Page 9 of The Art of Scandal

“It’s a block away. I’ll be fine.” She walked backward with the hoodie zipped to her chin and the boozy soda cup peeking up from its depths. “That was your car, wasn’t it? The ’69 Camaro?”

“You know your cars?”

She kept walking. “A perk of aging. I know lots of things. Good luck getting your car back.”

He gestured toward her feet. “Good luck finding shoes.”

She rolled her eyes. “I have shoes.”

Nathan grinned. “See there? Things are looking up already.”

CHAPTER THREE

It had been a mild summer, so her roses were still blooming. Rachel sat on the ground in front of her house, staring up at large bushes of bright pink flowers the size of her fist. The scent reminded her of her wedding day. Or maybe it was the night of her senior prom, when Thomas Dunn had pinned a white rose to her breast with sweaty palms, the shoulders she’d always considered broad surprisingly small in his father’s tuxedo. They had gotten high in the limo and stopped at McDonald’s, ordering chicken nuggets and fries. He’d gone down on her in the parking lot before they finally dragged themselves into the gym.

Thomas had cried the day she left for college. At eighteen, she didn’t know how rare it was for a guy his age to show so much emotion. She had avoided his calls for the next two months, smugly certain that real men never made snot bubbles or borrowed their daddy’s tuxedo for a date. That was one of the last things she’d said to him. “It’s time to grow up and be realistic. We were always going to end this way.”

Now she knew reality was overrated. Reality was being rewarded for more than a decade of loyalty with a traitorous dick on your phone. Reality was protesting your prenup with a front yard sit-in surrounded by bushes, thorns, and God knows what else. It was sipping a half-empty cup of whiskey and wearing a stranger’s sweatshirt that you kept sniffing for reasons you should probably ignore.

“Rachel?” Matt’s voice was a sharp whisper. “Are you out here? Rachel?”

She tucked a rose behind her ear, took the lid off her soda cup, and swished it around. Matt stopped a few feet away, hands outstretched, as if he’d found her on the ledge of a building. He had changed into the monogrammed robe and pajamas she’d bought him for his birthday. “Where have you been? You look terrible.”

“Good thing you’ve found a replacement.”

Matt’s concern evaporated. “I was worried,” he chided, as if a broken curfew was theirrealproblem. She would have laughed if it wasn’t so depressing. Rachel lowered her head and willed it to stop spinning. She could hear mulch crunching under Matt’s shoes as he took hesitant steps in her direction. “Are you okay?”

A flash of headlights made her look up. A red Corolla slowed and parked in front of their house. Matt tensed and pivoted like a thief weighing the odds of escape. Everyone in town knew that car. It had appeared at almost every troubled household in the area. Mia Williams worked for the police department as a victim’s advocate. On paper, her job was to assist uniformed officers with domestic violence calls to help de-escalate situations and make sure the victim’s rights were protected. In reality, she primarily dealt with retirees calling in complaints about their teenage neighbors trampling expensive landscaping.

For more than a decade, Mia had been a mediator for angry spouses, a babysitter to sulky preteens, and the moral authority to single playboys who thought it was a good idea to change clothes near open windows. She knew everyone’s secrets, which was why no one ever wanted her around. In a town determined to perform perfection, it was hard to fake it with someone who knew that your wife wasn’t at a family reunion because she was on vacation with the nanny you’d both been fucking. Despite Mia’s innocent appearance—short and curvy, with dimples so deep, they were still visible even when she wasn’t smiling—she had the instincts of a hard-boiled noir detective. Her sudden appearance sent Matt spiraling into a sweaty panic.

“Mia!” Matt’s voice cracked with forced enthusiasm. “It’s been a long time. What brings you out here?”

Mia moved closer, ignoring Matt. Her gaze was fixed on Rachel. “One of your neighbors called in a suspected break-in. They said a Black man was hiding in your bushes. But the alarm didn’t trip, so the uniforms called me. I’m guessing they were trying to keep things in the family.”

