Such a Quiet Place by Megan Miranda
CHAPTER 4
WHEN I CAME DOWN the stairs just after ten a.m., Ruby was cooking breakfast—toast and eggs, and leftover watermelon cubes in an open Tupperware container. I’d been waiting things out in my room, showering in my attached bathroom, checking the neighborhood message board, peering out my front window for any sign of activity—unsure how to approach another day with Ruby in this house.
“Morning!” she called, two mugs of coffee already on the counter, Koda eating from a fresh bowl of food at her feet. From her bright tone and easy smile, I didn’t think it was her first cup. She was wearing one of my old T-shirts and gym shorts, bare face and hair pulled back tightly. Her skin had bronzed slightly from the sun, except where it had turned pink high across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.
“Ouch,” she said, reaching out to the base of my neck, two cold fingers pressing into my skin. “You burned.”
I’d felt it in the shower, hot and painful under the water pressure. “How long have you been up?” I asked, taking the mug she offered me with an outstretched hand. Old habits. Old roles.
“A while. I think my body is so accustomed to the routine, it doesn’t know what to do with itself.” Head tilted to the side, as if waiting for me to ask a follow-up question.
The lawn mower started running next door, sparing me, and I peered out the window over the sink. It was Charlotte’s turn to cut the grass at the empty house this week, and one of her teenage daughters was out there now. From a distance, I could never tell which. They were only a year apart—seventeen and eighteen—and both had long dark hair and long pale legs and a nervous habit of running their fingers through the ends of their hair as they spoke.
“Do you have work tomorrow?” Ruby asked, jarring me from the window. I wondered if she wanted me out of the house or if she was just making conversation.
“I took off this week with the rest of the department.” This wasn’t entirely true, but it was believable. We were coming up on the Fourth of July, and the three women I worked with had rented a beach house together for the week with their significant others. They’d invited me to join them, but I’d passed, though the thought of the beach made my shoulders relax, my breathing slow. Instead, I’d joked that someone needed to hold down the fort—even though we worked a flexible summer, and technically, I was the one in charge.
But there was no way I was going in to work tomorrow. There was no way I was leaving Ruby alone here.
“Oh, hey,” she said, leaning against the counter, bending one leg, channeling nonchalant, “did you change the bushes out back?” She did not look at me when she said it, instead focusing on some imagined spot through the living room windows, toward the patio.
I tried to keep my voice level, carefree, hands wrapped around the warm mug as I brought it closer to my face. “Oh, in the spring, yeah.” No big deal, an afterthought. “Some guys were going around offering to do yard work, and I took them up on it.”
Ruby shifted to face me, setting her own mug back on the counter. “What guys?”
The lawn mower passed in front of the kitchen window, the noise grating, and I had to wait a moment before responding. “I don’t know, college kids looking to make an extra buck, I guess.”
She turned back to the counter, moved her mug to the sink. “Well, looks nice out back. But I think we have rabbits again. Something’s been in there.”
And suddenly, I thought, You, Ruby? Have you been in there? Last night, when I heard you go out, were you looking for something you left behind?
The lawn mower passed again, and this time Charlotte’s daughter—Whitney, the older one, finally close enough to tell—cast a glance into the kitchen window. Ruby raised her hand in greeting, and Whitney grinned back. I realized then that she’d been passing by the window over and over, hoping to see Ruby, with that sort of fearless, morbid curiosity best harnessed in the teen years.
Ruby’s gaze trailed after Whitney. “There’s nothing like a kid you haven’t seen in a while to make you come face-to-face with the passage of time.”
“She’ll be heading to college soon,” I said. There’d been a party at the pool last month, and everyone had come, as if we were sending her off into the world and not just to the college on the other side of the lake. But Charlotte was like that, sticking to the milestones, insisting on traditions—she’d even brought both girls in for a tour, waiting in my office with Molly, the younger daughter, while Whitney interviewed down the hall. As if it weren’t a done deal.
Ruby watched her move on to the front of the yard. “She used to remind me so much of me at that age,” she said. And then, with a smirk, “I think I should warn her.” She cupped one hand around her mouth and called, “Watch out!” toward the window—though I was the only one who could hear her.
