Chapter 5: Margaret’s Past

Trapped

Claire threw her shoulder against the basement door for the third time, achieving nothing except what would be a bruise tomorrow. The heavy wood didn't even shudder. Behind her, Margaret was examining the door's edges with the kind of calm that suggested she'd either done this before or was having a very quiet nervous breakdown.

"Well," Margaret said, running her fingers along the frame, "I've got good news and bad news."

Claire rubbed her shoulder, already dreading the answer. "Bad news first."

"This isn't just locked. It's sealed." Margaret knocked on the wood, producing a disturbingly solid thunk. "And the hinges are on the other side. My picks are no good."

"And the good news?"

Margaret's grin flashed in the dim light. "I have a flask of very expensive whiskey in my jacket."

"That's your good news? We're trapped in a basement with..." Claire gestured at their surroundings: the altar, the chains, the disturbing symbols carved into the walls "whatever the hell this is, and your solution is alcohol?"

"Better than being trapped in a basement with whatever the hell this is and no alcohol." Margaret produced the flask, its polished surface catching the light from their phones. "Besides, looks like we might be here a while. May as well get comfortable."

Above them, footsteps creaked across the recreation center's floor, followed by what sounded like chanting. Claire checked her phone again, still no signal. Of course the creepy cult basement had no reception. What self-respecting suburban death cult didn't invest in signal-blocking technology?

"They're going to notice we're missing," Claire said, trying to sound more confident than she felt. "David will—"

"Be at his 'special committee meeting' with Evelyn?" Margaret's voice was gentle but firm. "Honey, I don't think he's going to be looking for you anytime soon."

Claire slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor, careful to avoid the suspicious stains. She huffed.  "How are you so calm about this?"

"Practice," Margaret said, settling beside her. Their shoulders brushed, and Claire tried hard not to notice how good Margaret smelled. "Also, I'm pretty sure this isn’t where they do actual sacrifices; just heavy BDSM and some really rough sex. The really creepy stuff is probably in Evelyn's basement."

"Just rough—" Claire sputtered. "How is that supposed to be comforting?"

"Well, for one thing, it means they probably won't kill us here. Bad for the equipment." Margaret unscrewed the flask and took a sip before offering it to Claire. "For another, it means someone will eventually show up for their scheduled spanking or whatever, and we can get out then."

Claire accepted the flask, her fingers brushing Margaret's. The whiskey burned going down, but it was better than focusing on their situation. Or on how Margaret's thigh was pressed against hers in the darkness. Or on how her heart had started racing, and it wasn't entirely from fear.

"So," Claire said, desperate to think about anything else, "want to tell me how you're so familiar with getting out of locked rooms?"

Margaret was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice had lost its usual playful edge. "That's... a long story. Involves my dead husband, a lot of late-night television, and my eventual career change into supernatural investigation."

Before Claire could process that, another round of chanting filtered down from above, accompanied by talking points about lawn fertilizer.

"A PowerPoint?" Claire whispered. "Really?"

  "Evelyn loves her presentations. Last week it was 'Achieving Spiritual Enlightenment Through Pilates.' The week before that was 'Saving Our Planet: A Cost-Benefit Analysis.'" Margaret's shoulder pressed closer. "I'd say we've got at least forty-five minutes before they finish. Maybe longer if there's a Q&A session."

"Plenty of time for you to tell me about this career change," Claire said, taking another sip from the flask. The whiskey was starting to warm her from the inside, making their bizarre situation feel intimate.

Margaret's laugh was low and dangerous in the darkness. "Sure you want to hear that story? It's not exactly a happy suburban fairy tale."

"Margaret, we're locked in what you just told me is the HOA's sex dungeon, listening to what sounds like the world's most disturbing corporate retreat upstairs." Claire turned to face her, very aware of how close they were. "I think we're past suburban fairy tales."

Above them, the cult chant swelled. Margaret's eyes met Claire's in the dim light, and something electric passed between them.

"Alright," Margaret said softly. "But remember, you asked."

Margaret Begins Her Story

Margaret's laugh held no humor. "I wasn't always like this. The leather jacket, the attitude, the suburban survivalist aesthetic." She ran a hand through her short black hair. "Ten years ago, I was wearing designer suits and working sixty-hour weeks as a corporate tax attorney. I had the corner office, the Mercedes, all of it. Though honestly, the leather's more comfortable. And has more pockets."

