As she kissed her mother’s pale cheek and hugged her brother goodbye, she had already begun planning the luncheon. She slid her pocketbook over her wrist and pulled on the short beige leather gloves. It would be a bigger challenge to boycott the town’s most widely circulated newspaper, but she wasn’t worried. What would be the best food to serve at the luncheon? She’d ask Dolly.

But as she exited the house and walked toward the Cadillac parked outside, Betty had to concentrate on keeping her breathing even and her shoulders squared. The Coupe was the latest model, more fashionable than Marilyn Dean’s, but did that even matter now? Had it ever mattered? Her steps slowed on the driveway as she thought back to New Year’s Eve, when she’d been basking in the warm, hazy glow of her third champagne cocktail while all four of her children played Parcheesi under the lights of their grandparents’ Christmas tree. She remembered feeling happy then. Feeling happy and thinking that the only things that should matter are God, love, and family. Family.

She tucked herself onto the padded bench of the Coupe and pulled the heavy car door closed with a slam. Gripping the top of the steering wheel in her gloved hands, Betty let her shoulders slump and begin to shake as anguished sobs escaped her throat.

Chapter 44

“Gilbert Ogden!” “Ogden!” “Oh, my goodness, the Gilbert Ogden story!” “Did you read about Gilbert Ogden?” was what squawked out of every headset at the switchboard that week. The Eddie Fischer story had been buried by the Gilbert Ogden story. On any other day, it would have been big news, front page even, that someone had attacked that nice Charlotte Dalton (poor dear!), and then tried to break into the Daltons’ house by throwing a brick through the window. But with Gilbert Ogden being shot on the front page, Eddie Fischer had been pushed back to page two.

He’d been apprehended by the police not far from the Daltons’ house that night. Vivian had gone with Edward to the police station, grateful that Erma Gifford could stay at the house with Charlotte. It had been sad more than anything else. Here was this man, he wasn’t a kid anymore, Jesus, he was in his late twenties, and he was angry and confused and frustrated. Vivian knew what that felt like, and she knew just what he was missing. A connection to his father. Vivian could see that much in his eyes. His eyes that looked just like Edward’s, but a little more red and bloodshot from the Spray Net.

He wouldn’t say much to them, or to the police. But he asked to speak to Edward in private. The police said no, but they sent one officer into a room with the two of them, giving them a little more privacy. Vivian’d watched the clock on the wall of the station, wringing her handkerchief in her hands, thinking about how everything connected to Edward’s big lie just kept getting worse and worse. Happy goddamned Valentine’s Day.