by Patrice Lyle
RSVP: Rachel on 0433 615446
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PROLOGUE
"You have dialed emergency triple zero. Your call is being connected."
I waited a beat whilst I was connected to an operator.
"Do you need police, fire, or ambulance?"
"Ummm, police."
"Please hold. I will connect you to the nearest center."
The phone went quiet whilst I was being transferred (very quickly I may add).
"Police emergency. What is the location of the emergency?"
"Ummm…" Oh God. They sounded so efficient. "It's unit 403, 59 Amity Avenue, Westport, Australia." I probably hadn't needed to tell them I was in Australia. I was sure they already knew that. But I was grateful. My voice sounded a lot more controlled than I felt.
"Please tell me your emergency." The male voice sounded reassuring in my ear.
"I think I've been broken into," I explained, my voice only wobbling slightly. I wasn't going to cry. I wasn't. Okay, that was a lie. I was totally going to cry. I was known in my family as being a crybaby. I'd cry at a McDonald's advertisement. Why did I even think I wouldn't cry when my home had been broken into while I was sleeping on the couch?
"Are you in danger? Is the perpetrator still present?" asked the very-in-control voice.
"Ummm, no. Well, I don't think so." I looked wildly around the room, my eyes stopping on the open balcony doors. I normally never fell asleep without closing and locking the security screen, but today I'd drifted off like a baby.
"What's your name?"
"Alexandra, but my friends call me Alex." Why did I say that? This guy wasn't my friend, but he sounded friendly, and right now, I needed friendly.
"Okay, Alex. Can you explain the situation please?" The voice sounded like its owner might be good-looking. How can you tell by the sound of a voice? Well, you just could, okay?
I quickly filled him in on what had happened.
"And you're sure there is no one on the premises still?"
"Yes. I'm positive. Only me." I hoped. I mean, I hadn't checked all the cupboards. My eyes drifted to the cabinets attached high on the wall. Surely nobody could hide in those.
"Alex, break-ins should be reported to your local police station direct. I'll give you their number for future use. However, on this occasion, I will contact them for you. Please stay on the line while I do that now."
"Oh, okay." I waited a beat for the voice to return.
"The local police have been informed and will be there as soon as possible. If you feel you are in danger, call triple zero again, but please remember this line is for life-threatening emergencies only. We need the lines to stay clear for those who need us urgently." I heard his smile over the phone. "You're lucky today is a quiet day."
"Sorry," I muttered, my cheeks flaming at my mistake. "And thanks."
"You're welcome. And don't hesitate to call back if the situation changes."
I heard the connection click off. Placing my phone on the counter, I felt alone and scared.
I sank my bottom to the tiled floor and put my head between my knees. It had really been a strange day. First, I'd received an invitation to my old workplace reunion containing nine dead butterflies. Yes, nine. A tenth one had still been alive in the box, but when I'd set him free off my balcony, gravity had seemed stronger than his wings. I'd really hoped that wasn't a bad omen for the rest of the day, but I should have known better.
Then, during lunch, a news bulletin had flashed across the television screen announcing my dentist, Stacey, was missing. Missing. Now Stacey wasn't just my dentist—she was a friend. Sure, we were a lot closer when we were at primary school together, but I definitely still had her in the friend category. And now she was missing.
To finish off my day, I'd waken from an afternoon siesta to find my apartment had been broken into. Broken into! These things didn't happen to me! I was a normal twenty-eight-year-old living in Westport. And Westport was a quiet town. Our crime rate wasn't that high. I knew that because I read the town newsletter that got delivered every second month, and last month's edition informed me the crime rate was dropping. Westport had only had three house break-ins, two acts of vandalism, and one out-of-control senior citizen chasing a hooligan. So what were the chances of me being broken into?
Thankfully, the police arrived pretty quickly. And I'd admit to Sergeant Ed Helms being extraordinary eye candy. In fact, if word got out that our police force was that good-looking, there'd be a spike in crime by women hoping to get arrested.