"What happened?"

"I got married." Margaret's voice turned distant. "Michael was charming at first. A successful realtor, active in the community, everyone's favorite dinner party guest. He could work a room like nobody's business. Kind of like Evelyn, actually, minus the vampire fetish." She traced a pattern on the floor with her finger. "The control started small. Suggestions about my clothes. Comments about my friends. How my job took up too much of my time. You know, the classics from the Abusive Husband's Greatest Hits album."

Claire shifted closer, drawn in by the quiet intensity of Margaret's voice.

"Then it was my phone. My email. My schedule. Everything had to go through him. For my own good, he said. Because he worried. Because he cared." Margaret's hand tightened around the flask. "I started missing work. Lost clients. My friends stopped calling.  Or maybe he stopped letting their calls through. Though to be fair, some of them probably deserved to be screened. Karen from accounting was always trying to sell essential oils."

Above them, the chanting had taken on a rhythmic quality. Margaret seemed to draw strength from the sound, straightening her shoulders.

"The hitting started after I lost my job. The first time, he brought home roses the next day. Said he'd been stressed about a big sale." Her voice was clinical now, detached. "By the third time, I started planning. All those hours alone in our perfect house with our perfect lawn.  It turns out they're great for research. Did you know there are forums specifically for divorce lawyers who hunt? Very detailed discussions about tracking, location, that sort of thing."

Claire's hand found Margaret's in the darkness. Margaret let her take it.

Late Night Television

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of Margaret's confession hanging between them. Above, the chanting had shifted to something that sounded like Latin read by someone who'd learned it from horror movies. Margaret took another pull from the flask. 

"Want to know the really weird part? What actually set everything in motion?"

"What?"

"Insomnia." Margaret's laugh was soft and bitter. "Couldn't sleep, not with him in the bed next to me. So I'd sneak downstairs and watch TV with the sound almost off. Started with the usual late-night stuff: infomercials, old movies, those shows where people try to contact their dead relatives."

She shifted, her shoulder pressing against Claire's. "Then one night, I caught this documentary about a town in Maryland. People going missing, strange symbols carved into trees, the whole nine yards. Normally I would've changed the channel, but..." She shrugged. "Something about it felt different. Real."

"What do you mean?"

"The patterns. The way the disappearances lined up with certain dates. The symbols that kept showing up in different places. I started noticing the same things in other shows, other stories." Margaret's voice took on an edge of excitement. "Most of it was bullshit, obviously. But underneath all the dramatic reenactments and bad special effects, there were... connections."

Claire felt Margaret's hand tighten slightly in hers. "I started ordering books - had them delivered to a P.O. box so Michael wouldn't know. Medieval history, occult philosophy, mythological studies. Real academic stuff, not the crystal-waving nonsense you find at Barnes & Noble."

"What happened?"

"Michael found one. A 15th-century treatise on European vampire cults. I'd hidden it inside a copy of Eat, Pray, Love." Margaret's voice hardened. "He didn't appreciate me developing interests outside of his control. Especially not..." She gestured at their surroundings, at the ritual implements and carved symbols. "This kind of interest.  It was the worst beating I ever took from him."

The Breaking Point

Something dark crossed Margaret's face. She took another drink from the flask, longer this time.

"One night everything changed. I'd just finished reading about a vampire cult in medieval Prague. Real detailed stuff - property records, church documents, disappearances that lined up with certain lunar phases. The kind of patterns I'd started seeing everywhere." She paused. "Michael came home early."

"He was drunk and found my research spread out on the kitchen table - books, notes, printouts. All my careful work just... laid bare." Margaret's voice dropped to almost a whisper. "He started tearing up my notes, calling me crazy. Said he'd have me committed. That he was the only thing standing between me and a padded room."

The basement's shadows seemed to deepen around them. 

"When I tried to stop him, he grabbed me. Started shaking me. And I just... snapped. All those months of planning to kill him, of careful research about decomposition rates and wilderness areas, and in the end..." She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "In the end, I just picked up the cast iron skillet from the drying rack and swung as hard as I could.  You actually can hit someone hard enough that their brains come out their nose.  Just a little, but it’s gratifying"

Claire held her breath, caught in the gravity of Margaret's words.

