Simon and Vicky couldn't seem more normal: a wealthy Chicago couple, he a respected law professor, she an advocate for domestic violence victims. A stable, if unexciting marriage. But one thing's for sure ... absolutely nothing is what it seems. The pair are far from normal, and one of them just may be a killer.When the body of a beautiful socialite is found hanging in a mansion in a nearby suburb, Simon and Vicky's secrets begin to unravel. A secret whirlwind affair. A twenty-million-dollar trust fund about to come due. A decades-long grudge and obsession with revenge. These are just a few of the lies that make up the complex web...and they will have devastating consequences. And while both Vicky and Simon are liars, just who exactly is conning who?Part Gone Girl, part Strangers on a Train, Look Closer is a wild rollercoaster of a read that will have you questioning everything you think you know.
I check my green burner phone for the time. It’s now 8:51 p.m., nine minutes to nine. Nearly two hours since trick-or-treating ended and Grace Village plunged into darkness, the residents of this bedroom community hunkering down for the night.
Police cruisers will be out tonight, but there are none currently on Lathrow Avenue, at least as best I can tell standing in Lauren’s foyer, looking through the peephole of her front door with emotion clouding my eyes. Not tears. I am not crying. I thought it possible that tears would come, even likely, but they have not. Now I’m sure they won’t. Tears are for sadness, regret, remorse.
I am not calm exactly, certainly not what I would describe as normal; far from that. A dull ringing fills my ears and the
I turn one last time and look behind me in the foyer.
Lauren’s body dangles from the second-floor landing, her toes no more than a few feet above the marble foyer floor. She is motionless, coming to rest facing me, her head lolled unnaturally to the right, resting on the knotted rope wrapped around her neck, her head so askew it looks as if it might detach and fall to the marbled floor. She is wearing a skintight cat costume, complete with makeup, painted whiskers, and button nose; even the nails on her fingers and toes are painted black. Halloween Barbie, if there is such a thing, and I’m sure there is. Rising from the noose, the rope strains taut against the ornate wrought iron railing on the second story, overlooking the open foyer. Watching her, no matter how glamorous her looks, how sexy her outfit, conjures the image of a butcher’s freezer, the slabs of beef hanging from large hooks in the ceiling.
Happy Halloween, Lauren.
I take a step forward, but my boot crunches on a shard of broken glass from the bowl of Halloween candy shattered in the foyer. Whatever the reason I had for stepping toward her—one last goodbye? Replacing the heel that fell off her left foot?—I think better of it and turn to the door.
I pull down the latch and open the front door, the cool October air rushing into the space inside the hood over my head, which covers my face completely and blocks my peripheral vision. I forgot to check through the peephole again before opening the door. That was sloppy. This is not a night to be sloppy.
I walk through the empty streets of the Village in my Grim Reaper costume, pillowcase clutched in my left hand, passing skeletons hanging from trees, tombstones planted in front yards, orange lights illuminating shrubbery, ghosts frowning at me through windows.
My head buried inside this elongated hood, my height at five feet eleven, I could pass as a teenager trick-or-treating late (which wouldn’t fly, given the Village’s strict curfew) or an adult leaving some kind of party (for which I can name no host or address). I should walk with a natural stride, like I haven’t a care in the world, an anonymous man covered head to toe in a black robe and hood on the one night of the year that it wouldn’t seem odd. Still, I should have an answer at the ready should a police cruiser stop by.
As a wise woman once told me: The best lies are the ones closest to the truth.
That will have to do. The drinking part isn’t true but hard to disprove. The walking home part is close enough. I’m walking in that direction, at least.
So on I walk through the square grid of the small village, reaching the park on the southeast end of town, crossing the diagonal path, passing some homeless people, swing sets, and jungle gyms, a pack of teenagers huddled on the hill with beers they try to conceal. I put one foot in front of the other and try to act normal and think about normal things. It’s been a long time since I’ve thought about normal things.
I haven’t felt normal since May 13.
I play the game of what-if. What if I hadn’t gone to get my haircut on May 13? What if the dean hadn’t called me to his office, delaying me? Ten, fifteen seconds’ difference, and I might never have seen her. I wouldn’t have known she’d come back.