Rachel and Mia were family in the way two passing ships might occasionally dock at the same port. Despite being first cousins, they’d never met until Rachel moved to Oasis Springs with Faith. As an only child, Rachel had been excited to connect with family members so close to her age. But Mia was intimidating from day one. The oldest of two children, she lived up to the birth order stereotype. The day they met, Mia had introduced herself in one breath and then outlined an Oasis Springs for Beginners itinerary in the next. Mia’s brother Niles, four years younger, with a personality composed entirely of charm and optimism, had offered to hire Rachel as a server at a seafood restaurant that never opened. By the time everyone learned he’d lost the financing, Niles had left the country to work as a sous-chef in Belize.

Mia’s path had briefly intersected with Rachel’s during those initial months when Rachel couldn’t afford her own place and had to live with her aunt. Mia had recently quit law school and was staying with her mother for the same reason. During the day, Rachel waited tables at a café, and Mia hunted for jobs with the drive of someone who wanted out of her mother’s house. At night, on the rare occasions they were still awake, they inched closer to friendship, trading war stories about Rachel’s rude customers and Mia’s awkward interviews like they’d known each other for years.

But then Rachel met Matt, and a few weeks later, Mia was offered a temp job at Abbott and Associates, his father’s law firm. Neither of them could take the awkwardness of Rachel dating a man who signed Mia’s paychecks. Rachel moved in with Matt and limited her interactions with her overly perceptive cousin to occasional waves across the grocery store parking lot.

Now Mia appraised Rachel’s current situation—noting Matt’s pajamas, the booze cup, and Rachel’s bare toes peeking up through the mulch—with grim resignation. She was the domestic drama trash collector, and here they were, dumping another pile at her feet.

“A Black man?” Matt’s eyes flashed with familiar outrage. He was gearing up for some rant about racial profiling in the neighborhood. Rachel hated when he did that. His stump speeches were usually smooth and measured, but he couldn’t talk about racism to Black people without a hint of desperation. Like if he spoke loud enough with more flailing gestures, they’d finally believe he cared.

Rachel cut him off. “I’m sure they were just worried about us.”

“There’s a lot of that kind of worry in this neighborhood,” Mia said. “I don’t think there’s been an actual break-in around here in five years. And that was some drunk kid, trying to sneak back into the wrong house.”

It was jarring to hear someone say what she and Matt knew but ignored most days: their subdivision was diverse like a corporate recruiting ad—impressive until you realized it was filled with stock photos of the same Black model. Mia lived in a neighborhood filled with Black middle-class families and recent immigrants that reminded Rachel of where she’d grown up. Maybe that was the real reason they’d been so distant all these years. Mia considered her a sellout. In moments like these, a small part of Rachel agreed.

Matt laughed and positioned his body between them. “Lots of retirees with nothing better to do than spy on the neighbors.” He tutted like a disappointed schoolteacher and folded his arms. “So, how’s your mom? I’m reading thePostseries Alesha’s doing on public school fundraising. Really good stuff.”

“You’re reading that, huh?” Mia copied Matt’s breezy tone, but it was obvious that she wasn’t falling for his diversion. “I’ll tell Mom. She’s convinced people only read the paper for political gossip these days.” Her eyes darted back and forth between Rachel’s dirty dress and Matt’s sweaty face. “Rachel, is there some reason you’re…” She waved at the ground. “In the bushes?”

Matt looked nauseated and defeated. Good. Now he knew how it felt. Rachel took another slow sip of her drink and let him stew. He told Mia they were debating landscaping and had come outside to see it up close. “I’m not sure we want these roses anymore.”

They were her roses, not his. Just like the house. She’d chosen every tile and light fixture. She had agonized over window treatments and light switch plates while he brushed her off if she asked for an opinion. He’d paid for land and walls, but she was the one who made it a home. That meant something. And she couldn’t let him steal it away.

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