"The police were very understanding. Poor grieving widow, clearly traumatized, beat all to fuck, internal bleeding. All those documented hospital visits from 'accidental' injuries helped. The insurance company took longer - they always do - but eventually they paid out." Margaret's smile was sharp in the darkness. "Turns out reading about medieval murder investigations helps you understand modern ones too."

"What did you do then?"

"Fell apart, for a while. The guilt wasn't about killing him; he deserved that. It was about all the years I'd let him control me. All the time I'd wasted being afraid." Margaret shifted, her leather jacket creaking softly. "But the books helped. The research. Every ancient text about monsters and demons started feeling less like escapism and more like... I don't know. A guide. A way forward."

She turned to face Claire, her eyes reflecting the dim light. "Most people who study the occult are looking for power. But I didn’t need that. I had a dead husband, a fat bank account, and nothing left to lose. What I found instead was purpose. All those patterns I'd noticed, all those connections? They were real. And someone needed to investigate them."

"So you became a paranormal investigator," Claire said softly.

"A supernatural security consultant, please. Has a better ring to it. Plus, you'd be amazed what rich people will pay to find out if their creepy old house is actually haunted.  Usually, they really want the answer to be ‘yes’." Margaret's usual sardonic humor crept back into her voice. "Though I have to say, Cedar Lane is definitely one of my more interesting cases. Most suburban death cults at least try to be subtle about it. They don't usually put their ritual schedules in the neighborhood newsletter."

Claire's Reaction

Claire found herself shifting closer to Margaret in the darkness, drawn by a pull she couldn't name. Their shoulders pressed together as Claire took the flask, her fingers brushing Margaret's.

"I get it," Claire said softly. "The feeling trapped part. Not the murder part, obviously.  David would never, but .." She took a drink, letting the whiskey work on her. "Sometimes I look at my life: the perfect house, the perfect lawn, the perfect lies, and wonder how I ended up here."

Margaret turned toward her, their faces close in the dim light. "Tell me."

"David lost his job, and suddenly I was the one holding everything together. Playing the supportive wife while he spiraled. Moving to this suburban nightmare because the murder-suicide of the previous owners meant we could afford it." Claire laughed without humor.

"And now he's at 'committee meetings' with Evelyn, and I'm writing smutty supernatural romance novels not just to feel something, but to support the family.  David studiously ignores where the money comes from."

"Your books are good," Margaret said, her voice low. "They're honest. Raw. Like you're writing all the things you can't say out loud."

Claire felt heat rise in her cheeks, and not just from the whiskey. "Which have you read?"

"All of them." Margaret's hand found Claire's knee in the darkness. "I especially enjoyed that scene in The Werewolf Wears Prada where she finally gives in to her desires. Very... creative application of a scissoring metaphor."

The basement suddenly felt much warmer. Claire was acutely aware of Margaret's hand on her knee.

"I've been thinking about writing something different," Claire heard herself say. "About a woman who moves to a strange suburb and meets her mysterious neighbor. Someone dangerous and beautiful who hunts monsters."

Margaret's thumb traced small circles on the back of Claire's hand. "Sounds intriguing. How does it end?"

"I don't know yet." Claire turned her head, finding Margaret's face inches from hers in the darkness. "Still writing that part."

The air between them felt electric, charged with possibility. Margaret's eyes dropped to Claire's lips, then back up. The chanting from above had faded to background noise, less important than the sound of their breathing in the dark.

The Kiss

A thunderous crash from above sent Claire lurching forward. She lost her balance in the darkness, falling directly on top of Margaret and sending them both to the floor. 

"If you wanted to get on top of me," Margaret said with a breathless laugh, "you could have just asked."

Claire started to apologize, but the words died in her throat. She was suddenly very aware of Margaret beneath her, of how their bodies fit together, of Margaret's strong hands that had instinctively gone to her hips to steady her. In the dim light, Margaret's eyes were dark with something more than shadow.

"I should—" Claire began to pull back.

"Don't you dare," Margaret whispered, and pulled Claire’s waist close to her, Margaret’s knee between Claire’s legs.

Claire wasn't sure who closed the final distance, maybe they both did. The kiss started soft, tentative, a question neither of them had dared ask until now. Then Margaret made a low sound in her throat, and something broke loose inside Claire.

