Back The Invited
Chapters (66)
  1. Also by Jennifer McMahon
  2. Dedication
  3. Hattie Breckenridge
  4. FOUNDATION
  5. CHAPTER 1
  6. CHAPTER 2
  7. CHAPTER 3
  8. CHAPTER 4
  9. CHAPTER 5
  10. CHAPTER 6
  11. FRAMING
  12. CHAPTER 7
  13. CHAPTER 8
  14. CHAPTER 9
  15. CHAPTER 10
  16. CHAPTER 11
  17. CLOSING IN
  18. CHAPTER 12
  19. CHAPTER 13
  20. CHAPTER 14
  21. CHAPTER 15
  22. MECHANICAL
  23. CHAPTER 16
  24. CHAPTER 17
  25. CHAPTER 18
  26. CHAPTER 19
  27. CHAPTER 20
  28. CHAPTER 21
  29. CHAPTER 22
  30. CHAPTER 23
  31. CHAPTER 24
  32. INSULATION AND DRYWALL
  33. CHAPTER 25
  34. CHAPTER 26
  35. CHAPTER 27
  36. CHAPTER 28
  37. FLOORS AND TRIM
  38. CHAPTER 29
  39. CHAPTER 30
  40. CHAPTER 31
  41. CHAPTER 32
  42. CHAPTER 33
  43. CHAPTER 34
  44. CHAPTER 35
  45. CHAPTER 36
  46. FINISH WORK
  47. CHAPTER 37
  48. CHAPTER 38
  49. CHAPTER 39
  50. CHAPTER 40
  51. CHAPTER 41
  52. CHAPTER 42
  53. CHAPTER 43
  54. CHAPTER 44
  55. CHAPTER 45
  56. CHAPTER 46
  57. CHAPTER 47
  58. CHAPTER 48
  59. CHAPTER 49
  60. CHAPTER 50
  61. CHAPTER 51
  62. CHAPTER 52
  63. CHAPTER 53
  64. Acknowledgments
  65. About the Author
  66. What’s next onyour reading list?

They’d called it the angel game.

Life is a circle, Hattie thought, tilting her head back to look up at the branches, where she could almost see the little girl that she was once climbing up, higher and higher, out of sight.

Someone shoved the stool out from under her.

Her body bucked, her feet kicked, searching frantically for something to rest on, to get the pressure off her neck.

She couldn’t speak, couldn’t scream, couldn’t breathe.

Could only swing and twist, and for just a second, before she lost consciousness, she was sure she could see one of her old flower-head dolls drift down, its daisy face bright as the summer sun.

FOUNDATION

CHAPTER 1

Helen

MAY 18, 2015

The cement mixing drum turned. Fresh concrete poured down the truck’s chute into the form made from wood and rigid foam insulation that rested on a thick bed of gravel. The truck belched diesel fumes into the clean, pine-scented early-morning air.

We are meant to be here, Helen told herself, trying not to choke on the truck’s exhaust. It was eight o’clock in the morning. Normally, she’d be on her way in to work, or perhaps stopping for a latte, pretending she wasn’t a few minutes late. Instead, she was here, surrounded by trees and northern birds whose songs she didn’t recognize, watching workers pour her foundation.

The foundation was the one job she and Nate had hired out, and watching the men in their yellow boots, Helen was glad they’d left this one to the professionals. The men smoothed the concrete over rebar and mesh while Helen studied the scenery around her—the clearing they stood in, the thick woods encircling it, the hill to the west, the little path that led down to the bog to the south. Nate had argued that they could do the work, that a floating slab was easy, but Helen had insisted that a professionally laid out and poured foundation would give them the best start.

“If we’re off even by a quarter of an inch, it’ll screw things up big-time,” Helen had said. “Trust me. This is what the entire house is going to rest on. It’s got to be done right.”