The country club smells like money disguised as lemon polish.
I stand in the foyer pretending to admire the framed regatta photos while my stomach rolls. White uniforms glide past with trays of champagne flutes, clinks of glass punctuating the low hum of donor voices. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the harbor glows postcard-bright, sailboats freckling the water, cliffs rising in the distance like a backdrop someone ordered for a fundraiser.
I know what sits below those cliffs. Rock teeth. The shelf where kids used to sneak cigarettes after dances, convinced they were invisible. The place Juliet never made it back from.
“Mara Lane,” a voice booms behind me. “Back in the club at last.”
I turn. Raymond Calder fills the doorway like he owns it, even in retirement. The navy blazer, the school tie, the silver hair combed with military precision. His belly has gone soft, but the cop stance is still there, weight balanced, eyes flicking to exits, to my bag, to the maître d’ waiting in the wings.
“Chief Calder,” I say.
He chuckles. “Ray will do. They won’t let me keep the badge anymore.” His gaze sweeps over my thrift-store dress and cheap blazer, taking inventory. “You clean up well. Your mother would be proud.”
I swallow the urge to ask which part would impress her most: the downloads or the death threats.
“Thanks for the invitation,” I say instead. “I don’t usually make the lunch crowd.”
“I know,” he says, and there’s a little weight on that. “That’s why I asked you. Come on. They put us under the chandeliers.”
He leads me into the main dining room. The air cools, scented with butter and grilled fish and some expensive floral arrangement that makes my nose itch. Crystal chandeliers hang in a row over white-clothed tables, scattering light across silverware and wine bottles. The room is a catalog of Crescent Bay surnames: Harrow, Carrington, Reeves—etched on plaques along the wall, murmured in conversations about regatta committees and the Prom Throwback fundraiser, where adults get drunk and relive 1997 in rented satin.
We pass a table of PTA moms in pastel dresses, their hair sprayed and glossed, their laughter a little too high. I catch one pair of eyes linger on me a beat too long. Recognition flares, followed by the guarded smile you give a neighbor who might be radioactive.
Calder notices, of course. “Fame,” he says under his breath. “Double-edged sword.”
“I talk into a microphone in a laundromat,” I say. “Fame is generous.”
He waves that away and pulls out my chair at a small corner table beneath the largest chandelier. Its crystals catch the sunlight, throwing fractured rainbows on the tablecloth. They look like glass rose petals frozen mid-fall.
“You’re underselling yourself,” he says, settling opposite me with a groan and a practiced smile for the approaching server. “The whole town listens, Mara. Even the ones who claim they don’t.”
The server pours water. Ice clinks against glass. Calder orders the special without glancing at the menu. I order a salad that costs more than a week of Theo’s lunches and wonder if anyone here has ever filled out the free-and-reduced form with shaking hands.
“I remember when you were just the quiet kid hanging around the salon,” Calder says once the server leaves. “Your mother curling the Harrow girls’ hair before the ball. You, sweeping up in the back, listening to all the gossip for free.”
“Perks of child labor,” I say.
He laughs, delighted, like we’re sharing a joke instead of a history where he buried a girl’s last hour. “Simpler times,” he says. “People handled things face to face. No mobs. No anonymous tip lines. No kids with microphones turning every tragedy into a serial.”
I take a sip of water to give my jaw something to do besides clench. The ice tastes faintly of chlorine. “People handled things,” I repeat. “Is that what you called it?”
“We had structure,” he says. “You remember. PTA meetings where decisions got made. Coaches, pastors, the right parents working together to keep kids on track. A girl had a scare, a boy got carried away, we pulled some strings, made sure futures weren’t ruined.”
“Unless the girl ended up dead,” I say.
His smile doesn’t slip, but the temperature at the table drops. “Juliet was a tragedy,” he says. “No one disputes that. But you and I both know not every question about that night has an answer that will help anyone still living.”
The chandelier prisms sway gently in the air conditioning, scattering light across his face. For a second, his features break into facets—the charming grandfather, the tired cop, the man who told Mr. Cooke to forget what he saw.
“I didn’t start asking questions to help powerful families sleep better,” I say.
“No,” he says, nodding slowly. “You started to help yourself. Nothing wrong with that. Single mom, struggling podcast. You saw a story you could tell better than anyone. I respect the hustle. The problem is, stories grow teeth.”
The salads arrive, neat towers of greens and shaved something drizzled with vinaigrette. My stomach has shut down, but I pick up my fork anyway. I need my hands occupied.