The next kiss was deeper, hungrier. Claire's hands found Margaret's hair, surprisingly soft between her fingers. She pulled her hair and their mouths came together.  Margaret tasted like whiskey and cinnamon, her mouth hot and demanding against Claire's. She pulled Claire closer, one hand sliding up her back while the other gripped her hip.

"You know," Margaret murmured between kisses, "when I imagined our first time, it wasn't exactly in a cult basement."

"You imagined this?" Claire pulled back slightly, searching Margaret's face.

Margaret's grin was wicked in the darkness. "In extensive detail. Multiple times. Usually not with brainwashed cultists chanting as mood music, but I'm adaptable."

Claire laughed, but the sound turned into a gasp as Margaret's hand found its way under her shirt, pinching her right nipple, hard. Margaret sat up enough to shed her jacket properly, spreading it on the floor beneath them. Then she pulled Claire back down, rolling them so Claire was lying on the leather.

Clothes were shed with increasing urgency, punctuated by soft laughter and sharp inhales. Margaret seemed determined to kiss every inch of exposed skin, her mouth hot against Claire's collarbone, her breasts, her stomach. As much as she had written about all manner of sex in her books, she hadn’t been with anyone other than David in almost two decades.  Margaret’s expert, feather-light tongue was a revelation, bringing her to a clenching orgasm faster than she ever remembered with a partner.  Claire bit her lip, trying to keep from crying out.  

"No one can hear us," Margaret murmured against her thigh. "They’ve soundproofed this basement to hide their own fucking." 

Margaret went slow the second time, building Claire up slowly with lips and tongue until she was trembling. When Margaret finally slid a finger inside, curling it just right, Claire arched off the jacket with a cry that probably would have been heard over a death metal concert.

"Let go," Margaret whispered against her ear. "I've got you."  Margaret sat up and laid Claire’s waste across her lap. She started circling Claire’s clit with her thumb, working in a second finger, and then a third.  Her pace quickened, pumping harder with her strong hands.  Claire did let go, spectacularly, her cum wetting Margaret’s hand and soaking the inside of her jacket and terminating in an arch that wet the cement floor.  Margaret licked her hand and then put a finger in Claire’s mouth so she could taste her own orgasm. 

Afterward, she returned the favor, delighting in the way Margaret's usual composure shattered under her touch. She discovered that Margaret was surprisingly vocal, and had a creative vocabulary in at least three languages when properly motivated. She would have thought the leather clad badass would be into rough, kinky sex, but she seemed to prefer Claire being surprisingly gentle.

They lay tangled together in their own sweat on the jacket, catching their breath. Claire's head rested on Margaret's shoulder while Margaret's fingers traced lazy patterns on her bare skin.

"Well," Margaret said finally, "I think we just violated at least six neighborhood regulations about proper basement conduct."

"Only six?" Claire lifted her head. "We should try harder next time."

"Challenge accepted," Margaret grinned, pulling her in for another kiss.

Margaret's New Life

They lay wrapped in the result of a community quilting project Margaret had found, covered with the now familiar symbols that were scattered around the neighborhood. Claire traced idle patterns on Margaret's shoulder while Margaret played with her hair.

"So," Claire said, "how does someone go from grieving widow to supernatural security consultant?"

Margaret chuckled, the sound vibrating through Claire's body where they touched. "Would you believe through Craigslist? After the insurance paid out, I started looking for cases. I got a few via word of mouth.  I started it full time after I put up an ad: 'Paranormal Investigation Services - No Haunted Dolls.'"

"No haunted dolls?"

"Trust me, you don't want to know how many people have creepy antique dolls they swear are possessed. It's always either the wind or mice. Usually mice." Margaret shifted, pulling Claire closer. "Though there was this one time in Boston.  A rich lady hired me to investigate her grandmother's Victorian dollhouse. She said the tiny furniture kept rearranging itself at night. I set up cameras, did EMF readings, the whole ghost hunter routine."

"Was it haunted?"

"Turns out her cat had figured out how to unlatch the dollhouse. Little bastard was hosting midnight tea parties with the not-demon dolls. Had it all on video - this fancy Persian cat in a bow tie, carefully pawing tiny chairs around the dining table. Made more money selling that footage to a pet food company than I did from the actual investigation."

