9
Vivian.
There was a knock on the door—three sharp raps that echoed through the house and set my nerves jangling. For a heartbeat, I thought it was Gerald, home early again, keys forgotten, arms full of flowers and forgiveness. But it wasn’t. It was worse.
Mrs. Radley stood on the porch, her mouth tight, her eyes bright with curiosity and something else—suspicion, maybe, or just the mean-spirited thrill of neighborhood gossip. She clutched her cardigan to her chest and peered past my shoulder, as if she might catch a secret floating in the hall behind me.
“Vivian,” she said, her voice sugary and false. “Is Gerald home?”
I shook my head, throat tight. “He’s away for work.”
She smiled, the kind of smile that never reached her eyes. “I saw Landon’s car out front. He’s such a handsome y
