"Mom, someone's moving into the house next door," I mumble, trying-and failing-to sound bored.
Across the table, Ethel's hawk-bright eyes gleam. She leans in and hisses,
"Ooh, so the husband killer is here."
Then Annalise Brown, the beautifully composed widow who was acquitted of bludgeoning her husband, moves in next door.
I try to look away, but I can't.
Not when I catch her at the meat counter, staring at a raw rack of lamb with something like...nostalgia.
Not when I see her slip into the woods at 3 a.m. and limp home hours later.
Not when Millie Thompson is attacked and Annalise's alibi is as thin as the smile she gives the sheriff.
Everyone says to leave it alone.
But if I let the possible monster next door keep her secrets, I'll drown in my own.
Because exposing Annalise might be my only escape-from Rose Hill, from the rumors, and from the night-terrors that still wear Jack's face.
I'm done hiding.
If she is a murderer, she picked the wrong girl to live beside.