by Callie Rose
At least this topic has completely diverted Lincoln from wondering what we were doing when we stayed late at school. A couple hours later, he drives River back home—I never noticed it before I found out about his hearing impairment, but River pretty much never gets behind the wheel of a car.
I head upstairs. When I reach the landing on the second floor, I glance to my left and see Mr. Black emerging from the master bedroom.
He nods and smiles broadly at me like he always does when he runs into me around the house.
But today, the sight makes my blood run cold.
Bri Marshall’s first week as interim Executive Housekeeper turns out to be a sort of trial by fire situation, since the Blacks decide to host another cocktail party on Saturday. My mom oversaw several of these, and by the last one—the one Detective Dunagan crashed when he arrested her—she had everything running like a well-oiled machine.
But I know her first one stressed her out, and I can see the same thing happening to Bri as she bustles around the house over the next couple days getting things ready for the party. By the time Saturday rolls around, the entire mansion is like a three-ring circus.
Caterers, serving staff, and decorators are coming and going, there’s a mix-up with a floral delivery, and when a woman wearing a dark coat and an annoyed expression shows up at the door, I honestly don’t even think Bri knows what the new arrival is here for.
Organizing this kind of chaos is a special skill, and a flare of pride rises up in me to know that Mom is so good at it.
Honestly, it makes me a little sad to see the party preparations going on—to see someone else handling the planning and logistics, and to be reminded that for almost everyone besides my mom, life has gone on as normal in the three weeks since her arrest.
But now that I’m harboring suspicions about Samuel Black, it also makes a part of my soul burn with fury.
He’s throwing a fucking party? While she rots in jail?
If he put her there, I swear to fucking God, I’ll—
I stop myself before I can finish that thought, tossing my textbook down on the floor with a thud. Nothing I’ve read in the past half hour has stuck in my brain, so it’s a waste of time to keep flipping pages.
Aside from a few trips downstairs, which gave me a chance to observe the madness, I’ve been holed up in my room all afternoon, studying and thinking way too much.
More than ever, I’m convinced it was the right call not to say anything to Lincoln. I can barely be in the same room with Mr. Black anymore. Every interaction we’ve had over the past few days has felt forced and awkward. I don’t know how to act natural around him anymore, to see him as the slightly-too-friendly-but-harmless man who hired my mom to come work for him.
I hope like hell he hasn’t picked up on anything being amiss. Maybe it’ll work in my favor that ever since my mom got hauled away in the back of a cop car, I haven’t really felt like myself. If he does notice any weirdness, hopefully he’ll just attribute it to that.
But if Lincoln knew?
Shit, I know he’s a good liar, but it’d take a damn Oscar-worthy performance to convince his dad that everything was normal. That his secret was still safe.
Blowing out a breath, I lean over the arm of the easy chair to pluck my phone off the floor, pressing the button on the side to turn the screen on.
5:32 p.m.
Guests will start arriving for the party around seven, I think.
I’m about to pick up my biology textbook, hoping maybe a change of subject will refresh my brain, when the muffled sound of raised voices reaches my ears.
I hesitate, tilting my head slightly to pick up the noise better. It’s coming from the east wing of the house—which on the second floor is taken up almost entirely by the master bedroom, master sitting room, and double walk-in closets and en suite bathrooms. Seriously, our entire house back in Arizona could fit into Mr. and Mrs. Black’s living quarters in this mansion.
And that’s who’s yelling; I’m sure of it. Samuel and Audrey Black.
I’ve almost never seen them fight. I’ve seen them be super awkward and distant, like two people just pretending to be married, and I’ve seen Mr. Black be over-the-top sweet and affectionate toward her, like he’s trying to prove it’s not pretend at all.
But I’ve never heard them have a knock-down, drag-out fight—which is what it sounds like this one is.
