red wine stood near Deb’s elbow, half empty.
Carol’s glass remained untouched because she had declined a drink when she arrived.
That alone had seemed odd.
Carol normally accepted one glass with dinner and sometimes a second if neither of them had anywhere to be. Tonight, she had smiled at the bottle and asked for water instead.
The smile had disappeared before Deb finished pouring it.
Warm light from the pendant above the table softened the room Deb had spent months making her own.
Cream curtains framed the front window. A narrow cabinet held the good plates she had bought after the divorce, mostly because her former husband had insisted the old set belonged to him.
On the wall behind Carol, a clock shaped like a sunburst marked each second with a faint mechanical click.
Outside, wind moved through the maples along the street. Dry leaves scraped over the pavement and gathered against the front steps.
Deb lifted her fork. “How’s the new manager working out?”
Carol pressed the tines into a piece of chicken. “Fine.”
“You said she was changing everyone’s schedules.”
“She is.”
“Has that settled down?”
“More or less.”
The reply ended there.
Deb took a small bite. The chicken had needed another ten minutes in the marinade. She had known that when she put it in the oven, but Carol arrived early and leaving her alone in the living room had felt rude.
Carol claimed she had been nearby and decided not to drive home before coming over.
Her silver Honda sat at the curb rather than in the drive, pointed toward the main road.
Deb had noticed it through the front window while taking Carol’s coat.
The position made sense if Carol wanted an easy departure, though most visitors pulled into the empty space beside Deb’s car.
Another small thing.
Too many small things had begun collecting.
Carol glanced at the clock.
“You’re not in a hurry, are you?” Deb asked.
“No.”
“You keep checking the time.”
“Do I?”
“A little.”
Carol placed her fork beside the plate. “Sorry. Habit.”
Deb smiled to show the comment had not been criticism. “I do the same thing at work. Harry has three clocks in the shop, and somehow none of them agree.”
“Harry always was cheap.”
“He says it’s atmospheric.”
A short breath left Carol. It might have been amusement.
Deb tried again. “I saw Marjorie Bell this afternoon. She asked after you.”
“Did she?”
“She’s organizing another collection for the church roof.”
Carol reached for her water. “That roof’s been leaking since we were children.”
“I told her that. She said this time they’re going to fix it properly.”
“That’s what they said last time.”
The glass paused near Carol’s mouth. She did not drink. Condensation gathered beneath her fingers before she set it down again.
Her right hand moved toward her waist.
The blouse she wore hung loosely over dark trousers, but the fabric tightened as her fingers pressed against something beneath it. The movement lasted less than a second. Carol brought her hand back to the table and rested it near the knife beside her plate.
Deb had noticed the same gesture in the living room.
At first, she thought Carol had clipped her phone inside the waistband. Then she wondered whether a back problem had returned. Carol used to complain about a muscle near her hip after long shifts.
The object beneath the blouse did not seem shaped like a phone. A dark clip showed for an instant at the top of Carol’s waistband before the fabric fell back into place.
A branch tapped against the side of the house.
Deb turned toward the sound. “I need to cut that back before winter.”
Carol said nothing.
The clock continued its quiet count.
Deb placed her fork down. “I’ve been thinking about Karen Sloane.”
Carol’s knife stopped halfway through another potato.
The local news had released little beyond the victims’ names, ages, and locations.
Elmsview supplied the rest. The women had been killed in different places, but no one in town believed the deaths were separate anymore.
Ruth Keller’s neighbors had seen federal agents.
Linda Mercer had disappeared and turned up dead.
People filled every official silence with whispers.
Carol resumed cutting. “What about her?”
“And Ruth. Linda, too.”
“You didn’t know them well.”
“Not in person. But what we said at lunch kept bothering me, so I spent part of this afternoon going back through old New Beginnings threads.”
Carol’s attention rose from the plate.
Deb folded her napkin once, then again.
“I keep thinking the police might need to know about New Beginnings,” Deb continued.
“I know there are other women who use it, and we don’t want them exposed when they’re going through difficult divorces…
Especially those facing violence… But what if telling the police about the group might help them stop another murder? ”
Carol’s fingers closed around the fork.
