The Mother Next Door, page 1
Advance Praise for The Mother Next Door
“Trust no one, absolutely no one while reading The Mother Next Door because everyone has secrets, all of them are liars, and everybody has at least one thing to lose. Tara Laskowski’s brilliantly paced tale of perfect suburbia until you scratch the surface is as compelling as it is twisted.”
—Hannah Mary McKinnon, bestselling author of Sister Dear
“If the women of Big Little Lies were the moms of East Coast high schoolers, they’d be right at home in The Mother Next Door—a witty, wicked thriller packed with hidden agendas, juicy secrets, and pitch-perfect satire of the suburban dream.”
—Andrea Bartz, author of The Lost Night and The Herd
“The Mother Next Door is a wonderfully creepy and sinister read which drew me in and kept me gripped as the web of lies and mysterious secrets from the past unraveled. Tense, twisty, and intriguing, readers definitely won’t be able to put this down.”
—Karen Hamilton, bestselling author of The Last Wife
“Suspenseful, sinister, and just the right amount of spooky, The Mother Next Door absolutely captivated me. Tara Laskowski combines an idyllic suburban setting, an almost terrifyingly organized clique, a creepy urban legend, and a healthy dose of long-buried secrets for a propulsive, expertly paced novel you won’t be able to put down.”
—Kathleen Barber, author of Truth Be Told
“Packed with shocking twists and wonderfully complicated characters, The Mother Next Door is such a suspenseful read. Like the best Halloween candy, it was delicious—and I couldn’t put it down.”
—Alison Gaylin, Edgar Award–winning author
“Ivy Woods Drive is an idyllic place to live—and the moms keep it that way, no matter what. In The Mother Next Door, Tara Laskowski plans the perfect suburban Halloween party, filled with secrets, lies, and murder.”
—Lori Rader-Day, award-winning author of The Lucky One
Praise for One Night Gone
“A subtly but relentlessly unsettling novel.”
—Tana French, author of The Searcher
“A heart-wrenching and suspenseful novel of betrayal and revenge.”
—Carol Goodman, author of The Sea of Lost Girls
“[A]n evocative and beautifully crafted tale of suspense.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Absolutely gripping. A multi-layered and gorgeously structured tale.”
—Hank Phillippi Ryan, author of The Murder List
“Laskowski is a truly gifted storyteller. Spectacular.”
—Jennifer Hillier, author of Little Secrets
THE MOTHER NEXT DOOR
Tara Laskowski
www.harlequinbooks.com.au
For all the moms out there.
(You’re doing a much better job than you think you are.)
TARA LASKOWSKI is the author of One Night Gone, which won an Agatha Award, Macavity Award, and Anthony Award, and was a finalist for the Mary Higgins Clark Award, Left Coast Crime Award, Strand Critics Award, and Library of Virginia Literary Award. She is also the author of two short story collections, Modern Manners for Your Inner Demons and Bystanders. Tara has a BA from Susquehanna University and an MFA from George Mason University and currently lives in Virginia. Find her on Twitter and Instagram, @taralwrites.
Contents
Halloween
Seven Weeks Before Halloween
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Halloween
Six Weeks Before Halloween
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Halloween
Five Weeks Before Halloween
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Halloween
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Halloween
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Twenty-Five Days Until Halloween
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Halloween
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Halloween
Eighteen Days Until Halloween
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Halloween
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Eleven Days Until Halloween
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Eight Days Until Halloween
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Halloween
Chapter Thirty
Four Days Until Halloween
Chapter Thirty-One
Halloween
Chapter Thirty-Two
Two Days Until Halloween
Chapter Thirty-Three
The Night Before Halloween
Chapter Thirty-Four
Halloween
Chapter Thirty-Five
Halloween, Present Day
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Halloween
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Halloween
Chapter Forty
Halloween
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Halloween... Now
Chapter Forty-Five
Seven Months Later
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Acknowledgments
Playlist
Questions for Discussion
HALLOWEEN
Ladies and gentlemen, skulls and boys: by the time our Halloween block party is over tonight, one of us will be dead.
And I don’t mean dead as in dull, or dead as in zombified. I mean dead as in gone. Dead as in expired. Killed.
Murdered.
You may be feeling distressed about this, knowing what you know about Ivy Woods—the great neighborhood it is, the sweet, loving families that live there. How could such a tragedy happen in such a wonderful place? You may have traveled here yourself, as a child or as a parent, lured in by the local fame of the street and its ghoulish decorations each year. The lights, the smoke, the gravestones, and the moaning. The witches, cackling and handing out candy. The swarms of little Frankensteins and cowboys and robots and ballet dancers lugging their pillowcases and plastic pumpkin buckets filled with sugar and junk.
But Ivy Woods isn’t perfect.
Far from it.