I’m a nosy bitch under ordinary circumstances, but when it involves the couple who hired my mom? The man who may have framed her for a murder he committed? I’ve got no compunctions at all about eavesdropping.
Quickly and quietly, I rise from the chair and cross the large room, pressing my ear against the wall to try to hear better. The voices come through a bit louder, but not much clearer. They’re too far away, probably hidden behind the closed door of the master bedroom.
I consider stepping out into the hall, but it’s risky. If either Samuel or Audrey decided to storm out in a fit, they could easily catch sight of me standing there. The hallway is long, but there are no nooks or crannies to hide in.
A sudden idea strikes me, and as the angry voices continue, I slip through the side door of my bedroom into the laundry room. It’s dark, unused for the moment since Bri’s entire focus is on final preparations for the party in a few hours. I close the door behind me and then creep over to the door that leads to the hallway, pulling it halfway open when I reach it.
Better.
With fewer walls between me and the fighting couple, I can make out not just the volume and tone, but more of the words being spoken too. Pressing my back to the wall just to the side of the doorframe, I close my eyes, focusing all my attention on the sounds coming to my ears.
“…was I supposed to do? Huh?”
Mr. Black’s voice sounds completely different than normal, deeper and harder. Audrey responds in a scathing tone, but her voice is higher pitched and quieter than his, and I can’t pick out any of the individual words.
Whatever she says only makes her husband more furious though, and he’s practically shouting as he responds. It sounds like he’s moving around, pacing maybe, because the words go in and out of clarity.
“Maybe if you didn’t… …in my own goddamn house! You think it makes me feel like a man to… …my own wife?”
Goddammit. I wish I could stand right outside their fucking room with my ear to the door. I’m trying to piece together meaning from the bits I’m hearing, but it’s hard without context.
“…if I could trust you!” Audrey shrieks, and then there’s a heavy thud.
My heart jumps into my throat, beating so hard and fast it’s impossible to swallow. For a second, I’m certain that he hit her, or that she hit him. But then there’s another thud, and a shattering sound, and I realize it’s from objects being thrown against a wall.
Samuel says something to her, his voice softer, a little less angry. But it doesn’t work. Something else shatters against the wall.
“You never loved me like you loved her!” she screams, and I’m suddenly extremely glad I hid in the laundry room, because the sound of the master bedroom door being yanked open and slammed shut makes me jump in surprise. If I’d been standing out in the hall, I would’ve been caught pants-down for sure.
My heart is pounding against my ribs with such force that it’s starting to drown out all other noises. Keeping myself pressed tightly to the wall, I focus on taking deep, slow breaths as I listen. Audrey storms down the stairs, her shoes tapping out a discordant rhythm on the steps.
A few minutes later, I hear Mr. Black leave the bedroom and go downstairs too. He must catch Bri as she’s passing through the foyer, because I hear him explaining to her that there’s a bit of a mess that needs cleaning up. His tone is back to its usual pleasant friendliness, and if I hadn’t just heard the screaming match, I might believe that he’d just accidentally knocked a vase off a shelf or something, instead of dodging objects thrown by his wife.
What the fuck w
as that about?
I rub at my chest, trying to convince my heart it can calm down now, but it doesn’t believe the lie. My fight or flight instinct is still ramped up high, and when I hear Mr. Black’s footsteps on the stairs again, I dart back into my room, closing the door behind me as softly as I can.
Then I collapse on the bed, staring up at the ceiling and replaying what I heard over and over again in my mind, trying to fill in the blanks with my best guesses.
One thing I know for sure. They were arguing about another woman. A woman Samuel loved more than his wife.
But was it Iris?
Or someone else?
13
The weirdest fucking part of the whole thing is that shortly after seven o’clock, Samuel and Audrey Black parade down the stairs looking like they’re the world’s happiest, most loving power-couple.
Lincoln came by my room at 6:30 dressed in a sleek, tailored tux, which I barely resisted ripping off his body. His room is farther away from the master suite than mine is, so I don’t know if he heard his parents’ blowup earlier. I want to ask him about it, but I decide to wait until we have more time to talk.
