“Actually,” an even voice from behind me said, “Charlotte, why don’t you come with me?”

I turned to see a woman I was sure I knew, but couldn’t quite place. She was petite and thin, a little older than I was, and had this sort of ethereal glow about her. She had on no makeup, her hair was long and looked as if it had perfectly, naturally fallen into waves, and she was wearing a loose, flowing dress that screamed I live at the beach. She had a preternaturally calm presence that I obviously needed right now. The room was starting to come back into focus, and the full weight of my humiliation was sinking in. What was I doing? “I’m sorry, Enid,” I whispered. “This isn’t about you.”

Enid smiled encouragingly. “I know, sweetheart. I will see what I can do to help you,” she promised. “It’s going to be okay. This town loves you.”

I turned back to the woman behind me, realizing that what Enid said wasn’t really true. I wasn’t from here, wasn’t “local,” and, while everyone knew who I was—well, everyone knew everyone, to be fair—I wasn’t exactly beloved.

“From church,” the woman behind me said. “You know me from church.”

A little laugh-sound escaped from my nostrils. “I know,” I said, as if it had been obvious to me from the beginning. “You’re in the choir.” I snapped my fingers, actually recognizing her. “Your solos always make me cry!”

That was true. She had the most angelic voice. I smiled at her and ran my fingers through my hair, trying to seem relaxed and nonchalant to mitigate some of the damage I had done with my outburst. Just what I needed: everyone in town would be talking about this now. Well, that was great. Maybe that would be more interesting than Bill’s arrest, the tidbit that, much to my chagrin, they were still discussing three days later. Not that that was a long time, of course. In fact, it was probably just enough time for the news to have reached fever pitch. In a larger place, full of scandal, people moved on to the next thing. Here, there was no next thing to move on to. Well, no, maybe that’s not true. The usual appetizers of small-town bad behavior—who left his wife for the babysitter, who got way too drunk at Coterie Club and skinny-dipped in the pool, whose facelift was entirely too drastic—were always available to gobble up. But Bill’s arrest was an entrée that everyone was eating in teeny, tiny bites.

“My name is Alice Bailey.”

“I’m Charlotte Sitterly,” I replied. Under my breath, I added, “But I think everyone in the country—or at least the state—knows that.”