Look closer. Look under the makeup and the masks, look into the windows of the perfect houses. Dig under the surface of those freshly mowed lawns and you’ll find the worms. I’ve looked—believe me, I’ve looked. There’s something about this street. There are secrets. I know from watching through the windows, from hearing the hushed conversations, from lingering on their faces when they think everyone else has looked away.
Oh they think they are perfect. They pat themselves on the back for throwing such good parties, for raising such fine children, for living in such big houses.
But they are pretending.
They don masks on this one single night to dress up as someone or something else, but in reality they live their lives this way.
We all do.
We hate ourselves. We are too fat, or too thin. We should work hard, be smarter. We are lonely and depressed. We are worried about money. We are ashamed of the way that our friends and family treat us. But we lie about it all. We hide behind a protective façade, fragile glass figurines inside elaborate dollhouses designed to look like perfect, safe, happy places.
Tonight it will all shatter.
Watch closely and you’ll begin to see what I see. There’s trouble in the air, a cold wind blowing in from far away, and it’s settled on Ivy Woods Drive. The secrets and the lies we tell ourselves and others will emerge tonight like spirits of the dead. Lines will be drawn. Sides will be taken. Someone won’t make it out alive.
I can’t save that person, but I’ll tell the story. Turn over the rocks, expose the worms. Pull back the masks.
Because I know their secrets, secrets that will destroy them all.
If they don’t destroy themselves first.
SEVEN WEEKS BEFORE HALLOWEEN
ONE
Theresa
The moms were having a party. I watched from across the street, through my living room window, as I ate my dinner of chicken piccata on the couch, sipping a hefty glass of merlot.
At dusk, they arrived one by one from the houses around the cul-de-sac, the glow of their phones like fireflies in the dying light. Dressed stylish but casual, ponytails and makeup, jeans and heels.
Viciously, effortlessly powerful.
The blonde mom was hosting. The one I’d noticed walking an oversize dog around the cul-de-sac, cell phone to her ear. She seemed to know everyone, always paused by one porch or another while her dog sniffed in the grass. Y es, my new neighbors were social butterflies. I observed their fluttering hugs as they converged in front of the house. My view inside was limited—a hallway beyond the screen door, painted red, like the inside of a mouth, and at the end, the corner of a giant island in the center of the kitchen where I imagined they set their Tupperware trays and booze.
I turned back to the TV. A wispy woman in a white nightgown was making her way down a dark hallway with one flickering candle. Lily must have been watching it before she’d gone out; my daughter binged on these kinds of movies, Halloween season or not. She loved all things creepy, Frankenstein and ghosts, serial killers and porcelain dolls. If it was undead or moaned in the attic, Lily was all about it.
Just before the woman reached the door where the knob was rattling violently, there was a loud bang outside, and I jumped. Another woman, getting out of a car this time. I shut off the TV, the fate of the wispy woman forever unknown, and went into the kitchen to wash my plate.
It was 7:30. Lily was at a friend’s house, and Adam had dived headfirst into his new job as principal of the local high school. He wouldn’t be home from Parent Night for another couple of hours at least. I was on my own and knew I should get out, go for a walk. I enjoyed wandering the streets of our new neighborhood, getting the lay of the land, especially at night.
I put on my sneakers and slipped a light cardigan over my T-shirt as I stepped outside. The sky was clear, the moon a ripe banana. I’d always been in love with this neighborhood—Ivy Woods—and my love had continued to grow since our family had moved here from Philadelphia three weeks ago. Our cul-de-sac ran up against a small lake that separated our homes from a town house community across the way. And even though we were only a dozen miles from DC, the woods around the neighborhood made us feel like we were in a secluded forest retreat, private and protected.
It felt so easy, so normal. The kind of place you saw on a dated sitcom, with large and wholesome families and golden retrievers and everyone learning important lessons. The kind of street that made you wonder how different your life would be if only you lived somewhere like that.
And now I did.
I walked down our driveway, turning left to leave the cul-de-sac. I passed these houses often, but I’d been so busy unpacking and getting us settled that I hadn’t actually met any of the neighbors yet. I’d seen them pulling out of their IKEA-organized garages in the mornings, jogging on the weekends, gathering at the mailboxes at the ends of their driveways. Never a hair out of place. Pencil skirt suits or designer yoga pants, whether on their way to work or instructing their gardeners where to trim the boxwoods. I’d been studying—their habits, their style. Figuring out how they operated, so that when the time was right, I would fit in.
Just as I reached the giant old oak tree at the opening of the cul-de-sac, I realized I’d forgotten my cell phone. I headed back, but crossed to the other side—where the party house beckoned to me like a big bright lamp.
As I approached, I slowed. The moms were chatting animatedly around a table, one woman’s words tripping over the last’s. Beautiful creatures, at ease in their lives and their homes. Several bottles of wine out, like they were planning on staying for a while.