It’s as he’s leaving my room, stealing a few more kisses on his way out while I brush his disheveled hair back into place with my fingers, that we see his parents emerge from their suite arm-in-arm. Audrey’s got on a stunning dress made of gauzy plum-colored fabric with a high waist and what are probably real diamonds encrusting the bodice.
Mr. Black glances over and catches sight of me and Linc, and an indulgent smile crosses his lips, like it does his heart good to see young love or something.
My hands clench involuntarily, and Lincoln must feel it, because he takes both my hands in his, bringing my knuckles to his lips. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I swallow. “Have fun at the party.”
“You know I won’t.” He chuckles dryly.
I roll my eyes, and he steals one more kiss before walking over to join his parents at the head of the stairs. Tugging my bottom lip between my teeth, I absorb the taste of him as I watch the three of them descend like royalty to greet the waiting guests.
That’s the second time he’s kissed me in front of his dad, although I guess now that the cat’s out of the bag, the number of times doesn’t really matter. But it’s the first time he’s ever done it in front of his mom, and I wonder if she knew about us before this moment. Then I wonder if she cares.
I slip back into my room and shut the door. Poor Bri must be running around like a chicken with her head cut off trying to greet all the guests and coordinate the food and hired wait staff. The Blacks were lucky that me and my mom came as a package deal—two for the price of one, even though I was technically just her assistant.
The soft murmur of voices and the intermittent ringing of the doorbell fill the next few minutes. I had planned to study more, but now that it comes down to it, I really don’t have the focus for that. I’m antsy, and I’m hungry. And ever since Bri moved in, I haven’t been able to sneak over to Mom’s old apartment and scrounge through her kitchen.
Maybe I can sneak downstairs and steal some of whatever hors d’oeuvres are being served. Gwen might give me a little shit for it, but I don’t think she’ll really mind.
My stomach growls loudly at the thought, and I decide it’s worth the risk of getting busted. I doubt Mr. or Mrs. Black would care very much anyway. They’ve never really tried to restrict my movements in the house, and it’s not like they ordered me to stay upstairs during the party.
Just to be on the safe side though, I throw on a long-sleeved black dress and some black flats. It’ll make me stand out less downstairs, and it’s sort of reminiscent of the maid outfit I used to wear when I was on the clock. If any guests see me, hopefully they’ll just think I’m one of the staff.
I grab my phone, then slip out of my room and pad down the hall, peering over the railing into the grand foyer as I near the stairs. Bri is welcoming an elegantly dressed couple into the house, and although her smile shines like a megawatt bulb, I can practically see the gears grinding in her head, already focusing on the million other little things she needs to attend to.
It makes me miss the fuck out of my mom. She made this stuff look so easy.
Bri disappears through an arched doorway with the couple behind her, and I walk quickly down the stairs while the foyer is empty. I’m about to head toward the kitchen when the doorbell rings again, making me pause in my tracks.
To be honest, I feel like kind of an asshole letting Bri work her butt off while I traipse around the house like I’m an actual resident here and not just the daughter of the previous maid. I shoot a glance in the direction she disappeared, then turn and head for the door, opening it as I slip on my bland “house staff” smile.
A lone man stands on the front steps rather than a couple, and my brows furrow as I take him in. He’s probably in his early forties and has a sort of George Clooney vibe, with deep lines in his forehead, full lips, and a little dimple in his chin.
Alexander Hollowell. The guy my mom went out with twice.
The guy she thought might be able to help her if her case goes to trial.
Fuck. Should I say something?
I have no earthly idea what to say. My mom was probably just grasping at straws, hoping that having a connection to a respected judge in Fox Hill would help her somehow. But wouldn’t asking him for help be unethical or illegal? The last thing I want to do is make things worse for Mom by crossing some line I didn’t know existed.
