by Skylar Finn
“No, no message, could you just tell me when he’ll be back, please?”
“He’s out to lunch,” said Bryce. “He should be back in an hour.”
“Thank you.” Emily hung up the phone. She paced frantically through the first level of the house as she tried to organize her thoughts, which were in total disarray. She felt like a snow globe someone had shaken and thrown to the ground, smashing it to smithereens. An hour? What if Jesse didn’t have an hour? What if he—
Emily came to an abrupt halt when she realized she was about to run smack into a closed door. The door was at the end of the first floor hallway, next to the library. It was one Emily never opened. She knew it had belonged to the youngest children, Tricia and Bobby, and the fact that they would never live in it again was too painful to contemplate. Their lives had been cut short before they even had a chance to live them.
Emily thought of Cynthia and her cold voice on the phone, laughing like it was all a joke. A surge of hatred flowed through her as she thought of all the lives Cynthia had destroyed. Not only had she cut off three futures, eliminating all the brightness and promise they could have brought to the world, but she ended the life of a woman who had wanted only to provide a future to countless other children. And for what? Money? Property? Emily had problems of her own and had struggled because of them, but she never would have considered hurting anyone a solution for them.
The door in front of Emily drifted open, as if pushed by an unseen pair of hands. Emily looked up, startled from her dark and upsetting thoughts. She hesitated at the threshold before crossing over.
“Hello?” she called to the empty room. “Is there anyone here?”
As if in response, the curtains fluttered and a breeze drifted through the room. Emily glanced around the room and saw that both windows were firmly shut. She hesitantly entered the bedroom as if guided by unseen hands.
She gazed around the walls, painted bright blue. The curtains were brightly patterned: dinosaurs on one window, unicorns on the other. Two narrow twin beds were separated by an antique night table. The drawer of the table was ajar and rattled as the breeze picked up and then abruptly ceased.
Emily went to the drawer and pulled it the rest of the way open. It was stacked with childish drawings rendered in crayon. She pulled them out and flipped through them, one by one.
The first few pictures were of dinosaurs and butterflies like the ones on the curtains. Beneath these were pictures of ballerinas and fire trucks, followed by animals and birds. Towards the bottom of the stack, the pictures changed.
There was a smiling stick figure depicting an older woman in glasses, whom Emily assumed was Matilda. She was joined by a girl with long hair—maybe Andrea. They stood in front of a bright blue house under a smiling yellow sun and next to a giant daffodil bigger than both the woman and the girl. Emily smiled as her eyes roved over the page.
She stopped smiling when she saw the figure in the corner. Off to the side, unsmiling, was a taller woman whose only distinguishing characteristics were red eyes and dripping fangs. Apparently, the children hadn’t thought too highly of Cynthia. What had they seen about her that Matilda hadn’t?
There was a loud knock at the kitchen door. Emily screamed and dropped the drawings. Her nerves were shot. She jumped to her feet, but the door blew shut.
“Hey!” Emily went to the door and rattled the knob. It was stuck. “Let me out!” She could have sworn she heard whispering, though there was no one present. In the past, Emily would have attributed it to a combination of stress and an overactive imagination, if she hadn’t known better by now. “I have to get Jesse, open the—”
The door sprang open as if on Emily’s command. Emily would have assumed the children had listened to her but Richard, the property’s handyman, stood on the other side of the door. He stared at her in confusion. “Did you say you were stuck? The door wasn’t locked. I just opened it. Your back door wasn’t locked, either.” His tone turned reproving. “You shouldn’t be leaving any of your doors unlocked after everything that’s happened.”
Emily felt deeply conflicted at the sight of Richard. Cynthia said not to tell the police and most likely meant anyone else for that matter, but how could she possibly know if Emily said something to Richard? As far as Emily knew, he was the only person in town who’d known Cynthia before she disappeared. Maybe he would know where to look for her.
