Why didn’t she leave well enough alone? That’s what comes from trying to live ethically, from trying to do what’s right in a crazy, cynical world that doesn’t give a shit about doing the right thing. What’s wrong with apologizing? Instead it seems to be all about not getting caught, about getting away with it. She didn’t like that lawyer much, but she’s afraid that he knows what he’s doing; she’s so naive next to him.

She can’t help worrying about what all this is teaching their son. He might be scared stiff at the thought of jail – and that’s a good thing, she’ll take it. Although he’s probably not as frightened of it as she is. But she wishes he understood why what he’s done is wrong instead of just being afraid of what might happen to him. How, she fumes, are you supposed to teach a kid right and wrong when so many people in positions of authority regularly behave so badly? What the hell is wrong with America these days?

Carmine has had her lonely supper of a single chicken breast and a salad, eaten at the kitchen table, the television resolutely off. She has standards. She maintains the routine of cooking an evening meal for herself, even though some days she wonders why she bothers. She has cookbooks that celebrate the joys of cooking for one, but it doesn’t feel joyful to her. She loved cooking for her husband and kids. But her husband is dead and her kids have all moved on to their own busy lives.

She has established another routine – her evening walk around the neighbourhood. Routines give structure to empty days. This nightly walk is both for exercise and to satisfy her natural curiosity about her neighbours. It takes her down Finch and around to Sparrow, then back to her own street. It’s a long block and a pretty walk. She will keep it up as long as the weather allows, admiring the well-kept homes, glancing in the warmly lit windows. Tonight as she walks along she thinks about the break-in and the letter. So far she has only spoken to her next-door neighbour, Zoe Putillo, about it. Zoe is the only one she’s become friendly with so far. Carmine hasn’t completely decided whether to let it go or try to find out who broke into her house. Part of her feels a natural sympathy for the mother who wrote the letter. But part of her feels slightly outraged, and wants to do something about it.

As she turns back down her own street she nears a house that is brightly lit. She can see across the front lawn and through the large windows into the living room, where a small group of women are gathered. They are talking and laughing animatedly, wineglasses in hand. Just then Carmine notices another woman hurriedly approaching. She turns up the driveway of the house, a book in her hand, and rings the bell. Carmine hears the muffled sound of voices briefly, while the door is open and the newcomer is admitted, and then the sound is abruptly cut off again.

It’s a book club, Carmine realizes with a pang of longing, stopping for a moment. The longing is mixed with a touch of resentment. People haven’t been particularly friendly here.

Chapter Seven

OLIVIA, IN A rush to leave for book club, almost forgets the book, but grabs it as she heads out the door. She usually looks forward to book club, but tonight she suspects she’s too upset about Raleigh to enjoy anything. Supper was strained after the visit to the attorney.

She walks to Suzanne Halpern’s house on Finch Street. The book club started years ago, a collection of women from the neighbourhood who know each other through school, sports, and other neighbourhood events. There are several regular members. They all take turns hosting.

Suzanne loves to host book club: she’s a bit of a show-off. She always makes a fuss, preparing elaborate snacks and ostentatiously pairing them with just the right wines. When it’s Olivia’s turn she usually defaults to a good, solid red and an uninspired white that will go with everything, and grabs a bunch of things from Costco. She doesn’t particularly like hosting. For her, book club is about getting out.

Glenda is already there when Olivia arrives. The women stand around the living room chatting, with their glasses of wine and their little plates of food, leaving their books at their seats. Tonight’s book is the new Tana French. Of course, they never start with the book. They catch up on small talk first, usually about the kids – they all have kids – which is what they’re doing when Jeannette’s phone pings. Olivia sees Jeannette give her phone a casual glance – and then Jeannette’s face freezes. At the same time Olivia hears two or three other pings from other phones and wonders what’s going on.

‘Oh, my God,’ Jeannette blurts out.

‘What is it?’ Olivia asks.

‘Remember how Amanda Pierce went missing a couple of weeks ago?’ Jeannette says.

Of course they remember, Olivia thinks. Amanda Pierce had left her husband rather abruptly without telling him. Olivia didn’t know Amanda, except by sight. She’d only actually met her once, at a neighbourhood party held at the little park between Sparrow and Finch just over a year ago, in September, shortly after the Pierces had moved in. Amanda Pierce was a striking woman, and all the husbands had watched her, practically drooling, stumbling over one another to hand her things – ketchup for her hot dog, a napkin, a drink, while the wives tried not to look pissed off. She looked like a model, or an actress – she was that perfect. That sexy. That confident. Always wearing smart clothes and fashionable sunglasses. The husband – she can’t remember his name – was ridiculously good-looking, too. He had the same movie-star quality, but was more reserved. A watcher. They lived on Olivia’s street, but further down. They were both in their late twenties, considerably younger than Olivia and her friends, and had no kids, so they didn’t have much reason to cross paths.

‘She didn’t really go missing,’ Suzanne says. ‘She left her husband.’

‘There’s a news alert,’ Jeannette says. ‘They found her car, in a lake up near Canning. Her body was in the boot.’

There’s a stunned silence as the room fills with shock.

‘I can’t believe it,’ Becky says, looking up from her phone, her face suddenly pale.

Olivia recalls with a jolt that Raleigh had been inside the Pierces’ house.

‘Poor Robert,’ Becky whispers. Becky Harris lives next door to the Pierces. ‘He did report her missing. He told me that himself.’

Becky is a good friend of Olivia’s, and had told her all about it. Olivia has a sudden picture of Becky, who is still quite attractive, but perhaps not as attractive as she thinks, talking to the handsome, abandoned husband over the back fence.

‘I remember hearing that,’ Glenda says, sounding shaken. ‘But if I remember correctly, the story was the police didn’t take it seriously because she’d lied to him about going away for the weekend with a friend. They figured she left him, that it wasn’t a proper disappearance.’

‘Well, it’s obviously a murder now,’ Jeannette says.

‘What else does it say?’ Olivia asks.

‘That’s it. No details.’

‘Do you think her husband did it?’ Suzanne asks after a moment, looking around at all of them. ‘Do you think he might have killed her?’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ Jeannette says quietly.

Becky turns on her suddenly. ‘You don’t know anything about it!’