I inched onto the dark lawn to the dogwood tree and pressed myself against the brittle trunk for a better view. One of the women was standing now, stretching her arm from beneath a purple-and-green pashmina to show off a delicate bracelet on her wrist.
I willed one of them to look up.
To notice me.
The blonde mom, perfect highlights framing her face, nodded her approval of the jewelry. I was betting she was the leader, the take-charge one who never flinched during an emergency, who would wrangle all of us behind her and face the tigers first.
I watched.
I waited.
A dog started barking in the distance, then another nearby, in the house. It rushed to the front door and pawed, heavy breath creating condensation on the glass.
The blonde mom frowned. “Cut it out, Barney,” she yelled. She took a sip of her wine.
I watched.
I waited.
Then she looked up. She seemed to gaze right at me through the window. Flecks of bark snapped off the tree trunk as I squeezed, and they fell at my feet. Even though I knew the woman couldn’t see me out here in the darkness, I held my breath until she turned away.
TWO
Theresa
Adam had warned me the Welcome to Woodard event wasn’t going to be fancy, and unfortunately, he was right. They hadn’t done much to transform the gymnasium of the high school—public school budgets, I supposed. The bleachers were pushed to the wall like unclimbable ladders, and they’d arranged a mix of low-and high-top tables throughout the gym. Near the doors, a microphone and two bulky speakers had been set up for remarks. No mood music, unless you counted the squeak of the men’s shoes on the waxy floor. The local community newspaper I’d worked for back in Philly had Christmas parties swankier than this, and those had been in the basement of a chicken wings place.
It was as one might expect—lots of hellos and nice-to-meet-yous and handshakes and forgetting people’s names as soon as they said them. Five hundred and fifty and this is my wife, Theresas. There were jokes about sports teams—“Coming from Philly, you know you can’t be an Eagles fan anymore, right?” After a while I felt like my smile needed to be propped up by toothpicks. Much of the conversations were shoptalk about the school, the classes, the kids, and I drowned it out until I could finally excuse myself, feigning thirst.
The woman at the drink table appeared to be a parent volunteer, dressed as she was in a Woodard High T-shirt and khaki pants. Her shoulder-length hair curled with humidity, and her facial features naturally arced downward so that even when she threw a smile my way, it came off as defeated.
“You’re Adam Wallace’s wife, right?” she asked as I took a flat-looking Coke. There was no alcohol. “We’re so excited to have him here.”
I got a little thrill noting the clout Adam’s name brought here.
“That’s me,” I said brightly. “Theresa Pressley.” I held out a hand.
“Oh wow, it’s so nice to meet you. I’m Georgeann. Georgeann Wilkins.” She handed me a thin white cocktail napkin. “Do you need anything else?” We both glanced at the table—there wasn’t anything else—and the woman let out an embarrassed chuckle. “Well, I guess if you need any help with anything, I’ve been here forever.”
After all the polite small talk at Adam’s side, Georgeann’s awkwardness made it easier to relax. “Oh you just must know everyone then,” I teased.
“I don’t know about that,” she said, but my flattery had pleased her. Her cheeks blotched red. “I mean, not everyone.”
Above us a section of basketball hoop netting had wrapped around itself, and I kept glancing up at it, wishing I was tall enough to fix it.
Georgeann busied herself rearranging soda cups. “Some of the folks here are more up on that stuff. I just volunteer where I can, help out. My son’s on the swim team, so I go to the meets...” She trailed off, her eyes focused behind me.
I turned. She was staring at my neighbor, the blonde woman who lived across the street. The woman stuck out from the crowd in a chic plaid dress with a pretty fall-colored, striped scarf. Like she was going to a wedding shower instead of a meet and greet in a dumpy gymnasium.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
Georgeann started waving in her direction. “Hi, Kendra!” she called, but the woman didn’t notice her. Georgeann dropped her arm. “Well, that’s your neighbor, Kendra McCaul. You’re on Ivy Woods, right?”
I nodded.
“Their Halloween block party is famous, you know,” Georgeann added.
“Is it?” I asked absentmindedly, as Kendra crossed the room in heels in a way that would’ve made my aunt Ruth—who could cover forty New York City blocks in stilettos—proud.
“Oh yeah. Hundreds of kids come by every year.”
Kendra was greeting another woman, pressing her hands in hers, air-kiss at the cheek.
“Hundreds?” I asked, facing Georgeann again. “Our daughter loves Halloween. That might make the move less painful for her.” Adam would like it, too—he’d grown up in a big family and loved reunions and parties and socializing. Halloween was one of those holidays I could take or leave, but this year it sounded like I would learn to love it. Which was fine. If it was tradition, we’d be going all in as good new neighbors.
