Kevin O'Brien - Disturbed

Molly took a deep breath. “You’re right, Angela, you shouldn’t,” she said, very carefully. “You ought to confide in a therapist or maybe a good friend — like Lynette.”

“Lynette? Are you kidding?” With a sigh, Angela bent down and turned over the serving tray. She started to collect the scattered pieces of pita bread and cut vegetables, and then tossed them on the tray. “Lynette would only say, ‘That’s too bad, I’m so sorry,’ and then she’d tell me about how Jeremy chases her around the bedroom. And that’s such a crock of shit. Have you seen the two of them together? I mean, please, anyone who has half a brain and one good eye could see Jeremy can’t stand her. Talk about stupid — and self-delusional. I don’t need any marital advice from my friend Lynette. No, thank you very much.”

Angela missed some stray pieces of broccoli and baby carrots on the floor. She also left the broken bowl and spilt hummus. But she set the tray on the kitchen counter. “You’re right, Molly. I shouldn’t be telling you any of this. I’ve said too much already. I should go.” She wiped her hands on a dish towel that hung from the oven door handle. “I’m sorry I left you with this mess,” she said in a shaky voice. “Please, make my excuses to the girls at the potluck. I don’t think I could face them right now. I just don’t have it in me.”

She touched Molly’s shoulder as she hurried past her and headed for the front hall.

Bewildered, Molly didn’t walk her to the door. Before she could even react, she heard the door open and slam shut.

From a second-floor window, she watched Angela Dennehy storm out of the house. She spied her through a pair of binoculars, but still couldn’t quite tell whether or not the ex-Mrs. Dennehy was crying. She certainly looked upset as she hurried toward her SUV in the driveway.

Fifteen minutes ago, when Angela had first arrived at her former home, she’d brought in a tray of something that might have been hors d’oeuvres. But she didn’t have it with her now. She jumped into her car, backed out of the driveway, turned around, and headed out of the cul-de-sac.

Funny, she’d thought for sure Angela would be attending the Neighborhood Watch potluck at Lynette Hahn’s house.

She wondered what this visit between the two Mrs. Dennehys had been about — and what exactly had gone on in there. Whatever had happened, it was upsetting enough for Angela that she must have changed her mind about the potluck.

It was scheduled for 12:30—fifteen minutes from now.

She knew, because she’d been invited.

Something else she knew: Soon, there would only be one Mrs. Dennehy.

She’d already started building the dollhouse.

The hors d’oeuvre tray of neatly arranged pita bread and raw vegetables sat on Lynette’s dining room table. Molly had been in such a hurry to make the potluck on time, she’d left some spilt hummus and a few stray baby carrots and broccoli crowns on her kitchen floor. She’d quickly dusted off the bread, and rinsed the vegetables, then dried them in the salad spinner. She’d had a container of low-fat dill dip in her fridge from one of her cravings a few days ago; and she’d substituted that for Angela’s hummus.

A tiny smile on her face, she now watched Lynette help herself to bread and dip for the umpteenth time. “I’ll have to get this dill dip recipe from Angela,” she said to Jill, who stood at the table with her. “It’s fantastic!”

In a bowl beside Angela’s serving tray, the pasta salad Molly had made went untouched.

“Oh, I shouldn’t do this again, but I’m going to!” Lynette was saying, reaching for a raw vegetable now. “Jeremy likes me skinny! In fact, he can’t keep his hands off me. He’s insatiable!” She let out a little laugh. “Ha, maybe I should eat up! Maybe he’ll leave me alone if I gained a few pounds. At least, I’d get a little rest. Honestly, that man of mine. .”

Lynette’s “insatiable” husband was supposed to have attended the Neighborhood Watch potluck, but something had come up at his office at the last minute. Apparently, Natalie had been invited, but Miss Congeniality pulled a no-show. Lynette had told the Realtor for Kay’s house about the potluck, and Molly had wondered if this Rachel Cross person who had bought the place would attend, but no dice.

With Angela suddenly backing out, that brought the Neighborhood Watch attendance down to three: Lynette, Jill, and Molly. Lynette forced her daughter, Courtney, to attend, just for another body in the room, when Chet Blazevich showed up.

Molly felt sorry for the handsome cop, making a special trip to talk to three women — and one teenager who was text-messaging throughout his whole presentation. Jill asked him if the police had any new leads from Thursday night’s triple murder in Federal Way. He admitted they hadn’t made too much progress. After that, no one seemed interested in his Neighborhood Watch safety tips — Molly included.

She tried to pay attention but kept replaying in her head what had happened with Angela less than an hour before. She’d always suspected Jeff’s ex wasn’t really over him. A part of her felt sorry for Angela, but she still didn’t trust her. Before Angela had had her little meltdown, when they’d been talking in the art studio, she’d looked Molly in the eye and claimed she hadn’t hired anyone to investigate her family background: “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The hell she didn’t. Molly knew she’d been lying.

She wondered just how much information Angela’s sleazy investigator had uncovered. He’d probably figured out by now that her brother, Charlie, was the person the news stories from Chicago referred to as Roland Charles Wright. No had ever called him that; he’d always been Charlie ever since he was a baby — just as she’d always been Molly, though Mary Louise was the name on her birth certificate. The only person who called her Mary Louise was her mother when she was mad about something: “Mary Louise, this room is a pigsty!”

Now, that was all her mother ever called her. “I’m fine, Mary Louise, you don’t need to send me any money, thank you,” she’d tell her during those painful, brief conversations over the phone once a month.

Of course, Charlie was why their relationship had deteriorated.

A few weeks after Charlie had cut her with the pizza slicer, Molly’s parents stuck him in a special boarding school called New Horizons. He still came home on weekends. When not hanging out with Molly, he’d get into trouble with his creepy friends. It really put a crimp in Molly’s social life, but she felt responsible for him. It was why she didn’t go away to college.

She day-hopped at Northwestern University for four years, and it was with mixed feelings she went off to the Art Students League of New York. Like it or not, for so many years her main purpose in life had been looking after her needy, troubled kid brother. Suddenly, she was looking after herself, and it felt strange.

Charlie used to write her long, rambling, sometimes incredibly sentimental letters, asking when she’d come home. Occasionally, he even sent her one of his elephants. She felt so guilty — as if she’d deserted him.

Still, Charlie seemed to do all right at New Horizons. He finally got his high school diploma — or at least its equivalency — but stayed on at the school, working as a janitor for his room and board.

Molly planned to stay on in New York after graduation, but then her dad died. The way Charlie dealt with the loss was to get drunk, break several windows in the school, and punch a sixty-two-year-old security guard in the face. New Horizons fired him and sent him packing.