“Have you told anyone about the group?”
The question came softly, each word measured.
Deb shook her head. “No.”
Carol’s shoulders eased.
“I nearly called this afternoon,” Deb said. “Then I worried about the other women. The group only works because people believe it’s private. Some of them have husbands checking phones and bank statements. If names started coming out, it could put survivors at risk.”
“That’s good.” Carol gave a slow nod. “Those poor women came to us in confidence.”
The words should have reassured Deb.
They did not.
Carol sounded as if she were reading a notice written by someone else. Her voice held the proper concern, but none of it reached the rest of her.
Deb picked up her water. “Confidentiality matters. I know that. But three members are dead. Protecting the women who remain may mean telling the police what the victims shared.”
“Protecting them.”
“Yes.”
Carol gave a quiet laugh and shook her head.
Deb lowered the glass. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You laughed.”
“Did I?”
The same question again. First the clock, now the laugh. Carol had begun treating obvious things as if Deb had invented them.
Deb kept her tone even. “I said the group has vulnerable members.”
“Vulnerable,” Carol repeated.
Contempt sharpened the word.
Deb leaned back slightly. “Some are.”
“Most of them describe themselves that way.”
“Because some are frightened.”
“Or because it saves them from admitting their choices.”
Carol lifted a piece of chicken, chewed, then placed the fork neatly across the plate.
The care in the movement disturbed Deb more than anger would have.
Carol continued, “A husband works too much, spends money on the wrong things, becomes jealous, forgets an anniversary, or says something cruel during an argument. Suddenly she’s trapped. Suddenly strangers are telling her to pack a bag and burn her life down.”
“That isn’t what the group does.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.” Deb forced herself not to glance toward the kitchen. Her phone rested on the counter beside the charger. Twelve feet away, perhaps fourteen. “People ask for advice. Other members give their opinions.”
“Very confidently.”
“Sometimes.”
“Always.”
Deb shook her head. “Carol, some women on there are being beaten. Others have partners who track every movement, control their money, threaten their children, or stop them seeing family. And, sure, some are just going through a difficult divorce without any of that. That’s bad enough.
HearthSpace may be the only place they can speak honestly. ”
“Maybe.”
The answer opened a space Deb did not know how to cross.
MorningGlory44 had once replied to frightened women at all hours. Carol urged them to hide documents, create private accounts, and find somewhere safe. She had spoken about anonymity as though it were a locked door between a victim and danger.
“This isn’t like you,” Deb said. “You always wanted to protect the identities of the women in that group. You said secrecy could save lives. If some of their husbands found out what they’d written...”
“They’d have to deal with the consequences.”
The sentence came before Deb finished.
Carol lifted the water glass again. This time, she took a small drink. A wet mark remained on the table when she returned it.
Deb listened to the wind moving around the house.
“Karen, Ruth, and Linda didn’t deserve what happened to them.”
Carol’s mouth tightened. “How can you know what anyone deserves?”
Deb’s attention dropped to Carol’s right side.
The hand had returned beneath the blouse. Fingers pressed against a hard outline near the waistband. Longer than a phone. Narrow at one end. The fabric rose slightly before Carol released it.
Deb’s pulse strengthened.
A knife seemed impossible. They had known each other for years. Shared lunches, messages, stories about marriages they later wished they had kept private. Carol had sat at this table before.
The thought did not remove the shape beneath her blouse.
Deb considered standing to collect the plates. From the kitchen, she could reach the phone. Carol sat between her and the front door, but the hallway behind Deb led to a back entrance through the utility room.
Any sudden movement would reveal that Deb was afraid.
She remained seated.
“Did you know them outside HearthSpace?” Deb asked.
Carol’s gaze settled on her. “We knew each other in the only way that mattered.”
“What does that mean?”
“They gave advice.”
“So did you.”
“When I didn’t know better.”
The clock clicked through another second.
Carol folded both hands on the table. The right one stayed closer to her body.
"They told strangers how to live," she said. "Then they logged out and went back to their own homes. They never saw what happened afterward. What happened to their marriages and lives. Little earworms."
“They were trying to help.”
“They were smug.”