“Mr. Streko has been a bit of an arse lately, but at least he let me play. I thought maybe his cat was sick, but then he posted a picture of his cat looking totally fine. I asked Dad to leave because we were having a team meeting after,” Shy explained breathlessly. “I still can’t believe I won. The other girl was pretty crap. But maybe it’s my talent. Maybe I’ll go to the Olympics.”

“The team could do with a proper coach,” Roy put in from the library. He didn’t like that Streko, not one bit.

“I almost died,” Wendy said for the hundredth time.

Shy snatched up her mother’s wineglass and took a sip. “I’m going to take a shower,” she announced and dashed upstairs.

“I’ll unload the wood,” Roy said, and began collecting his keys, jacket, and shoes.

Wendy retrieved the bottle of wine from the fridge and took it upstairs with her. They didn’t care whether she worked at Fleurt or Enjoy! or the National Enquirer, or that she’d just survived a terrifying encounter with a serial killer. In fact, the problem with having a family at all was that nobody noticed if you were dead or alive until dinner went unmade and they found your torso floating in the dirty water behind Ikea.

PART V NOVEMBER 5

Chapter 23

“Come in, come in!”

Roy Clarke led the group of newly arrived neighbors into the house, through the kitchen, and into the library.

“I should say, ‘Come out.’ The party is outside in the garden, just through the French doors. It’s a bit chilly, but the fire will take care of that. It’s going to be enormous.”

“Thanks so much for doing this. What a treat.” A chubby man wearing thick glasses, a plaid wool shirt, and hiking boots held out his hand for Roy to shake. “Your wife stopped by the store yesterday. She said you’ve written a draft of a new book. I’m excited.”

Roy could not remember ever having met this man.

“Yes, yes. Good to see you. I gave the draft to Wendy to read.” Roy shook the man’s hand, trying to place him. He seemed like the type to own a store that sold complicated backpacks, freeze-dried camping meals, and mosquito netting.

The man laughed and patted his puffy pink cheeks. “It’s Jefferson. From Smith Corner Books? I shaved, I shaved. No beard, no beard!”

Aha. Jefferson, owner of the not-so-new-anymore bookstore where Roy had made his Brooklyn debut over a year ago. Roy had only been inside the bookshop maybe once or twice since moving in. Wendy went all the time—just to browse, she said, although he suspected she was really making sure they kept the Roy Clarke Rainbow in stock.