“Is that why you asked me here?” I say. “To warn me about my own teeth?”
“I asked you here to offer perspective,” he says. He spears a cherry tomato, cuts it in half with methodical care. “You’re poking at a night that sits in the bones of this town. You stir it up, you don’t control what comes out. And that doesn’t just touch the Harrows and the school board crowd. It brushes people on your side of the bridge too.”
His eyes flick to me, sharp now.
“You mean my mother,” I say.
He dabs his mouth with the linen napkin, gives a small, regretful nod. “Your mother worked hard,” he says. “No man in the house. A daughter to raise. That salon chair might have been the only throne she ever sat on, but she kept her head high. I respected that.”
My fork scrapes porcelain. The sound hits my teeth. “Is this the part where you tell me she kept her mouth shut for you out of respect?”
“Careful,” he says gently. “I never asked her to lie. I gave her advice. I helped her get through a rough patch. People do strange things when they owe you, Mara. Have you not noticed that yet with your fans?”
“What rough patch?” My voice comes out tighter than I want. “She always said the late nineties were good. Busy. Before the chain salons.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Memory is a beautiful editor. Those years were hard on a lot of people. The dot-com wave missed some and swamped others. I remember more than one overdue electric bill at your place. A landlord ready to evict. Credit card companies calling the station asking how often we responded to disturbances at that address.”
Heat crawls up my neck. I picture our old apartment over the strip of shops, my mother at the chipped kitchen table with a stack of past-due notices, the way she’d flip them upside down whenever I walked in. The muffled bass from waterfront parties would drift up at night, carrying the distant echo of laughter and clinking glasses from houses that never got shut-off notices.
“We managed,” I say.
“You managed in part because you had friends,” he says. “There were folks in town who stepped up quietly. Covered a few months’ rent. Paid off a medical bill. Convinced a banker that your mother was worth a second chance.” He taps his fork against his plate, a soft, rhythmic clink. “That sort of generosity doesn’t come from nowhere.”
I’m gripping the stem of my water glass so hard condensation runs down onto my knuckles. “Who?” I ask.
He studies me for a long moment, then smiles like he’s indulging a child. “Does it matter?” he says. “Call them donors. Call them benefactors. Call them people who understood that a good story about this town benefits everyone.”
“Juliet’s death made this town look bad,” I say.
“Only if you told it wrong,” he says. “We framed it as a terrible accident. A good girl who took a wrong step on a dangerous cliff. A boyfriend who grieved but stayed quiet. Parents who mourned with dignity. Your mother understood that version kept Crescent Bay afloat. Her business depended on those girls coming back to her chair.”
My appetite resurfaces as a hollow, gnawing ache. “You’re telling me my mother sold the truth for a few paid bills.”
He sighs, shaking his head. “You put it in the ugliest terms. I’d say she made a choice that kept you fed. You were what? Fourteen? Fifteen? Old enough to understand that eviction isn’t a podcast plot twist, it’s a box on the curb.”
A memory flashes: my mother’s hand on my shoulder, fingers pressing a little too hard, whispering that some things we hear at the salon are just gossip and gossip can kill a girl twice. I never knew what she meant.
“What exactly did she choose?” I ask.
“That’s between you and her,” he says. “I’m not here to expose your family. I’m here to remind you that when you start tearing at old wallpaper, you don’t control which cracks spread. You want to drag my name through the mud on your show, that’s your prerogative. But make sure you’re ready for what splashes on your own people.”
My pulse drums in my ears. “You’re worried about your legacy,” I say. “That’s all. You don’t want anyone hearing that you told a young teacher to forget seeing Juliet leave with the wrong boy.”
The first real flinch crosses his face. It’s small, gone in a blink, but I catch it.
“Bars talk,” he says softly. “Off-duty officers talk. Navarro needs to learn the difference between curiosity and insubordination. And you, young lady, need to learn that not every rumor belongs in a microphone.”
“Mr. Cooke’s memory isn’t a rumor,” I say.
“Mr. Cooke is a drunk who wants absolution,” he says. “You give him a stage and he’ll say whatever he thinks will make your listeners clap. Twenty-five years of guilt will twist any recollection. You amplify that, you’re not just taking a swing at me. You’re taking a swing at the foundation of institutions that still feed your kid and keep your street lit.”
Outside the windows, sunlight glances off the water, bleeding white at the edges. The cliffs in the distance stand bright and blank, revealing nothing of the rock shelf below where the tide gnaws at their base. A boat motor throbs faintly under the mingled clatter of forks and perfected laughter.
