Ch. 13 | White Lies and Linen Cults

Sam stepped into the tented gazebo and took in the scene.

Everything was white—drapes, furniture, table linens—except for the floral arrangements: gorgeous lilacs with sprays of eucalyptus gave the space subtle pops of color and a divine scent. She had to admit: Vesna knew how to throw a swanky shindig.

A waiter approached.

“Champagne, miss?”

Sam raised a hand. “No, thank you. Do you have any seltzer water?”

The waiter stifled a giggle. “Haven’t heard it called that since visiting my nana in upstate New York. You wouldn’t happen to be in your seventies, would you?”

Sam grinned. “I wish. Until then, club soda would be great.”

“As you wish,” he said with a small bow. “I’ll bring you some in a moment.”

She nodded and resumed scanning the space. Her parents hadn’t arrived yet. Fine by her—people-watching was more fun.

She often joked that she had a PhD in people watching, and more often than not, she accurately clocked who people were, what flavor of dysfunction they drank, and just how much meth koolaid their family of origin consumed.

Every family had a story—an origin myth that shaped identity and behavior. In dysfunctional ones, that myth was laced with meth Kool-Aid. And God help the person who dared to knock it out of their hands. That person got burned alive—emotionally, spiritually, socially.

Sam had seen it in her own family. And in plenty of others. Comforting and dismaying, really, knowing that everyone’s family had its own dusty brand of addiction.

She turned her attention back to the party. Mostly affluent retirees, a few trophy wives, and one aggressively photogenic couple wielding a selfie stick like it was part of their anatomy.

Sam smirked. Influencers.

“Sam! Yoohoo!”

Sam turned to find Elaine and her perpetually peeved nephew, Jesse, approaching.

“Oh, hello,” she said, smiling. “Enjoying the glitz and glam of Lago Tierra?”

Jesse snorted. Elaine giggled.

“Nothing like rubbing elbows with the elite,” Elaine added.

“Here’s your club soda, miss,” the waiter said, handing Sam her drink.

“Thanks,” she said, taking it. “I don’t drink. Especially not at events like this. In vino veritas, they say.”

“I’m good for one,” Elaine said. “Any more and it’s straight to Headache City.”

“None for me either,” Jesse added. “I’m on call.”

“You look lovely, Sam,” Elaine cooed. “Doesn’t she look lovely, Jesse?”

Jesse gave a curt nod and looked away. Sam bristled. She hated attention. Hated compliments about her appearance even more.

“Thanks,” she muttered, quickly shifting the topic. “So—who’s who in this popsicle stand?”

“That’s the LaDeuxs,” Elaine said, gesturing to the influencer couple. “Grant and Macey. Christian influencers.”

“Lord, have mercy,” Sam muttered.

“You can probably find them online,” Elaine said. “Jesse keeps me up to date on tech stuff.”

As if on cue, the LaDeuxs glided over.

“Neighbors,” Grant said, arms extended like they were long-lost friends.

Sam studied him. He had the air of Jim Jones 2.0—handsome in a soulless way. Macey was ethereal and unnerving. Both wore loose white linen like they were about to conduct a beachfront baptism… or a cult ritual.

What creeped Sam out most were their pale blue, dead eyes. Pretty, but void. Like something had drained them of humanity and sent them back as proxies.

“Such a shame about the Jilinskis,” Grant said, eyes locked on Sam. “Now, who might you be?”

“This is Sam,” Elaine interjected. “The Ellison’s youngest daughter.”

“Peace and blessings, Sam,” Macey said, clasping her hand.

“Yes, welcome,” Grant added, still staring. “A shame we’ve met under such tragic circumstances, but we can rest assured the Jilinskis are with our Lord and Savior.”

“Weren’t they atheists?” Jesse asked, deadpan.

Grant’s tone changed immediately. “Hey bro,” he snapped, dropping the airy affect for a growl. “What’s your deal?”

Sam clocked the switch. So much for peace and blessings.

“I was just trying to ascertain which Lord and Savior you were referring to,” Jesse replied smoothly.

Sam snorted as the LaDeuxs turned in a huff, selfie stick raised once more, donning expressions of holy mourning for their followers.

“Why do you have to be so difficult?” Elaine said, chiding Jesse.

“I was just getting the facts,” he said, hand over his chest in mock innocence.

Sam gave him a crooked grin.

“Ugh, you two,” Elaine sighed, walking off to catch up with Lynn Nichols.

“She likes to keep up appearances,” Jesse said.

Sam didn’t reply. The moment hung—awkward, quiet, charged.

Before either could speak again, a group of overdressed women—oozing desperation—descended like vultures.

“Dr. Hart,” a blonde drawled, laser-focused on Jesse, ignoring Sam completely, “is this your date?”

“Oh no,” Sam cut in, tone flat. “I’m your neighbor. Sam. I live next door.”

“You’re Dr. Ellison’s daughter,” a brunette piped up, also failing to introduce herself.

Sam wasn’t sure what this harem of harlots wanted, but it was giving reality TV energy.

The blonde kept going, undeterred. “You still haven’t come by to give me a physical. With all this tragedy, I could use a little comfort from those healing hands.”

Oh dear God, Sam thought, nauseated.

The women giggled like hyenas. Jesse flushed beet red.

Sam decided to save him.

“Wow,” she said, voice cool and sharp. “How nice to see a group of married ladies sexually harassing their neighbor. Truly—doing the Lord’s work.”

Gasps. Glares. Scowls.

The women huffed off in a storm cloud of perfume and rage.

Sam stared after them, baffled. What is with these people? They say the weirdest crap and then disappear when you question them.

She missed Auggie. At least with him around, she’d have an excuse to leave.

“This place is wild,” she said.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Jesse muttered. “It only makes things worse.”

Sam blinked. Seriously?

“You struggle with social cues?” he continued. “Your behavior seems… different.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed.

“That’s rich, Mr. Kettle,” she said. “You literally pulled the same stunt with Grant. But I’m the one who overstepped?”

She wasn’t done.

“Had I not intervened, those ladies would’ve hog-tied you, stuck you on a spit, and lathered you in BBQ sauce. But sure—blame me. Delightful.”

She mock-curtseyed. “I bid you good day, Grey’s Anatomy.”

And with that, she walked off, leaving Jesse stunned.

He stood there, reeling. She was right. Dead right.

It reminded him of home—of how his family always placated his father, and punished him for speaking out. Now, all these years later, he’d done the same thing to his neighbor.

Shame crept up his spine like a warning.