“Richard, I need to tell you something,” said Emily. Would he believe her? “Cynthia Harkness is alive, and she has Jesse. She told me if I went to the cops, she would murder him. I have to transfer the deed to the house to Cynthia and bring it to her. Do you have any idea where she might be?”
Richard’s expression was simultaneously shocked and appalled. “She’s alive? How can that be? I thought she disappeared, too.”
“I think she pretended to,” said Emily bitterly, imagining it. “I think she killed Matilda and the kids and hid their bodies so she could fake her own death, too. All to get her hands on this house. What I still don’t understand is why. But there’s no time to answer that question. We have to get to Jesse before it’s too late.”
“Of course.” Richard ran a hand over his face, looking overwhelmed. “There’s nothing more important in the world than your family, even a house. Don’t worry, we’ll find him and get him back. I don’t know where she could have him at, though. The only place I ever knew Cynthia to live was in that little trailer at the edge of town.”
Emily shook her head as a wave of abject helplessness washed over her. “I was just there. Her neighbor locked me in, I think to keep me distracted until they could take Jesse.”
“Son of a gun.” Richard looked like he was thinking hard. “Well, what are you supposed to do once you transfer the deed? Is she just going to show up?”
“She said she’d call me with further instructions,” said Emily. “I’m waiting for Matilda’s lawyer to get back to his office now.”
“I’ll take you there,” said Richard determinedly. “And then we’ll find out what she wants and where she’s at and we’ll go get Jesse back, okay? You folks have been nothing but kind to me and if there’s anything I can do to help you, I will.”
“Thank you, Richard.” Emily felt awash with a mingled combination of gratitude and shame at all the times she’d dismissed Richard as a nuisance. She hadn’t realized how reassuring he could be until she had no one left to turn to.
As Richard drove into town towards the law offices of Watkins, Taft, and Simms, Emily tried to piece together where she had gone so terribly wrong. She originally assumed that the disappearance of Matilda, the children, and Cynthia had been the result of the scheming and conniving property management company who repeatedly visited Emily and Jesse, trying to convince them to sell the house. One of the managers, Roger Oglethorpe, was the sheriff’s brother. It seemed like an obvious conclusion to draw: the two were operating in collusion to get rid of Matilda, cover it up, and convince Emily to sell the house for cheap. Roger had already indulged in vandalism and destruction of property, throwing rocks through the window with ominous and threatening messages, in order to try and intimidate Emily and Jesse into unloading the house for less than it was worth. Who knew what lengths they would go to?
Now Emily realized the enemy was already within the walls all along. It had been Cynthia who betrayed Matilda; Cynthia who would stop at nothing to get her hands on Matilda’s house. How long had Cynthia schemed to get rid of Matilda and the children? What kind of person went to such lengths just to get their hands on a house that didn’t belong to them?
“Did you ever notice anything strange about Cynthia?” Emily asked Richard. “Anything at all?”
“I noticed she seemed like kind of a loner,” said Richard. “You know what I mean? Never wanted to be sociable or stay and chat. She just came in and did her job and that was it. Never even seemed to like the children all that much, though they seemed to respect her well enough. But I guess maybe they were just afrai
d, if she is what you say she is.”
Emily wondered what Cynthia might have done to make the children afraid. She shuddered. “She never said anything to you? About Matilda, or the house?”
“Not a thing.” Richard gazed through the windshield at the setting sun. “From what you’ve told me, it sounds like Cynthia Harkness was a snake in the grass. I never would have guessed she was anything but what she pretended to be.”
A snake in the grass. It made a terrible kind of sense, Emily supposed. It would have accounted for why Matilda never realized there was anything wrong with Cynthia until it was too late. Even from beyond her presumed grave, Cynthia had managed to fool Emily—who’d never once met the woman—that she was a hapless victim of circumstances.
The truck pulled to a stop. Emily looked up to see the lawyer’s office outside the passenger side window. She had been so lost in thought she hadn’t even realized they’d arrived at their destination. Now, she felt a nameless dread at getting out and confronting a new person with only the narrow hope that it might result in getting Jesse back.