Margaret laughed softly. "But my first real case was this private museum curator who contacted me about disturbances in their medieval weapons exhibit. Staff would find weapons rearranged overnight, sometimes with dried blood on the blades that couldn't be explained. I set up overnight surveillance and caught something on film that still haunts me. A semi-transparent figure practicing combat forms with the weapons, leaving psychic residue that manifested as blood. It turns out one of the swords had been used in a series of ritual killings in the 16th century, and the executioner's spirit was bound to it. The real problem wasn't the haunting, it was that the blood residue was somehow affecting visitors. People would stand near that display and experience violent intrusive thoughts. One security guard nearly stabbed his colleague after a week of night shifts near it. I tried to perform a binding ritual that went sideways. Let's just say I earned my first scar in this line of work that night, and the museum quietly relocated that particular sword to 'deep storage' after I showed them what it was really capable of."

Claire laughed against Margaret's shoulder. "How did you end up here?"

"I got a tip from a friend who’d started noticing patterns in Cedar Lane's history. Too many disappearances, too many 'accidental' deaths. All tied to the HOA." Margaret's voice grew serious. "I looked into it and found property records going back decades. Every time the leadership changed, people vanished. But Evelyn? She's been here through all of it. Changing her name, but looking exactly the same."

"So you moved in to investigate?"

"Bought the cheapest house I could find and painted it black. Figured it would be a good way to get their attention." Margaret's grin was audible in the darkness. "I renovated, put in a weird floorplan and tacky fixtures.  Everything Evelyn hates. I started with a dark charcoal, but every week I'd add another coat, making it blacker. Installed chrome skull doorknobs from this goth hardware store online. Planted night-blooming jasmine instead of those required white gardenias."

"Did it work?"

"Evelyn showed up within hours of the first coat, clipboard in hand, twitching like she was having an allergic reaction to creativity. Had a color palette of approved shades of beige: 'Suburban Surrender,' 'Conformity Cream,' 'Obedience Oatmeal.' You should have seen her face when I told her I was going for a 'goth Victorian funeral parlor' aesthetic. Then I asked if she'd like to come in for tea served in goblets shaped like skulls."

Claire laughed, imagining the scene. "You were deliberately trying to provoke her, weren't you?

"Yes, I was baiting her."

"Why? Wouldn't it have been smarter to blend in? Keep a low profile while you investigated?"

"That's what most people would do," Margaret admitted, swirling the flask. "But I needed to understand how Evelyn responds to threats. What her containment protocols look like. How quickly she moves, who she activates first."

"So you were, what? Stress-testing her system?"

"Pretty much. When you're dealing with something this entrenched, this organized, you need to see their defense mechanisms in action. Every violation notice, every committee member she sent to photograph my house, every passive-aggressive visit, they all showed me something about their hierarchy, their communication channels."

"And the more outrageous you were..."

"The more of their playbook they revealed," Margaret finished. "I learned that Evelyn handles perceived threats personally. That she has at least three layers of enforcers. That she's particularly triggered by anything gothic or Victorian.  Which suggests something about the nature of whatever they're trying to summon."

Claire leaned forward. "That was incredibly risky."

"The risk was calculated. I needed to be visible enough to watch, but untouchable enough to stay safe. Being the neighborhood pariah meant everyone kept their distance, but I was still interesting enough that they couldn't ignore me."

"Like a controlled burn to see which way the wind blows," Claire mused.

Margaret's eyes lit up. "Yes, that. Plus," she added with a mischievous grin, "watching Evelyn's face turn that particular shade of purple when I installed the cemetery fence was therapeutic."

"But why stay?" Claire propped herself up on an elbow to look at Margaret. "Once you knew about the cult? Most people would run."

Margaret was quiet for a moment, her face serious in the dim light. 

"At first, it was the challenge. I've broken up smaller occult groups before, but this? A suburban death cult operating through an HOA, with decades of history and deep community infiltration? It’s the case of a lifetime.  And there’s so much to learn to add to my own magic practices." 

“You’re own…?”

“You can’t really be in my line of business very long without learning some magic yourself.  Everything in the supernatural world depends on it.  Stopping things in the supernatural world also depends on it.”  Claire looked at her, doubtfully.