Sergeant Helms sat on the couch, his large, muscular frame taking up way more space than I ever did, as his partner Constable Davidson sat next to him. Constable Davidson looked like he had just arrived from the academy. His blond hair and blue eyes gave him the innocent, adorable boy look.
Sergeant Helms opened his notebook and looked at me patiently. I quickly filled them in on what had happened.
"Okay," he said, "you mentioned you made a list of what's missing."
"Yes. It's a strange list though."
"In what way?" asked Constable Davidson.
"Well, nothing of any real value has gone. It's all personal stuff that's virtually worthless to anyone but me." I passed the list to Sergeant Helms. He read aloud.
"Gray sweater from Just Jeans, old jeans with the hole in the knee, fluffy winter socks, ugly necklace Grandma gave me, old WTN T-shirt, photo album from WTN days, my favorite MAC eye shadow, tampons, and the book from my bedside table." He stopped reading and looked at me. "Tampons? You didn't just run out of them, did you?"
"No, I only just bought a new box." The tips of my ears started to burn. Geez, this conversation quickly turned personal. "They were on the bathroom counter." I shrugged. "Maybe the burglar was female and had a bit of a situation." Honestly, I had no idea why they would have taken my tampons, but they were definitely gone.
"What does your WTN T-shirt look like?"
"It's navy blue with a white Westport Television Network logo on the front. It was a kind of uniform that I got when I worked there a few years ago. My job was in the traffic department with my BFF, Georgie, and our manager, Rachel. We made and timed the schedules for everything that went to air. I've actually just received an invite to their reunion to celebrate the station being fifty years old. I don't really want to go, but who knows? I'm still friends with some of them on Facebook." When I'm nervous, I really over share.
"Okay. Can we take a look around?"
"Sure. Go for it," I replied, sinking my back into the couch cushions.
I watched from my spot as the two officers looked around my bedroom and bathroom, making notes as they went. It didn't take long. My one-bedroom apartment wasn't that big. Constable Davidson took a few fingerprint dustings (which was really interesting, and if it had been in anyone else's home, I would have been a bit excited about it). They were just moving back to the lounge when I heard their radios crackle. Constable Davidson adjusted the volume on his and listened to the dispatcher. Personally, I had no idea what she was talking about as it was all in numbered codes, but I did recognize the address when it was called. Apartment 303, 59 Amity Avenue, Westport. The apartment directly under mine.
Surely, this day couldn't get any worse?
CHAPTER ONE
Two weeks later
I pulled my car to a stop at the red light and looked at up the storm clouds, a feeling of dread settling in my stomach. I wasn't sure why. Maybe it was because I didn't know what I was driving into. Maybe I was worried about what people would think of me now. More likely, it was the fact I was about to come face to face with my ex and his gorgeous new wife. I let out the breath I'd been holding.
I was on my way to the reunion. I'm not really a fan of reunions. I always figured that if I liked somebody enough, I would stay in touch with them. If I didn't stay in touch, I probably didn't like them enough, so why would I want to catch up with them years later? Well, I was here under duress from my BFF, Georgie.
> My job at WTN had been to book the commercials. Georgie's was to make sure we actually had the material the advertiser wanted to air, and our manager Rachel's job was to make sure the whole thing timed-out with the programming. I'd confess to it having been my favorite job. And I've had a few.
Unfortunately, the great gods, otherwise known as network executives, decided our station would be far more profitable if we merged with another network. So a sad day was had by all when fifty redundancy packages were handed out, and we were sent on our merry way.
However, what the executives hadn't foreseen was a much larger network buying out the entire group and keeping the newsroom operating, which was why Westport still technically had a television station in operation and why we were all invited to a get together to reminisce about old times and celebrate the fiftieth anniversary.
The last time I set foot inside the building I was a tiny, naïve twenty-three-year-old with all sorts of hopes and dreams for the future. My hopes and dreams were still exactly that, but I was no longer tiny. Still naïve? Probably.
