Kim should have heard it, would have heard it if she hadn't installed earplugs and taken half an Ambien. The girls were two floors below, but she'd anticipated giggling, music, a few late-night trips to raid the fridge.. To ensure a sound sleep, she'd nibbled a bit of the sedative, despite having had two glasses of white wine after dinner. She'd done it plenty of times without incident. She'd always been a light sleeper, and, lately, adequate rest had become imperative for Kim. There were too many hormones wreaking havoc with her humor. And there was far too much tension in her marriage to handle without a good night's sleep.
"Mom! Dad!" Kim dragged herself up from under the warm, wet blanket of sedation. It was Hannah's voice, tearful, close.. Kim opened heavy lids and saw "A tense and riveting story about one night gone horribly wrong.. I was hooked from the opening scene and could not look away until I reached the very last page."
—Megan Miranda, New York Times bestselling
author of All the Missing Girls "Cleverly constructed and brilliantly paced, The Party is a raw telling of a family coming apart at the seams. Robyn Harding weaves a riveting tale that is impossible to put down."
—Bill Clegg, New York Times bestselling
author of Did You Ever Have a Family "Robyn Harding spins a masterful tale of the disintegration of a seemingly perfect family in the aftermath of a disastrous sweet-sixteen party. Engrossing and unflinching in its portrayal of the dark side of human nature."
—A. J. her daughter at the end of the bed. Tall, pretty Hannah wearing a nightie that looked like a football jersey, the number 28 across her chest. It was Hannah’s birthday today—sweet sixteen—she was having a slumber party. So why was she here, in the small hours of the morning? Why was she crying? As Kim struggled for lucidity, she realized something was terribly wrong. Tears streamed down Hannah’s face and there was something on her hands . . . something dark and wet, glistening in the faint glow of the LED clock radio . . . Blood.
THAT DAY
“Should we wake the princess?” The words hovered in the chill morning air, unanswered. Kim leaned her elbows on the custom butcher-block breakfast bar, took a sip of black coffee, and waited. When he finally responded, Jeff’s eyes never left his laptop screen.
“It’s her birthday. Let her sleep. . . .”
Kim glanced at the digital clock on the Miele gas range: 8:37 A.M., an unreasonable hour to ask a girl to rise on any Saturday, let alone her sixteenth birthday. Sixteen . . . God, where had the time gone? Kim allowed herself a brief moment of nostalgia, her mind slipping back to that dreary March day when Hannah was born. It seemed like yesterday and an eternity at the same time. That pink, squalling creature she had birthed with such effort was now tall, beautiful, undeniably womanly. . . . Kim was different now, too. Her physical transformation was less dramatic (at forty-six, she prided herself on being able to pass for forty, maybe even thirty-nine—thanks to a strict regimen of Pilates, cold-pressed juices, and the judicious use of fillers), but she was not the same naive, hopeful woman she’d been that day. She had grown up, as surely as Hannah had.
Jeff’s relentless tap-tap-tapping drew her out of her reverie: Silicon Valley keyboard torture. “Still working on that presentation?” A tinge of annoyance had crept into her tone, but it wasn’t like Jeff noticed. He didn’t seem to notice anything about his wife lately. Kim could have been doing a naked handstand on the back of a unicorn and Jeff would have kept pecking away at his keyboard like a chicken on Ritalin.