The sunroom at Number 4 Bittersweet Court was designed to be a transitional space, blurring the line between the climate-controlled perfection of the interior and the wild, federally protected wetlands outside. By day, it was an architectural triumph of light and air. By night, however, the floor-to-ceiling glass panels transformed into black mirrors, turning the room into a brightly lit fishbowl suspended in the dark.
Maya Lin-Baker arranged the Brie and prosciutto on a slate serving board with the precision of a bomb disposal technician. She placed the crystal wine glasses in a triangle formation. To any observer looking in from the street, this was a standard suburban “Wine Wednesday”—a ritual as sacred in The Gables as the Tuesday Toss.
But beneath the linen napkins, hidden in a canvas tote bag, sat a stack of photocopied police reports and a grainy autopsy file Maya had spent six hours coercing out of a former contact at the county clerk’s office.
She checked her watch. 8:00 PM.
The darkness outside the glass pressed against the room. Maya caught her reflection in the pane—her posture rigid, her eyes darting to the tree line. She felt exposed. If the podcaster was out there, watching from the reeds, he would see three mothers drinking Pinot Grigio. He wouldn’t see the war council.
The doorbell rang, a cheerful digital chime that made Maya jump.
She hurried to the foyer, composing her face into a mask of welcoming neutrality. When she opened the door, Chloe Vance stood there, clutching a bottle of chilled rosé like a lifeline. Behind her was Elena Russo, the resident of Number 2.
Elena was the neighborhood enigma. A pediatric surgeon with razor-sharp cheekbones and a schedule that meant she was rarely seen in daylight, she usually avoided the cul-de-sac’s social events. But Maya had texted her: I have the medical examiner’s report on Juniper Black. I need a translator.
Elena had replied in thirty seconds: I’ll bring the red.
“Tell me you have food,” Chloe whispered as she stepped inside, her eyes darting nervously toward the street. “I haven’t eaten since the live stream incident. I’m running on cortisol and caffeine.”
“Cheese and crackers,” Maya promised, locking the door behind them. She engaged the deadbolt, then the privacy latch.
“Is Sarah coming?” Elena asked, stepping out of her heels and into the foyer with practiced efficiency. She wore hospital scrubs under a cashmere wrap coat—the uniform of a woman who moved between life-and-death stakes and luxury living without pausing to breathe.
“Sarah thinks we should leave the past buried,” Maya said. “So, no. It’s just us.”
They moved to the sunroom. The transition from the hallway to the glass box was jarring. Elena walked straight to the window, staring out at the black void of the marsh.
“It’s like an aquarium,” Elena murmured. “And we’re the bait.”
“Please don’t say that,” Chloe said, sinking into one of the rattan chairs. She poured herself a glass of wine without waiting for a toast. “I already feel like the walls have ears.”
“They might,” Maya said, sitting down and pulling the canvas tote onto the table. She pushed the cheese board aside and spread the papers out. The stark black-and-white typography of 1994 police documents clashed violently with the cozy aesthetic of the room.
“Okay,” Maya began, her voice dropping into her old newsroom register. “Here’s what we know. The podcast claims Juniper was murdered by someone with a key. The police report lists the cause of death as exsanguination due to multiple stab wounds. No forced entry. Nothing stolen except… a red dress.”
“The dress from the episode title?” Chloe asked, leaning in.
“Allegedly. It wasn’t in the inventory,” Maya said. She slid a thick file toward Elena. “This is the autopsy report. The coroner ruled it a homicide, obviously, but the case went cold because they couldn’t pin down a motive. They claimed it was a robbery gone wrong, but who breaks into a house, kills a woman, and leaves the jewelry on the nightstand?”
Elena put on a pair of reading glasses, her demeanor shifting instantly from neighbor to doctor. She picked up the report, scanning the dense medical jargon. The room fell silent, save for the hum of the wine fridge and the distant, rhythmic chirping of crickets from the wetlands.
Maya watched Elena’s face. She saw the moment the doctor found it.
Elena’s eyebrows pulled together. She stopped scanning and reread a paragraph near the bottom of page three. She looked up, her dark eyes locking onto Maya’s.
“They buried the lead,” Elena said softly.
“What?” Chloe asked, a cracker frozen halfway to her mouth.
“Toxicology and internal examination,” Elena said, tapping the paper with a manicured nail. “Elevated levels of Human Chorionic Gonadotropin. Significant uterine thickening.”
“English, please,” Chloe said.
“She was pregnant,” Elena stated. “Early first trimester. Maybe eight or nine weeks.”
Maya felt the air leave the room. “Pregnant? The news reports never mentioned a baby.”
“Of course they didn’t,” Elena said, her voice hardening. “In 1994? Unmarried woman, living alone in a high-end development? The police probably suppressed it to protect the father’s identity, or the family paid to keep it out of the papers.”
“Or the father was the killer,” Maya whispered.
The implication hung over the table like smoke. A drifter doesn’t kill a woman because she’s pregnant. A lover does. A lover who has a reputation to protect. A lover who has a key.
“The podcast mentioned an affair with a ‘prominent neighbor,’” Chloe said, her voice trembling. “If she was pregnant… that’s the motive. That’s why he killed her.”
Maya looked at the glass walls again. The reflection of the room seemed to warp. Thirty years ago, Juniper Black had stood in this exact spot, carrying a secret that would get her killed.