“Institutions that ignored a dead girl,” I say.
“Institutions that kept hundreds of other kids safe,” he counters. “You focus on the exception, you erase the work. You erase the nights we drove drunk boys home instead of booking them. The times we called parents instead of reporters. You tear that down, you don’t get justice; you get chaos.”
“Maybe chaos is what the truth feels like when you’ve been smoothing it for decades,” I say.
His eyes harden. The paternal warmth drains a degree. “You’re smart,” he says. “Too smart to believe that burning down the house will keep your son warm.”
There it is. He could have said career, podcast, reputation. He went for Theo.
My voice goes very steady. “Are you threatening my custody?”
He raises both hands, palms up, placating. “I’m an old man having lunch,” he says. “I’m reminding you that judges golf here. School board members drink here. The same names on these plaques”—he gestures toward the wall—“sit on police foundations and family court advisory councils. They tolerate a lot, Mara. They even enjoy the show when it makes their enemies squirm. But they have limits.”
“Limits like ‘don’t question the version of prom night the club signed off on’?” I ask.
“Limits like don’t throw rocks at the glass house you live in,” he says quietly. “You live here now. Your boy goes to our schools. Your mother still clips coupons from the club bulletin. You think you’re slinging stones at the Harrows and the old chief. In practice, you’re cracking your own windows.”
The chandelier above us sways slightly, invisible air currents making its crystals knock together with a delicate, nervous music. I imagine grabbing one of those glass drops, hurling it through the pristine window until it shatters and the smell of salt and seaweed rushes in to choke the lemon polish.
My hands stay in my lap. “If the house can’t survive staring at what it did to a teenage girl, maybe it should break,” I say.
He studies me for a long time, then laughs, soft and rueful.
“You really are your mother’s daughter,” he says. “She had that streak too. Difference is, she learned when to fold it away.”
I push my half-eaten salad aside. “I’m not folding,” I say. “I’m recording.”
“I know,” he says, leaning in. The smell of his aftershave mixes with grilled fish and floral perfume, cloying. “I listen. I hear every question mark you dangle, every little pause where you want the audience to lean closer. That power feels good. I understand. Just remember: crowds don’t stay on your side. One misstep, one detail you can’t prove, and the same people chanting your name online will call you a vulture. Then you’ll wish you’d kept a friend in the house you’re busy dismantling.”
A server appears to ask about dessert. Neither of us looks up. After an awkward beat, he retreats.
“Is that an offer?” I ask. “Friendship?”
“It’s a warning,” he says. “Pull back a little. Focus on the human stories, the grief, the healing. Leave the accusations of cover-ups to the professionals. You want to walk through the old gym for a special episode, I can make that happen for you. You keep hinting that my department conspired with rich families, I can make other things happen too.”
My mouth tastes like metal. “You should be careful, Ray,” I say. “Threats sound terrible on tape.”
For the first time, he looks uncertain. His gaze flicks to my bag.
“Relax,” I say. “No recorder. This lunch is off the record. For now.”
He exhales, a short huff. “Good,” he says. “I’d hate to hear my own voice chopped into villain clips between ads for mattresses.”
I stand, my chair scraping the polished floor. A few heads turn. The chandelier light throws fractured patterns across my arms, tiny shards of color that look like they’re cutting into my skin.
“Thank you for lunch,” I say. “And for confirming how much you’re afraid of what I might find.”
His hand curls around his cane, knuckles pale. “I’m not afraid, Mara,” he says. “I’m disappointed. That’s worse.”
“From you,” I say, “I’ll take it as a good sign.”
I walk out through the dining room, through the foyer with its regatta photos and donor plaques, past the receptionist who smells like hairspray and lilacs. The sliding glass doors whoosh open, letting in a blast of salt air and distant bass thumping from a waterfront daytime party. Sunlight hits me full in the face.
On the path back to the parking lot, I stop and look up at the clubhouse’s gleaming windows. My reflection hovers there for a second—small, blurred, surrounded by glass.
I think about my mother at the salon, her debts, the mysterious kindness that kept the lights on. I think about Juliet leaving the gym with a boy whose name Calder pretends not to know, about Mr. Cooke’s shaking hands, about Navarro’s job hanging on threads woven by these same people.
If this place is a glass house, then the story I’m telling is already a rock in midair.
The only choice I have now is where it lands first.