The Perfect Neighborhood by Liz Alterman

Author:Liz Alterman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: CROOKED LANE BOOKS

* * *

Detective Dubin returns my call twelve hours later.

“We’ve had trouble contacting that homeowner,” he admits. “I’ve put Officer Kinsley on it. But, Mrs. Barnes, with all due respect, we think it’s best if you leave the investigating to us. We know you’re anxious, of course, but let us do our jobs.”

His tone makes every nerve in my body vibrate with rage.

“With all due respect, if you did your job, maybe I wouldn’t have to!” I hang up, wishing I had a rotary phone so I could experience the pathetic thrill of slamming down the receiver.

Now I wait. Helpless. Useless. Carrying my cell phone and the house phone with me from room to room. I answer every call, terrified of what I might be told, and now, of what I might say as my sorrow transforms into fury.

My cell phone pings in my hand.

Another text from Derek. “I’m around, Ray. Let’s talk. You can’t avoid me forever.”

He’s right. We need to have a conversation. But I don’t know what to say—or what I want to hear. I’d like to believe that neither of us intended for our relationship to evolve the way it did, but that would be a lie.

Derek renovated our kitchen three years ago. When I went back to work last fall, I asked him if he’d help a few of my clients with repairs and improvements before I listed their homes. We’d worked so well together that we decided to invest in a fixer-upper, hoping to flip it quickly for a nice profit. I’d planned to use my share as a springboard to leave Ted. Billy and I could make a fresh start.

As we picked out finishes, hardware, and paint colors, Derek, single and childless, made me laugh with his dating horror stories. Over time, I began to wonder what it would be like to go home to him instead of Ted.

In February, when Derek asked if I wanted to join him in Colorado at a home improvement and remodeling expo, I knew he was inviting me as more than an investment partner and the agent who threw business his way. As I packed, I swapped practical flannel pajamas for silk lingerie I hadn’t worn in years, imagining him undressing me in a hotel room far from Oak Hill.

I didn’t expect to come home with a souvenir. Inside the house on Maple Crest Drive, amid the chipped pink-and-black tiled bathroom we hadn’t gutted yet, I took the test. When I showed Derek the stick, the word “pregnant” staring back, bold as a billboard, he looked older, tired, more concerned than when we discovered mold behind a kitchen wall.

“You know how I feel about you, Ray,” he’d said.

Aside from Darcy, Derek was the only person who called me “Ray,” and it made me believe that he’d protect me as my sister always had.

“But if I’d wanted a family, I’d have had one by now,” he’d continued. “I’m planning to retire in the next ten years, not coach Little League.

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