Helen: So, this is a case I’ve been wanting to do for a while. It takes place in a suburb of Houston, somewhere you wouldn’t expect anything bad to happen.

Julia: But we know awful things can happen anywhere.

Helen: Sad but true. Sugar Land was voted one of the best places to live in the country. Best place to raise a family. A little more conservative than Houston—affluent, middle class—but if you thought it’s all cowboy hats and big hair, you’d be wrong. Sure, there’s big oil money, but it’s extremely international, with companies pulling in talent from countries around the world. I found that in 2011 Fort Bend County, where Sugar Land is located, was ranked the fourth most diverse county in the United States. And the area is resilient, coming back from natural disasters like hurricanes and flooding.

Julia: I like the words international and diverse more than the words natural disaster. You’re telling me this is one of the best places to raise a family?

Helen: Like Leave It to Beaver good.

Julia: But we’re not that kind of show.

CHAPTER

3

ON THE DRIVE home, I sneaked a glance at Michael’s face. His profile was absolutely composed. If I’d been thinking when I fled the dinner table, I would have run water in the sink or flushed the toilet, anything to cover up the sounds of crying. Instead, after I pulled myself together, splashed water on my face, and opened the door, there was an awkward hush over the table that made it clear everyone had heard. Michael must have made an excuse to keep our hosts from knocking on the door and asking the dreaded question: Are you okay in there?

So I returned to a table where the hibachi had been replaced with a dark-chocolate cake dusted with powdered sugar and a room heavy with things our hosts were too polite to say.

While Wyatt asked Michael about some work-related thing, Elizabeth offered me coffee. Caffeine was the last thing my shredded nerves needed, but I would have accepted anything to restore forward momentum to our evening. After Elizabeth served me a cup of coffee, a slice of flourless cake, and a halfhearted invitation to the next Bluebonnets meeting, Michael and I made it to the front door, thanking our hosts, promising to return the favor, and (in my case) avoiding direct eye contact.

And Michael still hadn’t said a word since we’d left. Not one. He wasn’t angry, I told myself, just analyzing the evening, trying to find the trigger, the moment that had set me off. If he could figure out what had happened, he could fix it. That was the way he thought. And we’d been working through a whole list of solutions: time off, a therapist, medication, this entire move to Texas.