Ch. 20 | Of Bellinis and Betrayals

Macey guzzled her third peach bellini.
She sat stiffly in Laura Bishop’s dining room, surrounded by the women’s group—if you could call it that. The only way she got through these weekly brunches was drinking her body weight in booze. Alcohol was the only thing that made it bearable.

Surprisingly, the 5'8", 115-pound woman could hold her liquor better than a 300-pound sailor. Perks of an abusive childhood, she’d joke to herself. A childhood where you learned early that control was a myth—so you clung to whatever dulled the truth. Macey wasn’t from this world, but she’d give her soul to stay in it.

The irony? She loathed everything about it.
The women.
Her life.
Her sociopath of a husband.
But the image? She loved the image.

She loved the money.
The unbothered smile she’d mastered in mirrors.
The security that came from wealth and influence.
The way people looked at her. Looked up to her. Worshipped her.

She loved the lie.

So she did what was required.
And in Lago Tierra, that meant playing wife among the elite—especially the ones who made her skin crawl.

Laura Bishop’s home was a high-gloss lie. The marble was real; nothing else was. Chrome, clean lines, curated coldness. The kind of place you tour with a realtor, not actually live in. Her husband, Beau, was a venture capitalist, and it showed—everything expensive, nothing meaningful.

Laura was already holding court when Macey arrived. Blonde, tan, lacquered. Too much makeup. Too many teeth. Every movement screamed control. Every word, a veiled insult.

Monika stood by the fireplace, unfazed. Russian. Polished. Her husband Liev ran a jewelry store the feds had probably sniffed around once or twice. She had the confidence of someone who’d outlived real danger. The only woman here Laura didn’t try to dominate.

Then came Nikki and Nicky. Two halves of a low-rent Greek chorus.

Nikki—divorced, needy, always scanning the room for safety.
Nicky—heavier, slower, quick to agree. She reached for a cookie, and Laura pounced.

“Treating yourself, Nicky?”
“Just a little one.”
“Bold. Sleeveless season’s coming.”

The cookie went back on the tray. Nobody said a word.

Tracey walked in last. Smooth hair, flawless skin, trying too hard. She was married to a Raiders running back, and it showed. She was beautiful. Effortless. Biracial—and Laura couldn’t stand it. Pretended not to see her. Then aimed subtle shots every time she spoke.

The women circled up, clinking glasses and pretending grief.

“These murders are positively awful,” Laura gasped, clutching her chest.
There it was: her weekly performance, equal parts concern and couture.

Macey rolled her eyes without meaning to. Laura caught it.

“A penny for your thoughts, Saint Macey,” she purred.

Macey flinched.

“Oh, please. Don’t act brand new. Your husband’s gone through more neighbors than DoorDash. I will say… he’s thorough, if not... vigorous.”

Laughter. Nicky choked on her sip.

Laura wasn’t done—she never was.
She leaned back, eyes glittering with cruelty.

“I guess it’s true what they say,” she went on. “Blondes really do have more fun. Doesn’t do much for that Christian lifestyle brand of yours, does it?”

“Grant is free to come and go as he pleases,” Macey said flatly.

She sipped her drink, pretending nothing inside her had just shattered. But Laura knew she’d landed the hit. And, because she was Laura, she twisted it.

“Don’t worry, darling,” she added, swirling her mimosa. “It was a one-off. Grier’s last party. Shame they ran off in the dead of night. They knew how to throw a party.”

Macey said nothing. Adjusted her grip on the glass. Pretended not to care.

They moved on to easier prey.

Sam.

“That girl,” Laura sneered. “That little show she put on at the HOA party? Clearly a self-righteous stick up her butt.”

Monika smiled into her drink.

“I don’t know who taught her manners, but she’s not from around here.”

Someone mentioned Jesse. Laura leaned in.

“He’s handsome,” she said, pretending to be casual. “But let’s be honest. She’s not his type.”

Everyone looked at Tracey.

No one said it.
But they all knew exactly what Laura meant.

Tracey sat perfectly still. Shoulders drawn in. She didn’t defend herself.

Macey clocked it all. Stored it.

Outside, Clara walked past the window. Laura rolled her eyes.

“She could be beautiful,” she said sweetly. “If she weren’t so smug. So self-righteous. Must be exhausting, being that judgmental all the time.”

When the group finally broke, Macey was the first to leave. The buzz had settled in. So had the dread.

He was banging Laura.
And she’d announced it.
In front of everyone.

As she walked, something clicked.
Laura. Anne. Janice. Lynn.
All “neighbors.”
All Grant’s.

One left in the middle of the night. One dead. One untouchable.

She paused on the sidewalk, her bellini-sweet breath suddenly cloying.
The drink had taken the edge off the humiliation—but not the truth.

She needed to talk to Lynn.
Not out of concern—out of containment.
Half to warn her.
Half to shut her up.
Their image was everything. And Macey knew, better than most, that image was the only armor that ever saved her.

Up ahead, Elaine approached with her blind corgi in tow. Macey straightened. Checked her breath. Gave the older woman a breezy nod and muttered something vaguely spiritual.

Then kept walking.

But the thought stuck.
If Lynn didn’t back off, what then?
Words hadn’t worked.
Status hadn’t worked.
The bellinis weren’t strong enough to drown the insult.

She needed something else.
Something older.

The kind of thing her grandmother whispered about in the dark—power that didn’t require belief, only intent.
A way to tip the scales when the world refused to play fair.

She didn’t need to believe in it.
She just needed it to work.

It was time to learn about blood sacrifices.

If she couldn’t stop Lynn…
maybe something else could.