Probably a dumb idea to run through the park at night. That was how people got murdered. Oh, well, she thought as the color that the playgroup women had recently brought into her life leached out, leaving the world around her bloodless and gray. She ran all the way home, jumping back when the occasional rat scrambled across her path, blisters forming where her fraying Chucks rubbed up against her heels.

It had been a while since she’d really indulged in some good old Drinking to Forget alone in her apartment, but now seemed as good a time as any. She lost all of Saturday to the clanking bottles of whiskey she pulled down from her cabinet.

Sunday morning came in far too bright, the sun insistently flaunting itself against her window like a spray-tanned child in a beauty pageant. The lure of curling herself underneath the covers, only coming out to order a pizza in another hour or two, was strong. But she had to get up. It was Reagan’s birthday party.

So maybe the women took speed. She could still take their money. No matter how much she’d deluded herself lately that they were adopting her, that she was their little pet or maybe even a real friend, she was just the hired help. None of them owed her anything except the money they’d promised to pay her, so she might as well go and collect that. Besides, there was the Amara connection for her music too, and she’d be a fool to give that up. Beyond that, screw them all. They could do what they wanted.

She pulled on some clothes and ran a brush through her hair, determined to harden her heart. Hey, she’d passed herself off as a devout Christian for years. She could continue to joke around with the Wellness Goddesses as if she believed that they actually cared about all-natural health.

Gwen’s ridiculous brownstone had pink and white balloons tied to the steps out front to mark the party inside. When Claire stepped into the foyer, Gwen’s older daughter, Rosie, was half-heartedly taking coats, although what she was really doing was wearing a tiara and fairy wings and twirling around the hallway.

“Thanks, Rosie,” Claire said as she handed the girl her jacket.

“Call me by my princess name,” Rosie said, and then sang out in a warbling voice, “Rosalindaaaaaa!”

Claire smiled, a smile that disappeared as soon as she heard Gwen say her name from the top of the staircase.

Gwen wore a string of pearls and a rose-colored dress with a floral pattern, her hair blown out into perfect loose curls. Very Disney princess meets fifties housewife chic. Very Momstagram-worthy. Very hopped up on speed. On her hip, Gwen bounced Reagan, who wore a gold-edged bib with the words BIRTHDAY GIRL emblazoned in pink block letters. Gwen waved at Claire, her blueberry eyes wide in anticipation. “Come on in,” she was saying, “and put your guitar down. Let’s start the music in twenty minutes so that we can do the cake before the kids get cranky. And in the meantime, help yourself to refreshments and make yourself at home!”

It was a relatively small affair—mostly the playgroup moms and their husbands, plus a few relatives and coworkers and some rambunctious friends of Rosie’s, but even though the guest list might have been limited, Gwen and Christopher had gone all out. A professional photographer wandered around, exhorting people to smile. In the corner, a bartender served up a specialty cocktail called the “Reagan Rickey”—Claire took one immediately and thanked God for the gin burning down her throat—underneath an entire archway made of those same pink and white balloons from outside woven together, with a floating silver balloon in the shape of an “R” at the center of the whole thing. Streamers flapped down from the chandelier, and a young woman did face painting by one of the windows, dappling children’s cheeks with unicorns and rainbows. (Maybe the face painter was also an aspiring artist who had expected better things from her life by now. Maybe she really wanted to be dappling gigantic canvases to hang on gallery walls.) The coffee table was bursting with presents wrapped beautifully in patterned paper and curling ribbons. Had everyone there gone to a freaking professional gift wrapper? There must have been at least thirty boxes of things little Reagan would soon discard. It was all a whole lot of effort for a party Reagan would never remember.

Claire wandered into the dining room, where the table practically groaned under the weight of all the refreshments it held. How wonderful it would be to be hungry right now, for everything to be normal again, for her to embrace Ellie and Meredith, who were bearing down on her, with uncomplicated joy.

And you’re a lying speed freak, she thought as Ellie hugged her, then passed her off to Meredith while their much less well-kept husbands looked on. And so are you. It was like Claire had run a black light over a beloved room, and now she was seeing all the stains she hadn’t noticed before, when she’d been blinded by radiance. Of course they were so thin, Claire thought, as Ellie put a bony arm around her and introduced her to John, who was holding little Mason in his arms. Of course they had time and energy to meticulously plan the perfect outfits for themselves and their babies, she realized as Meredith showed off little Lexington’s poofy hair bow, which she’d had to go to five stores to find.

“Did you talk to Whitney?” Ellie asked. “The coffee-table-book shoot is this Thursday, so we’ll be meeting there instead of at her apartment. It’s so exciting!”

“I agree. I always wanted to marry a model,” John said. Ellie shoved him affectionately. John was solid, with a bit of a beer belly, his hair graying—the kind of man who had definitely belonged to a fraternity in college and who probably rhapsodized about his crazy days in Kappa Delta Alpha or whatever with great frequency. In his arms, little Mason started crying, his face wrinkling up, and John bounced him, but Mason only continued to whimper. “Here, you want Mama, don’t you?” John said, passing the baby off to Ellie and turning to the refreshment table, then loading cheeses and meats onto a plate for himself. “So you’re the music teacher,” he said to Claire. “Maybe you can convince them that worrying about preschool already is crazy!”

“Not according to Gwen!” Ellie said as she attempted to calm Mason to no avail.

“It’s true, John,” chimed Meredith in support. “I’ve heard from a bunch of people that it’s really important to do your research.”

Ellie nodded along and went in for the kill. “We could just send Mason to public school, honey. But I can’t imagine your mother would allow that.”

“Okay, I should go get ready for the music,” Claire said.

“We can’t wait!” Ellie said.

“Oh, by the way, we’re going to get manicures before the photo shoot,” Meredith said. “Do you want to come? It’ll be our treat!”

“Is this your nice way of telling me my nails are disgusting?” Claire asked, waggling her unadorned fingers and smiling like she meant it, and Meredith giggled. “Excuse me.”

As she walked away, she caught sight of Vicki on the window seat, wearing her usual floaty garb, feeding a fussy Jonah. The veins in her exposed breast glowed blue in the daylight from the window. As Claire watched, an unfamiliar woman—probably a coworker of Christopher’s, judging by her sleek, boardroom-ready haircut—bustled up to Vicki. “Excuse me,” the woman said. “But you’re making my husband uncomfortable.” Vicki stared up at the woman, her face placid. The woman shot a look back at her husband and then tried again. “Do you have a cover you can use?”