She didn’t have keys to her mom’s Acura on her key ring, but she banked on the possibility that whatever horrendous Marshalls outfit her mom bought wouldn’t have big pockets (please, she prayed to the gods of fashion, don’t let her be wearing something with big pockets) and that she would have left the keys in the center console, the way she sometimes did. Alexa would take the car, then she’d text her mom later and have her get a ride home with one of her friends. In the morning, if Alexa was still alive, she’d walk down here and pick up the Jeep. It would be a longish walk, but she’d try to appreciate the beauty of not being murdered.

Bingo! The keys were in the center console. It took some wrangling to get the Acura out of the driveway—this party was hopping, and there were cars parked every which way!—but Alexa had always been good at three-point turns. Peter, who could three-point turn out of a mason jar, had taught her well.

74.

Sherri

Sherri made her way toward the far end of the lawn. She was shaking, but she also felt really freaking amazing. The tequila had heightened her senses. The lights in the pool, which changed color like disco lights at a club, shone brighter. The music that the DJ was spinning sounded clearer. She felt the way Bobby looked like he felt when he did cocaine. Otherworldly. Invincible.

Don’t worry, Katie-kins, she said in her head, sending her message up into the summer evening sky and back down into their little half-house, where Katie and Alexa and Morgan were all together, safe. Mama’s back, even if only for one night. And everything is going to be okay.

A klatch of husbands stood around the corn hole game, and she headed toward them. She counted in her head while she waited for them to look at her.

One.

Two.

Three.

She’d met these husbands before. Some of them had been on the pontoon. One of them probably owned the pontoon, but she couldn’t be sure. She could tell that to a man they thought they’d never seen her.

She watched them take in her gold dress and her blond hair and her breasts. She smiled.

“Gentlemen,” she said.

“Hey there,” said one of the husbands.

She pretended to wobble (well, she was sort of pretending, the heels were difficult in the grass) and put her hand on one of the husbands’ arms to steady herself—this one was a different husband from the one who had spoken.

“Sorry,” she said, smiling apologetically, demurely. “It’s so hard to walk on this grass in these heels!”

The man’s face took on a panicky look, and he said, “No worries, I’ve got you.”