“John’s acting really weird,” Carly spoke fast, breathless. “Did you think he was kinda bizarre last night?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “And it sounds stupid, but I thought he was kind of hiding his face in the coat closet. I thought he didn’t want you and Mom to see how worried he was. It was sort of like that. But not really like that. He was moving stuff around, and it was weird.”

“What are you talking about, honey?”

“But then I heard him in the closet again this morning, and he was moving stuff again, and I wondered if maybe he’d put something in there. Like hidden something. Like maybe he had something from that guy who died. Like maybe he’s actually bad. Do you think John might be bad? I wanted to ask my mom, but she was with him that night. But she didn’t do anything. Marcelline, I swear she wouldn’t. I don’t want her to be in trouble. . . . I just didn’t know who to call. But you’ll help my mom? Right?”

Marcelline held her breath, the air washed in ozone like the smell that was almost a flavor before a sudden, violent storm. “Yes. You did right. I’m glad you called. It’s okay. What’s going on?”

“So John had to go out this morning, right? And I waited and then I went through the closet. There was nothing there. I mean just usual stuff. Except he’d hidden that painting that used to be hanging in the front hallway. It’s so weird. My mom thought he got rid of it. He got rid of everything. But not the picture. It’s zipped up in a bag with his dress suit. That’s not normally in the closet either. I saw it last night hanging up when he was in there. But today he moved it to the floor and covered it up with a blanket and stuff.”

The runaway monster of Carly’s teenaged imagination was pieced together from what she’d seen and heard. It had been jolted alive by the electricity crackling between all the adults in her life. And it was so close to the truth.

All the lies and omissions, a death, the manipulations—Jonathan’s and Marcelline’s, too—everything they had pretended to be to Carly, and in the end it didn’t look that much different from the real story. After all their best efforts, Carly could still plausibly worry that John had killed Roy for something he’d had to hide in the family coat closet.

Marcelline managed to speak past an entirely dry tongue. “It’s in the closet? Where my jacket was?”

“No,” Carly said. “I took it.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE