The Perfect Family

  PRAISE FOR THE PERFECT FAMILY

  “Harding creates powerful character studies, reflects on societal expectations from a variety of viewpoints, and ramps up unmanageable chaos in a tale that is unforgettable on many levels. The small cast allows the author to present thoughtful interior monologues as each character considers their actions and responses and makes adjustments before the next event comes along and rearranges our understanding of everything. Readers ready for a roller-coaster ride of guilty admissions peppered with red herrings and actual clues pertaining to the crimes committed will read straight to the end. A great choice for fans of Celeste Ng, Gillian Flynn, and Liane Moriarty.”

  —Booklist (starred review)

  “Robyn Harding is at her twisty, devious best with The Perfect Family, a novel that peels back the veneer of suburban perfection to expose the decay beneath. A propulsive, constantly surprising read that both entertains and chills—and makes the reader question whether they really know not only their neighbors, but their own family. From the opening page to the shocking last line, I was hooked.”

  —Laurie Elizabeth Flynn, author of The Girls Are All So Nice Here

  “Edgy, diabolical and completely suspenseful! The talented Robyn Harding peels back the sleek façade of suburbia to show its disturbing reality—and all the dangerous (and sometimes heartbreaking) secrets that even loving families keep from each other. Incredibly cinematic and jaw-droppingly devious, this book will have you turning the pages as fast as you can.”

  —Hank Phillippi Ryan, USA Today bestselling author of The First to Lie

  “Robyn Harding has long been one of my favorite, must-read authors, and The Perfect Family is another example why. Brilliantly layered, fabulously developed and interesting characters, and twists and turns galore all made for a compelling read I couldn’t put down. Add to that Robyn’s wry wit and dark sense of humor that made me laugh out loud, and this is definitely a summer hit. I loved it!”

  —Hannah Mary McKinnon, bestselling author of Sister Dear and You Will Remember Me

  “In The Perfect Family, Robyn Harding wields deep community ties like a garrote and redefines terror in suburbia. Breathless pacing and an inescapable sense of menace make Harding’s latest an absolute must-read that will scare the hell out of you as only Harding can. This one’s a stunner.”

  —P. J. Vernon, author of Bath Haus and When You Find Me

  “Unsettling and darkly sublime, Robyn Harding deftly explores twisted family dynamics and devastating secrets in suburbia in this stunning novel that will shock readers by the final page. The Perfect Family explores a perfect family’s perfect façade, and how even perfect lies can become perfect nightmares. A mesmerizing, compulsively readable thriller, this one smolders from the first page to the last.”

  —Christina McDonald, USA Today bestselling author

  PRAISE FOR THE WORKS OF INTERNATIONALLY BESTSELLING AUTHOR ROBYN HARDING

  THE SWAP

  “Nearly everyone in this passion play becomes delightfully unhinged in the end.… Dangerously addictive.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “[A] convincing tale of obsession and celebrity worship.… Fans of psychological thrillers will be satisfied.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Robyn Harding’s The Swap is everything I’ve come to love about her books—provocative, sexy, and full of surprises!”

  —Wendy Walker, nationally bestselling author of The Night Before

  “Harding conjures a dark, inescapable feeling.… [Her] tale will please readers.”

  —Booklist

  “There are books born for summer reading and The Swap is one of them. Steamy sex, obsession, partner swapping—this one has it all.”

  —The Globe and Mail

  “Gripping from the first line, The Swap is a wickedly delicious, addictive, utterly compelling read. This suspense will shock and rivet readers through each masterful page.”

  —Samantha M. Bailey, bestselling author of Woman on the Edge

  “[The Swap] reads like a soap opera and is so intense, you’ll be talking about it for days after you finish.”

  —The Skimm

  “Every summer, Robyn Harding releases a twisty, turn-y thriller. And every summer, we bump it to the top of our reading lists. The Swap will keep you on your toes until the very end.”

  —Hello Giggles

  “Page-turning and completely riveting. This is a clear-your-night-and-read-in-one-sitting book!”

  —Kathleen Barber, author of Truth Be Told and Follow Me

  “Robyn Harding is an expert at slowly building creeping dread and The Swap was no exception.… Undoubtedly her best book yet.”

  —Kate Moretti, New York Times bestselling author of The Vanishing Year and In Her Bones

  THE ARRANGEMENT

  “An insider’s look into the world of sugar daddies… full of shocking revelations, volatile characters, and vice. Look out: The Arrangement will blow your mind.”

  —Mary Kubica, New York Times bestselling author of The Good Girl

  “A nightmarish deep dive into the underbelly of a secret world. Rivetingly dark, The Arrangement delivers on every level. Prepare to be blindsided.”

  —Heather Gudenkauf, New York Times bestselling author of The Weight of Silence

  “The most compelling, gripping, and entertaining book I’ve read in a long time. Nobody writes about young people and their obsessions as authentically as Robyn.”

  —Liz Nugent, bestselling author of Unraveling Oliver

  “Deliciously seductive from start to finish. Hang on for the ride, because this tantalizing thriller will knock you sideways.”