“We need to find out who lived here then,” Maya said. “Who were the men on this street in 1994?”
“Sarah knows,” Chloe said. “Sarah knows everything.”
“Sarah won’t talk,” Maya said. “I tried. She stonewalled me at the mailboxes.”
Elena took a sip of wine, her eyes still on the report. “Medical records are harder to hide than police files. If she was seeing an OB-GYN, there’s a trail. I might be able to—”
THUMP.
A heavy, wet sound hit the glass door leading to the backyard patio.
All three women screamed. Chloe scrambled backward, knocking her chair over. Maya grabbed the heavy slate cheese board, wielding it like a shield. Elena stood up, her back to the wall.
Pressed against the glass, illuminated by the spill of light from the sunroom, was a face.
It was pale, ghostly, and streaked with tears.
“It’s Sarah,” Maya breathed, lowering the slate board.
She rushed to the sliding door and undid the latch. The wind from the wetlands rushed in, smelling of damp earth and decaying leaves, carrying a chill that cut through the warmth of the room.
Sarah Vance stumbled inside. She wasn’t wearing her usual armor of quilted vests and pearls. She was in a silk robe and slippers that were caked with mud. Her hair was loose, tangling around her face in wild, frantic strands.
“Sarah?” Chloe gasped, rushing to her sister-in-law. “What happened? Did you fall?”
Sarah didn’t answer. She looked at the table—at the wine, the cheese, and the autopsy photos spread out like a gruesome tarot spread. She didn’t flinch at the gore. She looked resigned.
“He knows,” Sarah whispered. Her voice was a dry rattle, like the reeds outside.
Maya guided her to a chair. “Who knows, Sarah? The podcaster?”
Sarah reached into the pocket of her robe. Her hand shook so violently that she struggled to pull the object out. It was a piece of paper—cream-colored, heavy cardstock. The kind used for formal invitations or the Gables Gazette.
She dropped it onto the table, right on top of Juniper’s autopsy report.
Maya leaned in. The note was typed on a vintage typewriter. The ink was black and uneven.
THE WALLS ARE GLASS. THE MICROPHONES ARE EVERYWHERE. TELL THEM TO STOP DIGGING, SARAH, OR I WILL TELL THEM ABOUT THE NIGHT OF THE TUESDAY TOSS.
“I found it in my mailbox this afternoon,” Sarah said, staring at the wine glass in front of her but not reaching for it. “It wasn’t mailed. There’s no stamp. He put it there.”
“The Night of the Tuesday Toss,” Elena repeated, reading the note. “Is that the night she died?”
Sarah nodded. Tears spilled over her cheeks, unheeded. “I saw him. That night. I saw a man leaving this house.”
Maya felt a surge of adrenaline. “Who? Who did you see?”
“I couldn’t see his face,” Sarah sobbed. “It was raining. He was wearing a raincoat. But I saw… I saw he was carrying something.”
“The red dress?” Chloe asked.
“No,” Sarah whispered. “He was carrying a file box. A metal one. Like a lockbox.”
“Juniper was blackmailing him,” Elena deduced, her surgeon’s brain connecting the symptoms. “She was pregnant. She wanted support. He killed her and took the evidence.”
“Why didn’t you tell the police?” Maya asked gentle but firm.
Sarah looked up, her eyes hollow. “Because the man I was with that night… the man I was sneaking out to see while my husband was asleep… he told me not to. He told me it would ruin us both.”
“Who were you with?” Maya asked.
Sarah shook her head. “I can’t. If I say his name, he’ll know. The note… he says the microphones are everywhere.” She looked up at the ceiling, at the recessed lights, at the smoke detector. “Do you understand? He’s not just watching us from the woods. He’s inside.”
The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. Maya looked at the smoke detector above the table. A tiny red light blinked. Once every thirty seconds. Just a battery check.
Or a transmission light.
Maya grabbed the autopsy report and the note. “We’re not safe here,” she said, her voice low. “If he’s listening, then he knows we have the files. He knows we know about the baby.”
“What do we do?” Chloe asked, her voice bordering on hysteria. “Do we call the police?”
“The police called it a drifter,” Sarah said bitterly. “They wanted it to go away. They still do.”
Maya looked at the three women. Elena, the intellect. Chloe, the tech. Sarah, the witness. And herself, the hunter. They were a mess. They were terrified. But they were also the only people who cared about the girl who had died on this floor.
“We don’t call the police,” Maya said. “Not yet. We find the microphones. We find the leak. And then we find the bastard who wrote this note.”
She poured a glass of wine and slid it across the table to Sarah. Sarah took it with both hands, the glass trembling against her teeth as she drank.
Outside, the wind picked up, howling across the wetlands. It sounded like a scream cut short.
“He’s scripting this,” Maya said, looking out at the darkness. “He wants us to be scared. He wants us to turn on each other.”
She raised her own glass. “To the Cul-de-Sac Cold Case Club. We don’t stop until the season finale.”
The women hesitated, then raised their glasses. The clink of crystal was soft, swallowed instantly by the size of the room.
From the darkness of the woods, a flashbulb popped—silent, blinding, and gone in a second.
“Did you see that?” Chloe shrieked.
“Down!” Maya yelled.
They scrambled under the table as Maya reached for the light switch, plunging the room into darkness. But the image was already burned into their retinas: the momentary illumination of a figure standing at the edge of the tree line, wearing a suit that looked vividly, impossibly blue.