But Lauren didn’t feel okay. She was sick of this happening. She was sick of being the hurricane that ravaged her family. She just wanted to be normal again. A good wife. A good mother.

She looked around for something to use to wipe her sweaty face, then noticed Matthew’s raccoon backpack on the floor beneath the car seat. Inside was a package of wipes; she pulled out a handful and pressed them to her forehead, savoring their coolness. Again, Graham eyed her in the rearview, but Lauren didn’t meet his gaze.

She almost missed the note when she returned the wipes to the backpack. It was just a small square of paper, folded in half. She pulled it out and read the unfamiliar handwriting. And then she felt confused.

And then embarrassed.

And then ashamed.

And then paranoid.

And then angry.

You, the note read, are not wanted here.

Three

That same afternoon, Ronnie Stuckey squatted on the wood floor and swiped a pink, fluffy feather duster across a media console. Her nose tickled. Her legs ached from the pose, though she knew this particular stance made her butt look amazing. There was a draft going up her bare ass from her short skirt. And her breasts swung loose and free—literally free. That was how Charlie Lowes—and every other client who called upon Ronnie to “clean” for them—liked it.

Charlie watched Ronnie from the other side of the room, his eyes at half-mast. He was twenty-five, three years younger than Ronnie, and had dark, tangled hair that came to his shoulders. From what Ronnie gathered, Charlie was a printmaker—though what he printed on was a mystery. He must have inherited money, because he lived alone in a huge house on the ocean, about forty-five minutes away from where she lived in Raisin Beach. His place had a negative-edge pool that overlooked the beach and an updated kitchen. It was also cluttered with shedding plants, hairball-riddled cats, art supplies, old magazines, and empty yogurt containers. What the house needed was a real clean—not the sort of ersatz version Ronnie did. Oh, she dusted a little, and sometimes she pushed a vacuum in a sexy way. But mostly she just scooted around the rooms, twirling, twerking, jiggling her butt, and making her naked breasts bounce. That was what Topless Maids, with whom she was employed—her true employer, not the job she told everyone she did—was all about.

“How’s that little girl of yours?” Charlie asked suddenly.

Ronnie looked up. Sometimes she shared a personal detail with her clients, but questions about Esme were always jarring.

Perhaps Charlie understood this, because he then added, “You told me about her last time you were here. I saw a pic of her on your lock screen?”