Vectra carried on purposefully along the pavement, hands jammed deeply into the pockets of her jacket. The rest of the group had all turned the same way, as if operating as part of a unified hive mind.

When Vectra stopped and half turned back, Esther worried that she’d finally identified Esther as a threat and the rest of the hive would swarm around and sting her to death with sarcastic comments about her academic abilities.

“Are you coming for a post-critique group drink or what?”

When her phone went off, Daisy pounced on it so quickly that the last of her fruit tea jumped out of her mug and splashed across her thigh.

Sorry, Daisy, going to have to bail on yoga tonight. Please send photos of Susan humiliating herself. xxx

Doubt, long buried and dormant, unfurled inside her chest, the same feeling that had nudged her toward seeking a social life in the first place. A fear that maybe the friends she loved so much didn’t quite feel the same way. She’d barely stood up before someone swiped the chair from under her, banging the back of her knees. Ruffled, Daisy shouldered her yoga mat and stepped out into the night, drizzle settling in her hair and on her glasses, dusting the screen of her phone as she tapped out a cheerful reply letting Esther know that it was fine. All fine.

It really was fine. Susan was going to meet her there.

Esther wasn’t to know that Daisy had been hoping to take her two best friends out for a celebratory milkshake after yoga to thank them for everything they’d done for her this last week. She’d utilized some of the skills she’d picked up from the various crafting groups she’d left and had made them both badges that said Best Mum Ever.

She could always do it another time.

The address Daisy had given her wasn’t what Susan had envisioned. This was not the sort of suburb where one might locate a chilly church hall, or a dance studio above a parade of dingy shops. It was the sort of place one found Neighborhood Watch stickers on the windows and artisanal pizza boxes in the recycling bins. The houses here were detached, the gardens mature, and the trees leafy—or they would have been if all the leaves weren’t on the pavement. Half the driveways had fancy gravel leading up to porches whose leaded glass nestled between casement windows.

Stopping as she turned off the main road, Susan double-checked that she’d typed the address in correctly, wiping the rain-flecked screen dry on her chest to frown down at the map.

Two roads along and turn left. Number 21 . . .

Before she’d had a chance to move, Susan saw someone approaching who very definitely didn’t belong there.

McGraw.