The lights flash, illuminating the street as I creep past in my car. There’s an ambulance and one police car. The paramedic is talking to an officer, and the other has a blanket around Mary’s shoulders, comforting her.

It will be ruled non-suspicious. I played her defect perfectly against her.

If I pull over and disappear into the tree line, I’ll be able to wait and watch the coroner arrive and wheel out her body packed up neatly in a bag.

She’s gone.

And life goes on.

Without her.

* * *

When I make it home, Rowan is already turned in for the night. I find some leftover chicken from lunch still in the fridge and whip together a sandwich. The adrenaline eats through your calorie burn like a bitch. Maybe I’m onto a new weight loss method. All the fat housewives just need to kill to get thin.

I smirk to myself at the thought of Mrs. Ringwood from across the street going on a rampage with her cockapoo stuffed in her handbag.

Ha.

I finish my sandwich, then go to the basement and collect all of Stacy’s files. The image I keep is of her sleeping. I add it to the other’s hidden inside a cookie tin and stash it in the wall space I carved out when I first bought this house. I can’t help pulling them out and looking through them. There’s one girl not amongst the others, and it torments me. She needs to be with them.

I drop them back in the hiding spot and slot the brick back into place, camouflaging that there’s even a space there. I take the rest of the images and documents I accumulated about Stacy to the firepit, checking first that Rowan’s bedroom lights are in fact out so I know she’s sleeping.

I reminisce with each image I burn until nothing is left but the imprint on my brain and the ashes. A breeze cools my skin, and I sense I’m not alone before anyone makes themselves known.

I don’t like being crept up on or watched.

I’m the watcher.

“I know you’re there,” I announce, rising to my feet and walking over to the bar area I had built out here. I open the beer fridge and grab two bottles, popping the lids off.

Nixon stalks from the corner like a shadow. This is becoming a habit.

“I left some schoolwork in Rowan’s backpack,” he lies.

I glower at him. “It’s a little late to be skulking around the place in the dark.”

“I noticed Rowan wasn’t wearing her locket,” he says, changing the subject effortlessly.

“You know I didn’t give it to her. Let’s not play games.” I smirk, offering him one of the beers. He takes it and nods toward the firepit.

“More shirts?”

Ha. “Not quite.”

“Why does Rowan have pictures of Nina Drake framed in her room believing her to be her mother?” he questions.

I should ask him why he thinks Eric is his dad when he looks just like Trevor Blackstone. Instead, I focus on something more paramount.

“How the fuck do you know what’s in Rowan’s bedroom?” I growl.

The tilt of his lips shows his amusement. It’s not often I can tolerate company, but Nixon holds his own. He’s really good at fitting in around them, even though, deep down, he’s not like them—much better at fitting in than I could ever be. But just us guys out here, I feel like I almost don’t have to pretend in front of him—like he knows me better than most. The real me, not the me I display for everyone. It’s an unusual feeling.

“She tutors me sometimes when I’m struggling in my human relations class.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal. If it were any of the other boys, I wouldn’t believe him, but Nixon is frank. He would say if it was more than that. I admire that about him.

“Next time you need to study, you do it downstairs,” I demand.

“You haven’t answered the question.” He looks over at me from the seat he put himself in. I join him, looking out into the yard. I like the night time. It’s where I belong and feel most comfortable.

I grit my teeth. “I don’t have to answer your questions.”

Does he forget his age and who he’s talking to?

“But you do if it was her asking?” He quirks a brow, daring me not to answer so he can run along and tell Rowan I’ve created a plastic life for her.

“Why haven’t you said anything to her yet?” I ask, curious.

He swigs his drink and shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t like the thought of hurting her for no reason. That’s why I’m asking you.”

“How do you even know the woman? What did you call her? Nina Drake?” I query.

He quirks a brow, looking over at me with a sigh of amusement. Digging into his pocket, he pulls out a cell phone, flicks his thumbs over the keys, then hands me the screen.

Well, shit.

Nina Drake, once a small-time model has now turned porn star. This whole time, I’ve allowed Rowan to have a porn star’s image as her mother.

I hand him back the phone. “When Rowan was young, she was desperate to know about her mother. But she and I were never a couple. Rowan was an accident. One I didn’t know about until her mother was dying and she was born. I didn’t want her knowing that, so I gave her a mother to hold onto. You can relate, right?” I ask.

His features don’t change, not even a flinch of pain. “Rowan’s mother died, mine fucked off.”

“Do you ever wonder why?”

He snorts. “Because my old man likes younger pussy. He can’t let it go, though. He’s still searching for her. I don’t give a shit if he finds her. She made her choice.”

Eric is still looking for Julia? Well, that is news.

Nixon stands and tosses his empty bottle in the trash. “Lucky for you, Rowan’s not a boy, so she won’t watch much porn.” He winks and saunters off.

I watch as he disappears though the entrance they made years ago. I closed it up at one point, but the little fucks reopened it. Jumping to my feet, I go grab a hammer and nails to seal the thing shut. Again.