Richard, as if sensing her distress, looked over at her reassuringly. “I’ll be right here, waiting for you in the parking lot. If you get scared, just call me.” Richard patted the front pocket of his jacket, which Emily assumed contained his phone.
“Okay,” said Emily in a small voice. She got out of the truck and closed the door behind her, then made the long walk up a sidewalk to the bright red door of J.R. Watkins’s office.
Inside the office, the scene was nightmarishly familiar. Nothing had changed about the setting, from the navy carpeting to the sailboats. But now, instead of being here to get answers, Emily was here to save Jesse’s life. Her heart pounded wildly in her ribcage. One wrong move could cost Emily everything she had.
“Hello,” said Bryce Stevens, smiling up at her from behind his desk. Perfectly innocuously, Emily was sure, but she couldn’t stop herself from interpreting his expression as a menacing smirk. “What can I do for you today?”
“I need to see Mr. Watkins, please,” said Emily. She was barely able to speak above a whisper. Her knees shook and she felt like she might pass out at any moment.
“Of course,” said Bryce, looking concerned. He picked up the phone. “Just have a seat. I’ll get you a cup of water in just a moment. You look like you’re about to fall over.”
Emily sank into a seat in the waiting area as Bryce mumbled something into the phone. He hung up and jumped up. “He’ll be right with you,” said Bryce, rushing around the desk and over to the water cooler. “You just hold still while I get this for you.”
Emily was slumped in the chair with her head in her hands. She glanced up as a cup of water materialized in front of her face.
“Oh. Thank you,” she said, accepting it. Even as she took the water, she stared at it: should she drink it? Was Watkins in on it? Was Bryce? Who could she trust?
“Of course,” said Bryce, watching her expectantly. “This altitude can get the better of you even if you’ve lived here your whole life,” he added confidentially. “I once passed out after having a glass of wine or two at a party. Can you imagine?”
Just then, the door to the inner sanctum of Watkins’s office swung inward. Watkins appeared, imposing and paternal as always. His presence saved Emily the trouble of having to decide whether to drink the water, and she tossed its contents into a nearby plant as Bryce glanced up at Watkins.
“Hello, Emily,” rumbled Watkins. “What can I do for you today?”
“I need to talk to you about my aunt’s will,” said Emily.
Bryce perked up visibly at the words. He was fascinated by the gory history of the house, and Emily was sure he would be more than intrigued to learn the reason behind Emily’s visit today.
Watkins nodded, looking solemn. “I see. I don’t have anything left on my plate today, so why don’t you come on in?”
Emily went into Watkins’s office, Bryce watching her curiously as she went. She sank into the large red leather wingback chair in front of his desk.
“What can I help you with?” Watkins watched her impassively from behind his desk. His face was impossible to read.
“I need to change the deed to the house,” Emily said in a rush. How would she explain that she needed to change the deed to be in the name of a woman presumed dead? Cynthia had set her an impossible task.
Watkins chuckled. Emily stared at him. Of all the reactions she’d expected, this wasn’t one of them.
“Getting to be a bit much for you, huh?” he said benevolently. “I understand. I wouldn’t want to be saddled with that monstrosity, either. I think you’re making a wise decision.”
Why was he agreeing with her as if this was a reasonable thing? Emily thought of Jesse’s words before he went to see the lawyer—the last place Emily knew him to be before he disappeared. Do you think maybe he’s in on it? Jesse had asked. What if he was right?
Emily watched Watkins behind his desk. He seemed the picture of a stately and trustworthy attorney: his suit neatly pressed, his hair perfectly combed with not a strand out of place. But what kind of lawyer was so casual about changing the deed to a house? Unless he already knew why she was changing it and whose name she was putting it in.