The man cocks his head, squinting slightly as he takes me in. I see the moment when he realizes why he recognizes me, and my cheeks flame. He was at the party where Mom got arrested—so the last time he saw me, I was chasing after a bunch of cops who’d just handcuffed my mom.
We stare at each other for a second, and I’m not sure either of us know what to say.
Finally, I jerk myself into motion, opening the door wider and stepping back. “Please, come in.”
“Thank you.” He steps forward, brows still furrowed. “You’re… Penelope’s daughter, right?”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Harlow.”
He nods, sympathy crossing his features.
It makes my heart jump in my chest. If he’s sympathetic, maybe he doesn’t think mom did it. Maybe he’d believe she’s innocent.
Ask him for help, Harlow. Just fucking ask him. Say something.
I lick my lips and am about to open my mouth Bri comes back into the room. She shoots me a look that’s both panicked and slightly annoyed as she hustles over, probably worried I’m making her look bad or something. Not that anyone’s here to see it.
“Judge Hollowell. Please, come in. May I take your coat?”
He nods and shrugs out of his overcoat, handing it to her before following her toward the ballroom. He glances back at me as they leave the foyer, and I give him a limp smile.
Well, fuck. So much for that chance.
Although if he’s friends with Samuel Black, maybe I shouldn’t trust him after all.
That’s a long fucking list though. The Black family is extremely well connected in Fox Hill, so if I’m looking for help from someone who has no ties to this family, it’s gonna be hard to find. And who knows. Just because these people come to the Blacks’ cocktail parties, I’m not sure that makes them all friends.
Deciding that Bri clearly doesn’t want my help, I hightail it to the kitchen before any other guests can arrive. I wonder if the Bettencourt and Lauder families have been invited.
Most likely. They’ve come to every other party hosted here.
“Oh, hey, Harlow. Cute dress.”
Gwen looks up from the large island in the middle of the kitchen, where she’s putting garnish on a couple trays full of hors d’oeuvres that are ready to go out.
“Hey, Gwen.” I peer around at the food, trying not to make it obvious that’s the only reason I came down here. “Is there anything you won’t kill me for stealing?”
&n
bsp; She laughs, jerking her head to the left. “Take a few canapés. I made too many.”
“Thanks.”
I grab a napkin and load it up with several of the little sandwiches. Then I head for the door to the back terrace. It’s been warmer the past few days, like fall is having a last hurrah before it cedes the floor to winter. My thin Arizona blood still chills as soon as I step outside, but the long sleeves on my dress help, and I take a seat on the steps leading from the terrace to the large backyard, curling my body tight to preserve warmth.
It’s not completely comfortable, but it’s nice to be outside. I was getting almost claustrophobic inside the house.
The canapés are gone in about ten seconds, and I’m just wiping off my fingers on the napkin when my phone’s screen lights up beside me. Hunter’s name flashes across it, and I smile in spite of myself. I wad the napkin up and drop it on my lap as I swipe across the cellphone screen to answer.
“Hey, dummy. What’s up?”
“Oh, you know,” she answers. “Just another thrilling Saturday night of being single.”
I chuckle, bending forward to hug my knees, protecting my bare skin from the elements. “It’s barely been a month since you and Kevin broke up. It’s okay to still be single. It’s probably good.”
“Yeah. I know.” She sounds very disgruntled, but her tone changes quickly as she asks, “How are you?”
Oh, God. I wish I could answer that. Really answer it.
Hunter knows my mom got arrested for murder, which she thinks is insane. She falls firmly into the “Penelope Thomas could never do that” camp, which I’m grateful for.
But that’s all Hunter knows.
She doesn’t know about the night the guys and I saw Iris get killed.
She doesn’t know that someone—probably the same man who murdered Iris—framed my mom.
She doesn’t know that the man in the black mask might be the same man hosting the party in the mansion behind me.