  —Jennifer Hillier, author of Jar of Hearts

  “Pretty Woman’s creepy counterpart.… Throw a little murder in there, and you have yourself a page-turner.”

  —29Secrets

  HER PRETTY FACE

  “A fast-paced, thrilling, gut-wrenching novel.”

  —Taylor Jenkins Reid, New York Times bestselling author of Daisy Jones & The Six

  “A haunting tale of friendship and loyalty, secrets and betrayal—a book that will grab your insides and give them a twist.”

  —Janelle Brown, New York Times bestselling author of Watch Me Disappear

  “Harding expertly builds subtle menace.… Creepy and compelling.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “A fierce and blazing one-sitting read that will make you question even your closest friendships.… Will undoubtedly spike paranoia levels in school car lines everywhere.”

  —Carter Wilson, USA Today bestselling author of Mister Tender’s Girl

  “A smart, darkly witty, and perfectly constructed thriller.”

  —David Bell, USA Today bestselling author of Since She Went Away

  THE PARTY

  “Tense and riveting.… 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

  “With teenagers worthy of Mean Girls, and a healthy dose of suspense, The Party reads like a cross between Megan Abbott and Jodi Picoult by way of James Patterson.”

  —Booklist

  “Cleverly constructed and brilliantly paced, The Party is a raw telling of a family coming apart at the seams.… Impossible to put down.”

  —Bill Clegg, New York Times bestselling author of Did You Ever Have a Family

  “Everyone is flawed in this contemporary tale of mothers and daughters. Everyone behaves badly. And the story is a pure delight.”

  —Lucy Ferriss, author of The Lost Daughter

  “Fast-paced and tension-filled, The Party explodes the myth of the perfect family and is one invit
ation you can’t turn down.”

  —Rebecca Drake, author of Only Ever You

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  For John

  (Thank God our family isn’t perfect.)

  Prologue

  I STOOD ALONE in the street, watching the silent house turn down for the night. One by one, the lights blinked out, like stars dying in an inky sky. The upscale suburb was eerily quiet, no sound but my own breath. My own heartbeat. Still, I waited. And then I waited some more. The occupants had to be asleep. All of them. If someone heard me, if someone woke up, everything would be ruined. If I got caught, there would be serious consequences. Violence. Or even jail. But I wasn’t going to get caught.

  It was a beautiful house; anyone would say that. It was Craftsman style; they were everywhere in Portland. Older, two-story homes with covered front porches, chunky wood columns, big picture windows. This one had been renovated and updated. It wasn’t huge or extravagant, but it was definitely expensive, and well maintained. The yard was manicured to perfection and you could probably eat off the paved driveway. Inside would be the same… an open floor plan with high-end furniture, valuable paintings, and designer knickknacks. All the shit that made a house appear elegant and refined.

  But the people who lived there only looked perfect. They had done horrible things. They kept horrible secrets. People like that made me sick. Fakes. Phonies. Pretending they were better than everyone else, when they were rotten inside. Now, they were stressed, panicked, falling apart. The thought made me smile.

  Pulling my hood over my head and drawing the strings tight, I moved down the driveway. My sneakers were nearly silent on the pavement, but the red plastic jug banged against my leg, so I held it aloft. The scent of gasoline was already strong in my nostrils. Good thing I’d thought to wear gloves. The smell would linger on my hands and give me away.

  I stepped onto the grass, cool and damp, and cut across the lawn to the side of the house. The camera over the door blinked at me, but I’d be nothing more than a dark blur on the screen. The family thought the surveillance would be a deterrent, but it wasn’t. There was no way to identify me, no way to know who I was. Just another faceless figure lurking in the night.

  At the side of the house, I squatted down, bouncing on my haunches. Adrenaline was coursing through me, my body vibrating with the need to enact my plan, but I forced myself to wait. And then I waited some more. To be safe. And to build up my courage. Because what I was about to do was serious. It could be fatal. But I couldn’t back out now.

  I don’t know how long I crouched in the dark, but my knees were getting stiff and my right leg was starting to fall asleep. It was time. Bursting out of the shadows, I scurried to the decorative hedge that ran along the front of the house. Removing the lid from the gas can, I dumped the accelerant onto the shrubs, dousing the shiny green leaves with the toxic substance. A plant like this wouldn’t burn easily, but the gas would erupt. It would burst into flames, fire skittering across the foliage. There was a chance the porch railing could catch fire, that it could climb the wooden posts and ignite the second story. If the smoke alarms didn’t work…

  Well, the world would be a better place without people like the Adlers.

  I lit the match. And let it drop.

  SIX WEEKS EARLIER

  Vivian Adler (Viv)

  I SAT CROSS-LEGGED in a pool of spring sunshine, my palms pressed together at heart-center. The morning light offered little warmth, but it bathed the bedroom in a flattering glow, and the color palette I’d chosen—muted blues and creams—created a seaside aura despite our suburban locale. My eyes were heavy, but not quite closed, as I breathed through my nose and took a conscious moment of gratitude. It was a thing I had been trying: starting each morning with a grateful heart. According to a podcast I’d recently listened to, being thankful was the key to health, happiness, and abundance.

