Chapters (84)
- Cover
- Praise
- Dedication
- About the Author
- HALLOWEEN
- Seven Weeks Before Halloween
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- HALLOWEEN
- Six Weeks Before Halloween
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- HALLOWEEN
- Five Weeks Before Halloween
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- HALLOWEEN
- NINE
- TEN
- HALLOWEEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- Twenty-Five Days Until Halloween
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- HALLOWEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- HALLOWEEN
- Eighteen Days Until Halloween
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- HALLOWEEN
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- Eleven Days Until Halloween
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- Eight Days Until Halloween
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- HALLOWEEN
- THIRTY
- Four Days Until Halloween
- THIRTY-ONE
- HALLOWEEN
- THIRTY-TWO
- Two Days Until Halloween
- THIRTY-THREE
- The Night Before Halloween
- THIRTY-FOUR
- HALLOWEEN
- THIRTY-FIVE
- Halloween, Present Day
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- HALLOWEEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- HALLOWEEN
- THIRTY-NINE
- HALLOWEEN
- FORTY
- HALLOWEEN
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- HALLOWEEN... NOW
- FORTY-FIVE
- Seven Months Later
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- ALICE SWANSON’S
- Reader's Guide
- Questions for Discussion
- Booklist
The blonde mom frowned. “Cut it out, Barney,” she yelled. She took a sip of her wine.
I watched.
I waited.
Then she looked up. She seemed to gaze right at me through the window. Flecks of bark snapped off the tree trunk as I squeezed, and they fell at my feet. Even though I knew the woman couldn’t see me out here in the darkness, I held my breath until she turned away.
TWO
Theresa
Adam had warned me the Welcome to Woodard event wasn’t going to be fancy, and unfortunately, he was right. They hadn’t done much to transform the gymnasium of the high school—public school budgets, I supposed. The bleachers were pushed to the wall like unclimbable ladders, and they’d arranged a mix of low-and high-top tables throughout the gym. Near the doors, a microphone and two bulky speakers had been set up for remarks. No mood music, unless you counted the squeak of the men’s shoes on the waxy floor. The local community newspaper I’d worked for back in Philly had Christmas parties swankier than this, and those had been in the basement of a chicken wings place.
It was as one might expect—lots of hellos and nice-to-meet-yous and handshakes and forgetting people’s names as soon as they said them. Five hundred and fifty and this is my wife, Theresas. There were jokes about sports teams—“Coming from Philly, you know you can’t be an Eagles fan anymore, right?” After a while I felt like my smile needed to be propped up by toothpicks. Much of the conversations were shoptalk about the school, the classes, the kids, and I drowned it out until I could finally excuse myself, feigning thirst.
The woman at the drink table appeared to be a parent volunteer, dressed as she was in a Woodard High T-shirt and khaki pants. Her shoulder-length hair curled with humidity, and her facial features naturally arced downward so that even when she threw a smile my way, it came off as defeated.
“You’re Adam Wallace’s wife, right?” she asked as I took a flat-looking Coke. There was no alcohol. “We’re so excited to have him here.”
I got a little thrill noting the clout Adam’s name brought here.
“That’s me,” I said brightly. “Theresa Pressley.” I held out a hand.
“Oh wow, it’s so nice to meet you. I’m Georgeann. Georgeann Wilkins.” She handed me a thin white cocktail napkin. “Do you need anything else?” We both glanced at the table—there wasn’t anything else—and the woman let out an embarrassed chuckle. “Well, I guess if you need any help with anything, I’ve been here forever.”
After all the polite small talk at Adam’s side, Georgeann’s awkwardness made it easier to relax. “Oh you just must know everyone then,” I teased.