The next time, the money was gone, and there was a box inside a box inside a box—like an ominous set of Russian dolls—and inside the smallest box were twenty large diamonds.

Another time: cocaine, divided in tiny bags, like snacks for a preschool class. Once there were five fake passports, all for different people. Sherri saw all of it. She saw the laptop that looked exactly like the laptop on Bobby’s desk but wasn’t. (She tried to figure out the password for that laptop many times, but always stopped before it locked up. She tried her birthday and Katie’s birthday and their wedding anniversary and Bobby’s eight-hundred-meter time from high school. Nothing worked.)

It became her hobby, to keep an eye on the hiding place. It was like knitting or learning Spanish, but different. It was what Sherri did besides looking after Katie and keeping herself looking good for Bobby (nearly a full-time job in itself: the waxing, the nails, the peels, the hair). Even as she was tracking it, she told herself it was okay. Nobody was getting hurt. It was only money changing hands. She told herself that whoever’s money it was probably deserved to lose it—they’d probably done something bad in the first place. Brought it upon themselves.

She didn’t let herself consider the lives being ruined by the drugs, the kids who might be taking them, the desperate people who were selling them. She didn’t think about any of that.

And then came Madison Miller, and all she could do was think.

19.

Alexa

Alexa parked on Pleasant Street, in front of an old-fashioned Buick that Peter would have liked. He would have known the make and the model and announced it to them all, and they all would have ignored him because that was just Peter being Peter. And now he was gone, and they would have done anything to be able to indulge his interest in old-fashioned cars.

She made her way to the Coffee Factory, which was attached to the Book Rack. Newburyport had settled into its summer self. Sidewalk tables were out in full force. There were dogs on leashes and people who looked familiar to Alexa and also people she’d never seen before, which meant they were likely day-trippers from Boston on their way up 95, with stops planned in Portsmouth and at the Kittery outlets and for lobster rolls and ice cream cones. She saw her tenth-grade geometry teacher heading out of the bank, and Hunter Hayden, who’d been in her psych class senior year, coming out of Richdale.

At the coffee shop she waited in line to place her order. While she was waiting, she checked her e-mail on her phone. The only thing in her in-box was an e-mail from Amazon, which wanted her to rate her recent experience with the Chantecaille mascara she’d purchased. Alexa’s mother would freak out if she knew Al exa had spent seventy-two dollars on mascara she’d used once before giving it to Morgan, who was not allowed to wear makeup, but Alexa’s mother didn’t know just how much her videos had earned her.

Alexa Thornhill, will you rate the seller? begged the e-mail.

Alexa took her cortado to one of the outside tables and sat, considering her short-term future. The next day Tyler would be leaving with his family to spend three and a half weeks at his grandmother’s house on the shores of Silver Lake in Michigan, as he did every summer. Last summer, when they had just begun dating, Alexa missed Tyler desperately. Now she was sort of looking forward to his absence. Honestly, she would be mostly okay if Tyler met some wonderful Michigan girl this summer and fell in love with her. That would take so much pressure off Alexa. She’d have to pretend to be upset, etc., but she could pull that off.

She was supposed to see him that night. She knew what Tyler was hoping for, as a “good-bye” present, as he had referred to it. She’d been avoiding the topic; she felt like she should be ready to have sex with Tyler, and yet something was stopping her.

Alexa rated the mascara a four. Really it deserved closer to a three from a value to price ratio but she was feeling generous. Maybe Amazon and Chantecaille were onto something. Maybe the world would move along more smoothly if only people asked each other for feedback more often.

Immediately another e-mail came in from Amazon. Alexa Thornhill, how likely would you be to purchase this product again? With one being unlikely and five being extremely likely.

Seriously? She filled in the first star only, to make a point. It was truly desperate to ask for extra praise after you’d already gotten praise. It was something Destiny would do.

Then her phone pinged with a text. It was Caitlin, who wanted to know if Alexa could meet her for lunch in Portsmouth. She was still really pissed at both Caitlin and Destiny for what had happened in March, but it might be fun to take a drive up to Portsmouth, maybe see if there was anything new at Lizology.

March, a biting wind going at the walls of Destiny’s house.

Destiny lived out on Plum Island, far out, close to the lighthouse at the very northern tip. Destiny’s parents had gone to Boston for the night for a cousin’s wedding, so Alexa had driven Caitlin and herself out to Destiny’s in her Jeep. Destiny was supposed to stay home with her thirteen-year-old brother, Ethan. There was talk of a party at Jason Harrington’s house, but that was all the way out by Maudslay, miles and miles and miles away.

“We could go for a while,” suggested Caitlin. “Just to see who’s there.”

“I can’t go to a party,” said Destiny. “I promised I’d stay here with Ethan and his buddy.”