Ruby had been an English teacher at Lake Hollow Prep, where Charlotte’s daughters attended high school. I knew there’d been fallout at the school after Ruby’s arrest—parent outrage that a murderer had been in such close proximity to their children.
I wondered what the kids thought. Whether they’d seen Ruby as someone they could relate to at first. Whether they were slower to trust now. Whether they were afraid or intrigued. Back then, when I’d get home from work, I’d sometimes find Whitney doing her homework at our kitchen table while Ruby graded papers, in quiet harmony.
Ruby was just old enough to be their teacher but young enough to tell them they were always welcome here, that they could come to her any time, should they need it—and for them to believe it. Young enough to still call the neighbors Mr. and Mrs. Truett, for people to hire her to feed their pets and bring in their mail when they were away. She’d been the Truetts’ dog sitter since she was in college, and if they were being particular assholes, she might give us a tidbit, like: They sleep in separate rooms, you know.
Ruby cleared her throat. “I’m sort of scared to ask, but did you donate my kayak, too?” she asked in an abrupt change of topic.
“No, it’s in the garage,” I said. “But you might need to help me dig it out.” I stored a lot of things in there now. After the deaths next door, I’d started keeping my car in the driveway. All the dangers I had not been aware of before. How easy it would be to start a car and forget to turn it off. A slow, creeping death.
The thing that happened after the crime—and I imagined it happened to all of us living nearby, on the same street—was that, at all times, my own mortality felt so close to the surface. It was raw and pervasive and made me feel only precariously alive.
But after Ruby was locked up, that element felt contained, retreating from the surface. Like I had beaten something and endured. Like I had somehow defeated death, sidestepped the danger. The power of watching it come so close and miss.
I felt it again, starting to creep back in. The danger was no longer locked away. Maybe it never had been.
“So you didn’t donate everything, then,” she said.
“Couldn’t get it in my car,” I said with a grin.
Which made her laugh once, loudly, catching me by surprise. “You always were a terrible liar.”
In truth, I kept other things, too. A pair of hoop earrings I’d always loved; her perfect shade of pink nail polish; the handbag she used on special occasions. After her dad came by and told me to get rid of it all, his eyes just barely glancing at the boxes, I took it upon myself to decide. I didn’t feel bad about it then. Like I said, twenty years was a long time.
But I couldn’t admit that to Ruby—that I’d gone through each item, one by one, deciding what was worth keeping. So yes, the kayak stayed.
In the early afternoon, I helped her carry it down to the lake. In the garage, we pulled out the garbage and recycling cans, the delivery boxes that needed to be broken down, and the bike I had big intentions for but rarely used anymore. We peeled away the tarp and my old camping gear before unearthing the kayak wedged against the wall and covered in dust. The pull cart had broken—one of the wheels turned inward, the metal bent—so we walked down the road single file, Ruby in the lead, the bright pink kayak turned sideways to fit under our arms.
The path through the woods came up before the pool, poorly marked but well trodden, right across from Margo and Paul Wellman’s house. I imagined her watching now as I followed Ruby down the sloped dirt, the black iron gates of the pool above us, to our right. I couldn’t see anyone watching, didn’t hear any voices—just the hum of mosquitoes and the squirrels darting through the brush. Though I was sure people had noticed two women carrying a bright pink kayak through the neighborhood.
Eventually, Ruby’s steps echoed over the slabs of plywood, and I could hear the water lapping at the dirt and roots in front of us.
On the edge of Lake Hollow, we were accustomed to a breeze, a cool gust off the water. The illusion, at least, as long as the air was moving. Sometimes, in the early morning, I would walk down here, staring out at the expanse of water like I was waiting for something to happen. Something to push back against, like a boat pressing through the current. Remembering that surge of adrenaline out on the ocean, the way you had to shout to be heard, the cold slap of the water, the bitter sting of the wind—feeling the need to move, to act.