She traced a finger along Claire's jawline. "Then I started finding evidence of their rituals, the missing people reports going back to the 80s. Realized whatever they're planning goes beyond their little power games."

"What are they planning?"

"Something big. Something tied to specific astronomical alignments. They've been building toward it for years—all these neighborhood layouts, the symbols hidden in plain sight. They're not just playing at being vampires; they're trying to summon something ancient. Something dangerous." Margaret's voice dropped lower. "I couldn't walk away."

Her hand came up to cup Claire's face, thumb gently stroking her cheek. "And then the Parkers moved in. This family that didn't fit the mold, no matter how hard they tried. With a son who asked too many questions and a wife who wrote about monsters with such insight that I wondered if she'd seen, and maybe fucked, the real thing." Margaret chuckled.

"And now?" Claire whispered.

Margaret's expression softened, a vulnerability there that Claire hadn't seen before. "Now I have another reason to stay." She drew Claire down for a soft kiss, lingering and tender. 

The Rescue

A scratching at the door started, and rapidly grew more insistent. Claire and Margaret froze mid-kiss.

"Mom?" Ethan's voice filtered through the wood. "Are you down there?"

"Oh god," Claire whispered, scrambling for her clothes. "Of course it's the teenagers. It's always the teenagers.  I thought you said this basement was soundproofed?!?"

Margaret shrugged. "I was guessing.  At least it's not Evelyn," Margaret was, somehow, already half-dressed. The woman had supernatural speed when it came to dressing and undressing. "Though I wouldn't mind seeing her face right about now."

"Mrs. Parker?" Lila's voice joined Ethan's. "We're trying to pick the lock."

Claire hopped on one foot, trying to get her dress on in the dark. She stumbled, crashing into what felt like a ritual altar. She got up and got close to the door to be heard over the soundproofing. 

"Shit! I mean... yes! We're here! Just... give us a minute!"

"Why do you need a minute?" Ethan asked suspiciously.

"Because..." Claire looked desperately at Margaret, who was attempting to smooth her very obviously just-had-sex hair.

"Because we were checking these ritual items for evidence," Margaret called out smoothly, tossing Claire her bra without looking, which had somehow ended up hanging from a ceremonial candelabra. "Very thorough investigation. Very professional."

"Is that what they're calling it now?" Lila muttered, just loud enough to hear.

Claire felt her face burning. "How's that lock coming?"

"It's weird," Ethan said. "Like it's sealed or something. Lila's picks aren't working."

"It’s a very complicated lock," Lila explained. She paused. "Also, these aren't really picks. I made them from paperclips and optimism."

Margaret finished zipping her jacket and ran her fingers through Claire's hair, trying to tame the evidence of their activities. "Your son's girlfriend is resourceful. I like her."

"She's not my—" Ethan started.

"Focus on the door, Romeo," Lila cut him off. "Though... this isn't working. We need something stronger. Something with more impact."

There was a pause, then the sound of footsteps moving away.

"Lila?" Ethan called. "What are you— Oh no. What’s that?"

“Herbert,” said Lila, darkly.

"Herbert?" Claire whispered to Margaret.

"My favorite neighborhood lawn gnome," Lila's voice returned, now with a hint of manic glee. "He's been waiting for his moment. Stand back from the door!"

"Lila, that gnome is important to the Christmas display! The whole HOA will notice—" Margaret’s protest was cut off by a tremendous crash.

The door exploded inward in a shower of splinters and paint chips. Through the debris stood Lila, triumphantly holding what remained of a surprisingly large garden gnome as a battering ram. What remained of its cement face seemed to be smirking.

"Herbert died as he lived," Lila announced. "Giving the middle finger to HOA regulations."

"Rest in pieces, little buddy," Margaret said solemnly.

Lila looked at Claire. "Your shirt's still inside out."

Claire quickly adjusted her clothing as Ethan and Lila clattered down the stairs. She noticed Ethan very carefully not looking at either of them too closely, while Lila wore an expression that suggested she was mentally composing several gossipy texts about this moment.

"So," Lila said, looking pointedly around the basement, "Did you find any interesting evidence during your very thorough investigation?"

Margaret's poker face was impressive. "Nothing worth discussing right now. We need to get out of here before they come to investigate.”  She paused, and arched an eyebrow.  “Though I think we can definitively say this basement has seen some action."

