“Thanks.” I turn to walk away.

“Hey, wait just a sec.” Alec reaches over the counter and grabs a pen, then starts writing on the back of his receipt. “Here’s my number. If you ever want to talk. And…I mean it. I’m not asking you out or anything. I just imagine it’s tough being in a new place.”

I take the receipt from him. “A new place would be easier,” I tell him. “But Bury isn’t new to me at all.” It’s all the old ghosts that make coming back a challenge. “Thanks for this.”

As I leave, I take a glance at the number and slide the receipt into my back pocket.

It would be nice to have someone to talk to.

The problem is, the closer you get to someone, the heavier all your secrets weigh.

Eighteen

I’ve done book clubs before, which are really just wine clubs in disguise. I imagine this one will be no different.

My sister’s house is nestled in a newer neighborhood called Dairy Farm Hills. Perhaps a dairy farm once stood here, but now it’s just a collection of boxy estates that are all colored similar variants of brown. Cora’s house is too big for just the three of them, but the Yates kids were raised to consume more than we needed, and she’s carrying on the tradition proudly.

Peter works for my father, and last I heard, he was vice president of something or other. Judging by their house, Peter is very well paid.

“Pour you a glass?” Cora asks me. I’m the last to arrive, and the others are chatting away in the living room as my sister guides me into the kitchen. I can almost see my reflection in the gleam of the tiled floor.

“Sure, thanks.”

“No, thank you,” she says. “The girls were so excited to have an author here to discuss the book in person.”

This is typical of my sister. Gone are any signs of her rage from the other day. She’s hidden away her demons, where they lurk behind a glossy veneer of civility.

“Happy to be here,” I say.

She hands me the glass. “Usually we read heavier stuff. You know, more of the literature kind of books. It was a nice break for us to read an easy little mystery.”

I sip rather than respond, which might be how this evening goes. Chances are good I’ll have to get a ride home.

She takes me into the living room where about ten other women are spread across two couches and a number of chairs. They all have drinks, two of which appear to be water and the rest wine. Cora introduces me and they tell me their names, which I try to make note of though I’m likely to forget. I recognize two from Max’s school.

“You work at Tuli’s,” one says. “I’ve seen you there.”

“That’s right,” I say.

“Well, good for you,” she says, as if I just learned to tie my shoes.