But over the summer, the water had started to recede here, a drought that exposed the roots under the shoreline. And the stillness only managed to stir something up in the restlessness. Something quieter.
I saw Ruby scanning the area as we eased the kayak to the ground, like she was struggling to reconcile it with her memories.
“The whole lake has been going down,” I said. “It hasn’t rained all month.”
She kicked off her flip-flops—my flip-flops, half a size too small—and nosed the kayak into the water. “Thanks for helping me lug this thing down here. I can probably get it back up on my own.”
“Don’t be silly,” I said. Not that I believed she couldn’t do it. I no longer underestimated all the things Ruby could do. But I didn’t want to let her out of my sight. I didn’t want to miss what she was doing here. “What else am I gonna do?” I slipped off my shoes and stepped into the lukewarm water, my feet sinking into the mud. “Feels good down here.”
“All right,” she said, “I won’t be too long. I’ve just spent a long time thinking about getting to do this again.”
She set out, heading straight down the center of the narrow inlet, toward the main body of Lake Hollow. If not for the topography of the coastline, the jagged fingers branching out from the main channel, I would’ve been able to see clear across the lake to the boathouse of the college and, beyond that, the tops of the low brick buildings, stretching into the trees.
As it was, all you could really see was the other side of the inlet—a thicket of trees and overgrown brush, the perfect home for muskrats and snakes. It didn’t belong to us. The land was private property, with an area set back from the lake that was cleared but never built upon, and a roughly graded, narrow access road. There was a sign on the closest tree to remind us of our boundaries.
It had taken the investigators a week to search it all for evidence. To hear Chase tell it, all they found were beer bottles, half buried in the dust, and the remnants of a firepit at the center of the clearing from long ago.
The sun reflected off the water like glass, burning my eyes as Ruby cut a path through the still surface. I was watching her, hand shading my eyes, feet sinking deeper into the mud, when I heard a whistle behind me.
I spun around but couldn’t see anything. Birds in the trees, calling to each other.
Another whistle, sharper this time, coming from up the slope. I stepped to the side so I could get a better angle through the trees. I could just make out Mac’s profile at the concrete edge of the pool in the distance—tall, thin, trademark blue hat, one hand through the iron bars, gesturing me closer.
Mac’s light brown hair curled out the bottom of his hat, and he wore sunglasses, so I couldn’t tell where he was looking. All I could see was my own reflection as I approached, stepping carefully through the wooded terrain.
He looked over his shoulder once, then circled his hands around the bars, pressing his face closer. “Hey,” he said, reaching for me as I came up the slope, fingers circling my wrist to steady me. “Was that her?” Nothing about the text I’d sent him yesterday and the silence that had followed.
“Yeah. She wanted to take the kayak out.” With my free hand, I gripped the iron post beside him. But he didn’t remove his other hand from my wrist, his thumb resting on my pulse point.
“She wanted to…” He shook his head, started over. “I’m sorry, Preston told me he saw the two of you at the pool yesterday, but I’m stuck on the part where she’s here at your house.”
“You and me both,” I said. He of all people should understand how futile it was to deny Ruby what she wanted.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say, Harper.” Sorry I didn’t text you back. Sorry I didn’t call. Sorry you’re all alone with this. I couldn’t tell whether his comment was directed at me or at Ruby. His confessions and his questions were often indistinguishable, like this.
“Don’t say anything,” I said. “Not to her.” A pause as his face jerked toward mine, his hand releasing my wrist. “Please.”
“I wasn’t planning on it.” He took off his sunglasses, rested them on top of his hat. There were faint indentations on the bridge of his nose. He leaned closer, lowering his voice even more. “What the fuck does she want?”
“I don’t know.” In truth, I wasn’t sure if she wanted anything in particular.
Mac groaned, ran a hand down his face. “I can’t believe she came back here—” He stopped abruptly, turning at a sound in the woods—an animal scurrying. He took a subconscious step backward. “Guess we’ll find out more tonight.”
“Why tonight?” I asked.
“Charlotte’s meeting?”
I shook my head once, confused. “No one told me about any meeting.” If it had been on the message board, I’d missed it.
