The Society of Shame


 
 Also by Jane Roper
 Double Time
 Eden Lake
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 AN ANCHOR BOOKS ORIGINAL 2023
 Copyright © 2023 by Jane Roper
 All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Anchor Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada by Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto.
 Anchor Books and colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
 Name: Roper, Jane, [date] author.
 Title: The society of shame / by Jane Roper.
 Description: First edition. | New York : Anchor Books, 2023.
 Identifiers: LCCN 2022009222 (print) | LCCN 2022009223 (ebook)
 Classification: LCC PS3618.O7 S63 2023 (print) | LCC PS3618.O7 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2022009222
 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2022009223
 Anchor Books Hardcover ISBN 9780593468760
 Ebook ISBN 9780593468777
 Cover design and illustration by Vi-An Nguyen
 anchorbooks.com
 ep_prh_6.1_143000293_c0_r0
 
 
 Contents Cover Also by Jane Roper Title Page Copyright Dedication Day One Day Two Day Three Day Four Day Five Day Six Day Eight Day Nine Day Ten Day Eleven Day Twelve Day Thirteen Day Fifteen Day Seventeen Day Eighteen Day Nineteen Day Twenty Day Twenty-Two Day Twenty-Three Day Twenty-Five Day Twenty-Six Day Twenty-Eight Day One Five Months Later Acknowledgments About the Author _143000293_ 
 
 
 For Alastair
 
 
 
 
 Day One
 At seven p.m., Kathleen Held was in a taxi heading home from JFK to Greenchester, a full three hours earlier than originally scheduled.
 It had worked out so perfectly, she felt almost giddy. She’d been able to switch to a nonstop flight from LA, which meant: (A) not having to change planes in Chicago—so, a 50 percent lower chance of dying in a fiery crash, or so she reasoned; and (B) that she’d get to enjoy a whole quiet evening at home, alone. After five days with her sister’s family, listening to Margo drone on about the value of alternate nostril breathing and being forced by Nick to sniff and describe the various strains of genetically engineered cannabis his company grew (Pot! They all smelled like pot!), she was starving for solitude.
 Her daughter, Aggie, was staying in LA for a few more days before school started—yet another forced attempt at cousin-to-cousin bonding. Margo’s kids might as well have been a different species from Aggie, all long limbed, sun bronzed, and aggressively outdoorsy. But Aggie, sweet soul that she was, always went gamely along with whatever vigorous outings were planned.
 Bill, meanwhile, would have just left for the large and extremely important campaign fundraiser he was attending that night at a country club in Scarsdale. Had Kathleen switched to an even earlier flight—which, in fact, she could have—he would have tried to convince her to go to said extremely important fundraiser with him. And it would inevitably have led to another one of the silent, simmering nonarguments they’d had so many of since he’d begun his US Senate campaign eight months before.
 Tonight, thank god, there would be none of that. No simmering, no guilt. No having to stuff her soft middle-aged midsection into shapewear and make small talk with smug limousine liberals. Instead, just an easy, sleepy reunion when Bill came home—the kind where the light would be off and she might even be asleep but would wake up at the sound of the bedroom door opening. She wouldn’t mind. She liked listening in the dark as he undressed: the clink of belt buckle, the whoosh of cloth, a muttered curse if he stubbed his toe. When he crawled into bed, she would whisper a “Hi,” and he would whisper a “Hi” back. Then he would roll toward her, kiss her cheek, and slide his arm over her belly, where it would stay all night, heavy and warm and familiar.
 She just wished their bedtime reunions weren’t the only times things felt right between them anymore—when she didn’t feel like she was being squashed into a corner by Bill’s glorious career.
 Maybe, she told herself, as she watched streetlights whip past along the Van Wyck Expressway, she needed to make sure that Bill knew, even if the rest of the world didn’t, that she was more than just a supporting character in his story. She would start as soon as he got home tonight. Maybe she’d even wait up for him. Yes, she would. With that small gesture of engagement, she could begin the work of nudging the balance between them back into a better, healthier place.
 In the meantime, though, the evening was hers.
 By the time the taxi turned onto her street, she had started picturing where she’d be in a matter of minutes: sitting on the three-season porch in a fresh change of clothes (she imagined some loose, breezy linen ensemble that she didn’t actually own), having a glass of white wine, catching up on her New Yorkers, ignoring the dog.
 Instead, she came home to smoke billowing out of the garage.
 “That doesn’t look so good,” the taxi driver said.
 Kathleen bolted out of the car. The driver was close behind her.
 “Is anybody in the house?” he asked.
 “No—I mean yes! Nugget. Shit.”
 “Nugget shit?”
 “Nugget, our dog,” said Kathleen. “He’s in there.”
 She started toward the house, but the driver flung his arm in front of her chest. “Don’t you go in there, ma’am. You call 911. I’ll go get your dog. My twin brother’s a firefighter.”
 “What’s that got to do with—”
 “You want your dog to die of smoke inhalation? What does he look like?”
 “He looks like a dog,” said Kathleen. “He’s the only one in there. But the house doesn’t look like it’s on fire. I can really just—”
 “Big