I glanced over at my best friend, Georgie, as I waited for the traffic light to turn green.
"It's going to pour down, isn't it?" I said, more as a statement than a question. Of course it was. According to our local weatherman, Tony, a massive storm cell was heading for Westport. Of all the days the skies would open up, it had to be today. I'd put extra care into my appearance, making sure my almond-shaped green eyes were framed to perfection and that my long, straight, white-blonde hair fell in silky smooth locks. Actually, the silky smooth locks bit was all due to my amazing hairdresser, Danny. Usually my hair resembled albino rat tails. Looking at those clouds, Danny's hard work wouldn't last long.
I took another moment to reassess my outfit. I had chosen to wear my favorite white top and new jeans that sat just low enough to be sexy but not low enough to be slutty. My sheer top cleverly disguised my fashionably large bottom, and even though it was sheer, it wasn't transparent. Unless of course it was wet, then everyone would get the perfect view of my new bra.
I sighed as I watched the traffic light turn green, put my car in gear, and moved up the hill toward the clouds.
"It'll be all right, Alex," said Georgie. "They've set up a marquee in case it rains, but I think we'll be inside for most of it." She smiled. "And anyway, a bit of rain never hurt anyone."
She would think that. Georgie and I had been best friends since we worked together at WTN. She was about the same height as I (five foot five in heels), a year older than I, and way more intelligent.
She had big gray eyes, ridiculously long eyelashes, and when she was standing next to me, she looked gorgeous. Actually, standing next to anybody she looked gorgeous. She pulled down the sun visor and used the mirror to adjust her short brown hair.
"I'm so excited for this," she said, the delight clear on her face. "There're going to be so many people that I haven't seen in ages but I've kept in contact with on Facebook. It's going to be fun seeing them again." Georgie was the socialite. She loved everybody.
I looked back at the clouds and let out another breath, wishing I felt the same enthusiasm. But then again, Georgie didn't have an ex that she was about to come face to face with.
The television station was perched high on the edge of the mountain range, overlooking Westport, the river, and the ocean. On a lovely sunny afternoon, it was spectacular. On a wet and stormy afternoon, it was cold, damp, and depressing.
My car gave a sigh of relief as it reached the top of the hill, and I turned into the circular driveway. The square, two-story, block-like building still stood with the same cement façade and peeling gray paint it had five years ago.
I slowed my car as I worked my way around to the back and pulled into the parking lot shaded by the large jacaranda tree. The tree stood tall, overlooking the original old house, the helipad, and a makeshift marquee that stood on the grounds. Five years ago, the old house had been used by the station for storing props etc., but whatever it was used for now, it looked creepier than ever.
I shivered as I looked around at the other cars and saw another yellow Mazda 3 just like the one I was driving. The car reminded me of a particularly embarrassing incident I'd had recently in the parking lot of my apartment block.
What happened was, another resident owned the same car as well, but I didn't know that, did I? So of course, I got caught trying to get into the wrong car. Why couldn't it have happened when nobody else was around to witness my humiliation? I sighed at the memory and pulled my car into a parking spot opposite it. I stepped out, waited for Georgie to do the same, and then beeped the doors locked behind me. I felt the wind whip up and pulled on my jacket in an attempt to keep out the chill that crept up my spine.
I have four sisters, and the only thing that set me apart from them is my gypsy-like intuition. If it feels wrong, it generally is wrong. However, I'm known for ignoring that intuition, which, according to my mother, is really something I needed to work on. She was probably right. On more than one occasion it had saved me from getting hurt.
In hindsight, this was one of those moments where I should have listened to my intuition. If I had, I would have put my car in reverse, gone home, snuggled up in bed, and read a good book. But no, that would have made life boring, wouldn't it?
"Look out for the pothole in the concrete," I said to Georgie who was busy sending a message on her phone. She continued what she was doing but sidestepped it nicely. Georgie was good like that. She could multitask.
"There are no signs telling us how to get in," I commented as I walked a little bit faster away from the old house. It appeared a lot creepier than the last time I saw it.