Claire choked. Ethan looked like he wanted to die. Lila just grinned.

Escape

"We need to move," Margaret said, all business now despite her slightly disheveled appearance. "The committee meeting won't last forever and they’re probably going to investigate the crash."

"There's a window in the rec center kitchen," Lila offered. "Behind the vending machine that only stocks sugar-free food. The lock's been broken since I accidentally hit it with a softball last summer."

"Accidentally?" Ethan asked.

"As far as you know."  A door slammed somewhere above them. Everyone froze.

"Quick plan," Margaret whispered, pulling them into the shadows of the stairwell. "Claire, you and I will go first. Lila and Ethan will follow. If anyone sees us—"

"Youth Leadership Committee emergency meeting," Lila said smoothly. "Ethan's applying to join. We're working on his personal essay about his passion for architectural asymmetry. I'm his mentor. They love that kind of thing; corrupting the new kid early."

“That doesn’t make any sense, Lila.” Margaret rolled her eyes. “If they see us, just run as fast as you can.”

They crept up the stairs, Margaret leading with the kind of silent grace that made it clear she'd done this before. Claire tried not to focus on her round ass bouncing in her tiny shorts and to instead focus on the potential danger all around them. The recreation center was dark except for the exit signs, which cast an eerie red glow over everything.

Footsteps echoed from the direction of the meeting room. Margaret pulled Claire behind a potted plant just as two committee members walked past, deep in discussion.

"This way," Lila mouthed after the footsteps passed, leading them through the kitchen. The vending machine hummed softly, its selection of protein bars glowing sadly in the darkness.  One by one, they squeezed through the window. Claire went last, helped down by Margaret's hands on her waist. They landed in a flower bed, trampling carefully regulated white flowers.

"Split up," Margaret said quietly. "Less suspicious that way. Ethan, Lila—"

"We know," Lila grinned. "We were never here. Just two teens violating curfew regulations like normal."

As the kids disappeared into the darkness, Margaret turned to Claire. In the moonlight, her eyes were intense, searching Claire's face.

"About what happened down there..." Margaret started.

Claire silenced her with a kiss, quick but fierce. "Not a mistake," she whispered against Margaret's lips. "Not even close."

Margaret's smile was wide. "Good. Because I plan on conducting many more thorough investigations with you.  On you."

Another door opened somewhere in the building. They reluctantly separated, Margaret melting into the shadows like she was born to them, Claire hurrying across manicured lawns toward home.

Behind her, she could have sworn she heard Margaret's low laugh, carried on the wind like a promise.

End of the Night

The house was dark when Claire got home. No sign of David. Just the soft hum of the synchronized sprinklers outside.  She was halfway through a glass of wine when she heard his key in the lock. David stumbled in looking disheveled, his collar askew, his face flushed. He stopped short when he saw her.

"You're up late," he managed, tugging at his collar.

"Committee meeting run long?" Claire took another sip of wine, watching him over the rim of her glass.

"Just... HOA business… bylaws… and things." He wouldn't meet her eyes. "What have you been up to?"

"Oh, you know. Getting trapped in basements. Discovering ritual altars. The usual suburban housewife stuff."

David laughed nervously. "You have such an active imagination, honey."

"I do." Claire set down her wine and leaned into his personal space and grimaced. "You should probably wash your face before bed. It smells like ass."

David froze halfway through loosening his collar. "What?"

"Your face. Smells like ass. Evelyn's ass, I'm guessing." Claire stood up. "Though I suppose that's what happens when you spend your evening being her personal bicycle seat."

David's face went from red to white, then back to red. His eyes fixed on her neck. "That's rich, coming from someone sporting a hickey that definitely wasn't there this morning. Looks like I'm not the only one having important meetings."

They stared at each other across the kitchen, years of marriage crumbling in the space between them.

"I'm sleeping in the guest room," Claire said finally.

"Fine."

"Fine."

David took off his wedding ring and tossed it onto the kitchen island as he stormed off to their bedroom.

Later, alone in the guest bed, Claire touched her fingers to her lips. They still tingled from Margaret's kisses. She thought about leather jackets and dangerous smiles, about strong hands and whispered confessions in the dark. About how sometimes you had to break everything apart to build something new.  She smiled.