Page 7 of Circle of Strangers
I left that day, made a new life for myself with a new name and everything.
But deep down, I always knew it was only a matter of time before she’d find me.
Lucinda was never the type to go quietly into the night, to let anything go.
I read her words over and over, attempting to decipher the coded message—and there is one. There always is with this woman. Nothing is to be taken at face value. Nothing she says is to be trusted. Everything is a game, psychological and deeper than the deepest parts of the ocean.
She isn’t wishing me a happy birthday.
She’s reminding me of the time she threw me a birthday party—my first one ever—then forced me to give away each and every present I received for no rhyme or reason. I cried, begged, and pleaded, and all she did was toss the toys into a black garbage bag and drop them off at some bright green donation bin behind First Presbyterian Church.
I begin to tear the letter before something compels me to stop. Carrying it to the office, I tuck it away in a desk drawer, next to the first one. I’m not sure what I’ll do with them just yet, but I imagine this won’t be the last of them.
I spend the rest of my day focusing on monotonous household tasks, anything but Lucinda’s letter. She’d love nothing more than for me to be sick with anxiety over whatever she’s trying to pull. For that reason and that reason alone, I refuse to give that literal psychopath another thought.
4
“I should check on Ezra,” Sozi says before popping up from her poolside lounger Friday evening. “I’m sure he’s still sleeping. Be right back.”
He was supposed to play with the kids tonight, but apparently he isn’t feeling well. Sozi wasn’t lying when she said she’d keep it small and low-key. Other than Sozi and Austin and Mara and her husband, Oscar, there are only two other couples here from the neighborhood and none of them brought children.
Still, Jackson and Georgiana seem entertained enough by the sheer novelty of swimming in a pool that isn’t ours.
The smell of sizzling burgers and grilled onions mingles with the sweet tang of sunscreen and pool chlorine.
Around me, laughter rises and falls, punctuated by the occasional splash and squeal of my children leaping into the deep end of the Hahns’ pool. From my spot near the firepit, I take in the scene: Will, over by the grill with Austin, nodding along as he pretends to care about Austin’s latest golf game. Mara, seated on a lounger nearby, dangling her feet in the water, tossing back her blond hair every time she catches anyone’s eye. Her husband, Oscar, dark and brooding, nursing a bottle of Stella Artois, appearing lost in thought.
Mara and Oscar make a very attractive couple and seem fine tonight, but the events of the other day have been plaguing my thoughts all evening. The mental image of Mara holding an unlit cigarette, mascara tracks down her cheeks, is a stark juxtaposition against thecurrent version of her—magnetic smile, cropped white denim shorts, a teal bikini top, and deep blue eyes practically lit from within.
Sozi swoops in beside me when she returns, a drink in hand and a mischievous grin lighting up her sun-bronzed face. Her strappy canary-yellow sundress shows off every line of her toned body and on anyone else might seem casual chic, but on her it screams desperate for attention.
“Having fun so far?” she asks, nudging me with her shoulder as if we’re schoolgirls gossiping behind the bleachers.
Two more hours before we can use the excuse of putting the kids to bed so we can bounce. The night is young, but already I’ve had about as much painful small talk as I can handle for one evening.
“I am,” I tell her.
Sozi rolls her eyes playfully. “Liar. You’d rather be anywhere else right now, admit it. I can tell. You can be honest. It won’t hurt my feelings. Not everyone’s a social butterfly.”
She raises her drink and takes a slow sip, watching Will from across the yard.
“Looks like Mara’s found herself a new hobby.” Sozi arches a brow. “Better keep an eye on that one. It’s probably best you learn this now, but she has a type.”
My gaze flicks to Mara, who’s at some point left her poolside perch and made her way to the grill. She’s leaning forward, laughing at something Will said. The high-pitched sound of her amusement mixing with Sozi’s warning is grating. Mara places a hand on Will’s arm, only for a second, but long enough to make me want to storm over and swat it away.
I’ve never been the jealous type, but this isn’t about jealousy.
It’s about respect.
She has no idea what we’ve been through or what I’m capable of. Flirting with my husband so blatantly and unapologetically is a slap in the face, an insult to my intelligence.
It’s obnoxious. All of it.
“And what type might that be?” I ask, my tone as smooth as the top-shelf whiskey Austin served us earlier.
“Married men,” she says, her voice low, conspiratorial and matter-of-fact all at the same time. “She’s been through two husbands already. Both left their wives for her.”
My attention zeroes in on Will, who’s completely oblivious to Mara’s shameless flirtation. Or maybe he isn’t. I’ve seen that look in his eye before—somewhere between hidden charm and amusement, fighting a half smile curling his lips. I can’t blame him for being a red-blooded man, but this is just embarrassing—for both of us.