"Let's try this door," suggested Georgie, motioning toward the side entrance with one hand and pushing her phone into her bag with the other.
A feeling of déjà vu ran over me as she pulled open the glass door, and we stepped inside, walked past the ladies' toilets, and headed down the whitewashed hall toward the studio where all the noise was coming from.
Stepping behind Georgie, I followed her into the large room. The studio was almost the same. The only difference now was the station logo hanging behind the news desk, lights beaming down on it as if we were ready to go on air. Instead of reading Westport Television Network, it now read WTN, A Division of the Hope Network.
The crowd was gathering quite nicely as I allowed Georgie to lead the way. I hated being the leader walking into a room filled with people. I felt self-conscious as they all looked our way. Thankfully, it didn't take long to find a familiar face and one who recognized us. Actually, I should say someone who recognized Georgie. It turned out I wasn't very memorable.
"Hi, Georgie," said Sally, smiling.
I remembered Sally from sales. She worked here long before I did. Even though we were a similar age, she used to be on the chubbier side, very well dressed, and had the prettiest face I'd ever seen. The pretty face was still there, but the puppy fat, as my mum would call it, had definitely disappeared. Her short skirt and fitted jumper showed her new curves beautifully.
"Oh my God, Sally," gushed Georgie, leaning in for a hug. "Look at you. You look amazing!"
"Oh, thank you," she replied, blushing, pulling out of Georgie's embrace and stepping back, looking at me expectantly. After a second, she still couldn't pick who I was.
"Hi, Sally." I smiled, giving her a small wave. I would have liked a hug as well, but judging by the look on her face, I thought it might have been awkward. "Alex. From Traffic," I added.
"Oh yes, of course. Hi, Alex. I'm so sorry. You look different now." I didn't. I looked the same. I dressed the same. I wasn't one for change really, but that was okay. I wouldn't take it personally. I just hoped this wouldn't be a pattern tonight.
I stood back and listened as she told us how she still worked here as a copywriter for the commercials the station still made. She also brought us up to date on how proudly her mum had told everybody about Sally's stint on the state's bas
eball team.
I remembered Sally's mum. She was always quite ill, and Sally had the responsibility of looking after her. It was good to hear she was still with the living, doing well, and a proud supporter of her daughter.
Turning away, I saw Wes walking toward us. This reunion was his idea, but with the help of our former department manager, Rachel, tonight was actually happening.
Wes used to work in the production area and was a really sweet guy. Age was being reasonably kind to him. The only difference was that he now had a little less hair and was slightly rounder in the tummy area. He was a bit older than Georgie and I. I guessed somewhere in his forties.
"Hi, Georgie. Hi, Alex. Welcome. It's so good to see you both again." He smiled, reaching forward for an awkward kiss on the cheek. I'm not much of a cheek kisser, I will admit. I always found it a bit awkward, really.
"Hi, Wes. You look good," I commented, lying about his yellow floral shirt and secretly wishing I could reach up and wipe my cheek. He was a sloppy kisser. I watched him blush.
"Thanks, Alex. That's really nice of you to say, and I'll add that you look fantastic. But then again, you always did." I did? I'd seen the photos, and let me tell you, that wasn't how I remembered it.
Georgie laughed. "Oh, Wes, you're funny." She giggled.
Humph.
"How've you been, Alex? Did you ever get that business up and running?" he asked.
This was one of the things I'd been dreading about coming here tonight—having to explain the last five years and the numerous jobs I'd had. Not that it was all bad—at least I was working—but when I'd been handed my redundancy, I told everybody it was fine by me as I was about to open my own business as a beauty therapist.
I had indeed gone to beauty school and opened my own business—with Mum's money, no less—but that business had failed miserably. That was a story I was not looking forward to repeating tonight. Especially if I saw my ex-boyfriend, Jake.
"Umm…"
Thankfully, I was saved from answering. Walking up behind Wes was Rachel, her loud, booming voice drowning out anything I was about to say.
