Page 2 of Even in the Dark

PRESENT DAY

“Scarlett, honey. Should I wear the suede jacket or the cashmere cardigan?” My mother calls from the top of the ornate staircase overlooking our marble front entrance.

“Suede jacket,” I answer, not bothering to look up as I fix my hair in the mirror by the teak double doors, because I don’t think a guy who was raised by a serial killer and just got swung from three months in a psych ward is going to care if his new middle-aged neighbor shows up for dinner in a creme cashmerecardigan, a suede jacket, or a cheap terrycloth bathrobe. Not that my mother owns a cheap terrycloth bathrobe… but still.

“You didn’t even look at the pants I’m wearing,” she sighs. “This is important. It’s the first time the Brauns are having people over since they found Dylan.”

She means since Dylan got caught stealing over six-hundred dollars in cash and jewelry and then tried to pummel the cop who arrested him. Because let’s be clear here, Dylan Braun was not magically “found”. He stumbled into the cops’ laps by slipping up during a break-and-enter. Then a fingerprint check matched ones found on a couple of the infamous Maytag Killer’s earliest crime scenes: larger versions of the kid’s prints whose call for help all those years ago came in fifteen minutes too late. Prints belonging to the boy the press dubbedThe Maytag Kid- the “Maytag” part, by the way, being a reference to the serial killer’s habit of stashing his victims’ bodies in their own washing machines.

Only now the Maytag Kid isn’t a kid anymore—he’s a full-blown teenager. A street rat and a thief. A thug who tried to fight off three cops. Who broke one of their wrists and put them out of commission for three weeks.

So, yeah,that’show ten years and nine murders after the 911 call that started the whole thing off, they finally “found” the infamous Maytag Kid. And how DNA tests revealed he wasn’t in fact the killer’s real son. Because it turns out the psycho kept three-year-old Dylan as some sort of living trophy to commemorate his first kill, after he murdered the boy’s mother fourteen years ago. He even had the gall to raise Dylan as his own son after that.

And Dylan’srealfather? He’s my neighbor, Philip Braun. My dad’s best friend. A super nice guy who went through hell and back when he was the main suspect for months in his wife and son’s disappearance all those years ago. And even whenhis name was finally cleared, he never really got to fully mourn their loss, since the investigation turned up nothing but dead-end leads. No bodies found. But nothing to indicate they were still alive, either. Mother and son had just disappeared without a trace.

Phil is remarried now, and he and Diane and their daughters have lived next door to us for as long as I can remember. So these joint family dinners aren’t a new thing. The stressing over what to wear beforehand totally is, though.

“Scarlett… Please pay attention.” My mother gives both options a sturdy shake to get my attention. “Which one?”

I look up this time and scrutinize the two tops, comparing them against the cinched khaki trousers and pale blouse she already has on. “Definitely the suede jacket.” It really is the better option. Not that I have much experience in the fashion dos and dont’s of awkward gatherings with close friends celebrating the return of the husband’s long-lost kidnap-victim-turned-petty-criminal son. But I get why mom is so keyed up tonight. She is desperate to do everything she can to make Phil’s father-and-son reunion nothing but smooth sailing; desperate for Dylan to like his new home, his new family, his new neighbors. For his transition from a world of bloodbath, nights spent on the streets, and months in a lockdown psych unit to one of private schools, family movie nights, and lavish backyard BBQs to be seamless and happy. Basically, my mother’s outfit choice is a metaphor.

“Guuuuys! Let’sgoooo!” my six-year-old sister, Sadie, calls from the long hallway leading from the kitchen to the front of the house. “I want to go meet Kenzie’s surprise brother!”

Kenzie is Phil and Diane’s youngest daughter. So, Dylan’s half-sister. Also, my little sister’s ride or die BFF. Sadie is at the Braun’s house almost every day. It’s practically her second home. She appears now in the front hall, a wild clash of pinksand purples against the cream marble foyer. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s gooo!”

Clearly, I’m the only one who isn’t all keyed up about tonight’s dinner. I definitely won’t be clamoring like my parents for Dylan’s approval. Mainly, because I don’t clamor foranyone’sapproval. Especially a boy’s. Let’s just say I’m not exactly a fan of the male species. Particularly those who have a tragic backstory they can work to their advantage in their quest to deflect and manipulate. And Dylan Braun has a tragic backstory that’s as awful as they come.

And yes, I’m aware I sound callous. Possibly bitter. Iambitter. It’s my primary underlying emotion these days. The one that has fueled all others since the incident two years ago that I prefer not to think about, involving a stupid boy, his stupid friends, and my stupid gullibility scattered across an entire summer and the sandy dock of my lakeside cottage.

But what Dylan has lived through is far beyond anything I can wrap my brain around, so I’m obviously going to give him the benefit of the doubt—a stance which doesn’t come easily to me. And I’m determined to be more than just civil.I will be nice.Which, for me these days, is also a stretch. So the only thing I'm really eager for tonight, I guess, is to get this dinner over with.

Phil and Diane call out to us from the other end of the house when we ring their doorbell then let ourselves in—welcome greetings that are definitely a few notches more exuberant than usual.

“You’re here!” from Diane.

“Welcome! Welcome! Come on in, guys!” from Phil.

And then Kenz: “YAAAAAY! Sadie’s here!”

She appears two seconds later, skidding on sock-feet down the wide-planked mahogany hallway. She and Sadie clash into a gleeful hug, giggling and squealing the way they do most of the time they’re together, a mashup of glaring colors and ruffles. The two of them rush for the stairs, skidding past Diane and Phil, who are now making their way towards us. Not that my parents or I are watching them. Because, obviously, our eyes are trained just over their shoulders to the hallway beyond, hoping to catch our first glimpse of the infamous Maytag Kid.

But there’s no one trailing behind them. Unless you count their socially awkward Goldendoodle, Walter, who barrels past them and digs his fluffy snout straight into my father’s crotch with enough force to make him stumble back a couple of paces.

“Come on in and grab a drink,” Phil says, his gaze darting over his shoulder to the staircase at the end of the hall. “I’ll go get Dylan… let him know you’re here.”

As if his son is eagerly awaiting our arrival, as curious to meet his parent’s neighbors as they all are to meet him.

Phil heads for the stairs, so my parents and I follow Diane towards the seating area just off the kitchen.

“So, how’s it been going?” my mom asks in that same hushed voice everyone uses when they talk about Dylan Braun. Like they’re worried the shadows that follow him might smother them too if they speak about him too loudly.

“Good… Okay, I think,” Diane says. Then she sighs. “He’s been spending a lot of time up in his room, honestly. Unless we specifically ask him to come down and join us.” She heads to the butler pantry just beyond the kitchen and selects a bottle from the wine rack, then uncorks it, filling the four glasses already clustered on one end of the counter.

I grab a can of Diet Coke from the fridge, then follow the three of them to the sitting area, which is a cozy mix of creams and weathered wood, with a few understated throws draped acrossthe backs of the couches. Everything about the house exudes calm and soft and casual class. All things I’m betting Dylan Braun is not.

“So…” Mom lowers herself onto one of the couches, glancing towards the hallway, then back at Diane. “What’s he like?”

Diane follows mom's gaze. “He really doesn’t say much.”

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