  Thomas was downstairs in the kitchen making coffee with his usual amount of banging and clatter. I tried to conjure some gratitude for my husband of twenty-two years, but that full feeling in my chest, that warmth and lightness, refused to materialize. I loved him, I did. He was an excellent provider, a great dad, and every morning, he got up and made coffee. But it’s hard to be thankful for a man when he’s cheating on you.

  I had no proof, just a sick feeling in my gut. Thomas had been distant, distracted, and irritable of late. His job as a real estate agent was always frenetic, he’d always kept odd hours. An affair would have been easy for him. But I’d trusted him… until now. We’d had rough patches before; what marriage hasn’t? But even in our darkest moments, we’d always been a team, a unit. These days, we felt like two solo performers who’d left the band to go out on our own. He was George Michael. I was Andrew what’s-his-name.

  It could have been a midlife crisis; Thomas had turned forty-eight in February. Or perhaps something had happened at work. But another woman seemed the most logical explanation. My partner was attractive in a beefy, middle-aged sort of way. He had charm and style, a twinkle in his hazel eyes. I’d seen women flirt with him. Thomas had always acted oblivious, but maybe he wasn’t? I exercised, ate salads, dyed away my grays. But we all know affairs are not about the spouse.

  Sniffing his jackets for perfume and checking his collars for lipstick had provided no evidence. If I wanted proof, I’d have to search through his phone and his laptop. But he kept his devices close, protected by ever-changing passwords and facial ID. This was a relief, in a way. I wasn’t ready to deal with the truth. I wasn’t ready to blow apart my family. My entire life.

  Abandoning my attempt to be grateful for my husband, I focused on my son, Eli, sleeping two doors down. He was home for the summer, had just finished his second year at the prestigious Worbey College. The sporty little boy with the green eyes and crooked smile was a man now, taller than his father, and the starting goalie for his college soccer team. But he was still my baby and I was grateful to have him home for four months. Or longer.… Eli had recently announced that he was dropping out of school. Thomas was devasted. He had gone to a state college, couldn’t afford to attend an esteemed school like Worbey. We’d made significant financial sacrifices for Eli’s education, and now he was quitting. Thomas had blown up, had accused Eli of being ungrateful, of throwing his future—and our money—away. But our son held firm. He refused to explain his decision, simply saying, “I’m not going back.”

  I had insisted that we refine our approach: no more yelling, badgering, or interrogation. We would simply pretend that everything was normal, let Eli have time to process his issues. He had the whole summer to deal with whatever had upset him. And then, when he had, he’d realize that returning to school was his best option. The flicker of warmth elicited by thoughts of my adorable toddler was extinguished by our recent struggles.

  There was no point in trying to summon gratitude for my seventeen-year-old daughter. Tarryn was going through the most unlovable of stages. She was sullen and condescending, seemed to consider her father and me (but mostly me) to be irrelevant, ignorant, tone-deaf boomers. (My explanation that we were, in fact, Generation X was met with an eye roll.) Tarryn still got good grades, she seemed to have friends, but my bubbly little girl had transformed into a surly, angry grouch.

  But despite our struggles, we were the same family we’d always been. We were all healthy. We had a lovely home. And for that, I was—

  “FUCK!”

  It was Thomas. My heart jumped into my throat, constricting with dread. It’s not as if my husband never swore, but he never swore at
the top of his lungs at seven thirty in the morning. Something was very wrong. I scrambled up off the floor and ran down the stairs in my pajamas. The front door was wide open, and the living area appeared to be deserted. Peeking my head outside, I searched for my chagrined spouse. I folded my arms across my braless chest and stepped onto the porch.

  “Thomas?” I called. But he was nowhere to be seen.

  He rounded the corner then with the garden hose in his hand. His handsome face was darkened by a scowl.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  He looked up, scowl still in place. “Some goddamn kids threw eggs at the house last night. And at my car.”

  That’s when I noticed the shattered white shells littering the driveway, the viscous goop already congealed on our plate glass window. Thomas’s BMW had been assaulted, too, shards of shell glued to the black paint.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “I have no idea,” he grumbled, screwing the hose onto the tap at the corner of the house. “Ask Tarryn. She might know what this is about.” He turned the water on and blasted the side of his car.

  I retreated into the house, shutting the door behind me. Tarryn would be up soon. Perhaps our teenage daughter could shed some light on the assault. But Tarryn was seventeen, a junior in high school. Wasn’t throwing eggs a bit juvenile for her peer group? And she’d never had enemies before. She saved all her snarky comments for her family, seemed perfectly pleasant with her friends.

  As I climbed back up the stairs, I felt fluttery and agitated. Logically, I knew this was not a big deal. Bored, unsupervised kids roamed the streets in search of mischief on a regular basis. But this had happened at night. While we slept. The master bedroom was at the front of the house, so I would have heard the attack, had I not been in a deep sleep. What kind of parents let their children out after eleven on a school night? And why us? Our neighbors’ houses appeared untouched.