Mac shrugged, glancing behind him, the pool deck empty except for the striped towel designating his seat and the small red cooler on the pavement beside it. “Well, there is one. Charlotte texted. At seven-thirty, I think.”
“You’re going?” I asked. Mac wasn’t much of a joiner. He didn’t plan. He stumbled into things, happily surprised by the opportunities that presented themselves.
“Yeah, well, she asked if we could have it at our place instead.”
“Charlotte did?” We half-jokingly referred to the Seaver brothers’ home as the frat house, even though they were the neatest among us. In truth, they were beloved here, our Seaver brothers, with their easygoing appeal, their friendly banter. Like there was something of youth clinging to them instead of the other way around. But I couldn’t imagine Charlotte asking Mac or Preston for anything.
“Yeah, she doesn’t want to make it a thing so close to where it happened, you know?”
Or so close to me.
He talked like I shouldn’t be insulted for being excluded. Like there wasn’t a line drawn and me firmly on the other side, with Ruby here.
“Who?” I asked. “Who’s going to be there?” Had everyone gotten an invite except me?
“No clue, Harper. I’m just providing the venue.”
Sometimes I didn’t understand how someone who seemed so bold in personality could be so passive in action. Though I probably shouldn’t have been surprised. Mac was solidly in his thirties but had leaned into his lack of ambition long ago. Or maybe his ambition just took another form; he’d found the way to expend the least amount of energy for a relatively comfortable life. But his contentment was contagious. His smile, disarming. The fine lines radiating out from the corners of his hazel eyes—new in the last year or two—only added to his charm.
During the trial, Mac hadn’t testified for either side. Hadn’t taken a stand one way or another, content even then to let the cards fall however they may. He’d let his brother do the hard part, corroborating the security footage of Ruby from the stand.
Just then the pool gate clicked open, the creak of the hinges crying, as Preston pushed through the gate. His steps faltered briefly when he saw me.
“Hey,” Mac called over his shoulder, and Preston raised a hand in greeting before heading to the chair beside Mac’s.
When they were close together, Preston looked like a compressed and cleaner-cut version of Mac—a few inches shorter, a few inches broader, the same shade of sandy brown hair kept shorter and neater, held in place with some sort of product. In profile, they had the same ridge to their nose, the same shape to their eyes, but Mac’s were hazel to Preston’s striking green.
Though five years younger than Mac, Preston was the more successful of the Seaver brothers, the more driven, the more dependable. Even though Mac said he took his brother in after college to help him get on his feet, it was Preston who had secured Mac the job in the grounds department at the College of Lake Hollow. Up until then, Mac had worked at the private dock on the other side of the lake, taking out the boats on the lift, prepping them for their owners.
Mac had developed something of an aesthetic from that job, whether he meant to or not. The bold-patterned board shorts, the worn gray T-shirts over deeply tanned skin, the flip-flops and the way he walked because of them. A slow drag of his heel that managed to stay just this side of appealing.
“Listen,” I said, lowering my voice, “just keep your distance. Okay?”
“Okay, yeah. I was going to.” Mac looked over my shoulder, toward the water. “I don’t know why she doesn’t just leave. I would. Wouldn’t you?”
“I’ll find out what she’s doing here. Tell Charlotte. Tell them I’ll find out.”
“Be careful, kid,” he said, tapping the bars once before walking away.
“What was that about?” Preston’s words carried across the pool deck as he cracked open a beer, sitting upright with his legs swung to the side of the lounge chair, but I couldn’t hear Mac’s response.
I sidestepped my way back down the steep slope, half-skidding over the dirt and fallen leaves, listening for the paddle dipping in and out of the water in the distance, growing closer.
It was pointless to show up at that meeting. All of them here with their watching, with their meetings—they were focused on the wrong thing, the wrong part.
No one had budged in their opinion. Not during the investigation and not even now. They believed Ruby Fletcher was guilty.
Back then we believed she had done it because we had to. Because if she hadn’t been the one to sneak inside the house next door—to turn that key, to start that car—then it must’ve been someone else.
It must’ve been one of us.