Before she got here, Emily’s greatest fear had been how he might react to what she was about to say and how she would explain without compromising the precarious nature of her position. Cynthia had already told her not to tell anyone or something bad would happen to Jesse, which Emily had already violated by enlisting Richard’s help. How would she explain to Watkins that she wanted to change the deed by putting it in the name of a dead woman?
But now, sitting in front of Watkins, she realized there was an even darker possibility: that Watkins would have no reaction at all. If he acquiesced with little inquiry, Emily would know that he was in on it, too. She would be alone in a room with one of the people behind Jesse’s disappearance.
Watkins was the very first person she’d ever spoken to in this town, over the phone when she and Jesse were still safely ensconced in their sunny apartment in Florida. Had he been manipulating her for a darker purpose than she could have ever imagined? Maybe it was Watkins who lured her out here in the first place when he called her about the will.
“I want to put the house in Cynthia Harkness’s name,” said Emily, almost defiantly. His reaction would tell her everything.
He acted as if she told him she was planning a stroll in the park after their meeting.
“Certainly,” he said in the same pleasant tone Bryce had greeted her with in the office. Emily felt like she was going insane.
“Survivor’s guilt can be a powerful thing,” said Watkins ruminatively, opening and closing the drawers of his desk. Emily watched him, every muscle in her body tensed. He found what he was looking for and set it on his desk. It was nothing but a harmless-looking folder. He opened it and paged through the documents within.
“Of course, Miss Harkness hasn’t been officially declared dead yet, though once she does, the house will most likely go to her next of kin,” Watkins continued. “I can see that the rumors asserting Matilda’s responsibility in the disappearance of Cynthia Harkness and the children have affected you strongly. I commend your decision to transfer the home to her as a sort of restitution and acknowledgment of what happened.”
Watkins regarded her with approval as Emily stared at him in mingled shock and fear. Was he pretending that Matilda had killed Cynthia, when it was the other way around? And as such, she deserved the house as a final payment? Did he actually believe that? Emily had heard the term gaslight before, but she had never truly understood what it meant until this moment.
“I can see you’re distraught,” he said sympathetically. “Why don’t I just go ahead and prepare the paperwork for you? I can have it ready for you by the morning.”
“I need it done immediately,” said Emily.
“If you’re concerned about any interested parties,”
said Watkins with a raise of an eyebrow, “I’d be happy to inform them on your behalf that the proceedings are under way.”
Emily felt a mounting sense of horror as she looked at Watkins. From the surface, his assurances were wholly innocuous: he could mean he would get in contact with Cynthia’s estranged husband, Ray Harkness. Or he could mean something much more obvious and sinister—that he would be the one to pass the information along to Cynthia that the ball was rolling.
“Okay,” said Emily. “You do that.”
“Oh, I will,” said Watkins, smiling broadly. He stood and opened the door for her. J.R. Watkins was a perfect gentleman through and through. “You take care now, Emily. And be safe.”
As frightened and terrorized as Emily felt, it took everything she had not to slap him on her way out.
3
“Did you get it?” asked Richard. “The deed?”
“He said he’d take care of it,” said Emily dully. “He also said he’d inform ‘any interested parties.’”
“What?” Richard stared at her, eyes agog. “Does that mean he’s working with Cynthia?”
“I guess so,” said Emily. “If he is, we’ll know when she gets in touch with me. She told me that once I had the deed switched, she’d contact me with instructions of where to get Jesse.”
Richard nodded. “Why don’t I drop you off at the house until you hear back from her?” he said soothingly. “I’ll swing by my place and get ready. As soon as she contacts you, you let me know and I’ll be here in a flash. We’ll go get Jesse back, mark my words. Don’t you worry about that.”
As reassured as Emily was by his words, she thought it might be due to the simple fact that she wanted so badly to believe him. He smiled kindly at her as he pulled up to the house and she got out of the truck.
“Call as soon as you hear,” he said.
Emily nodded as she closed the door and watched as Richard drove off. She had never felt more alone in her life.
