by Tessa Teevan
I shake my head. “I had nothing to do with it. All I know is it was enough to cover the mortgage. Gerald Burns, one of my father’s associates, and the lawyer for the estate handled all of that. I wasn’t exactly in the right state of mind, and the last thing I wanted to do was deal with the sale of a house. My father had known both of those men for years, and he trusted them. I did, too.”
He takes my hand and leads me to the wicker swing at the edge of the porch. We sit, and he turns to face me.
“The realty company,” he says. “It’s a sub company of Morningstar.”
My nose wrinkles. “They do real estate? I thought it was all investments.”
“Well, apparently, real estate is one of those investments. I didn’t think about looking into the sale of the house.” His jaw ticks. “Burns. You know him?”
“My dad went to college with him. He’s who helped him get the job at the firm. They’ve worked together for years. Our friends were families. He was a huge help after…after what happened. Between him and the lawyer, everything was taken care of. Why?”
“Burns is one of the names your father gave us. Supposedly, he was just as dirty as Morningstar, and one late night, after too many fingers of scotch, he revealed the truth to your father. And perhaps he realized his mistake and had to eliminate it.”
I shake my head, not wanting to believe it. “No, that can’t be, Rafe. They worked together. They were friends for twenty years. They played golf and our families went on vacation together. His wife and my mom… They were in a book club. It can’t be true…” But even as I say the words out loud, I know that Rafe could be right. If nothing else, it gives him motive.
He places a hand on my knee. “Brie, I’m not saying it’s a fact. It’s just a lead. A theory, really.”
“What the hell was Dad doing? What did he have on them?” Hell, what am I doing? I’m in way over my head here, and if I didn’t have Rafe, I have no idea what I’d do.
“That’s what we need to find out, Brie. And we need to find it fast, before anyone else does. I’m worried about what he’s going to do if he finds out you’re here.”
Fear threatens to derail my plans, but I refuse to allow it to. I plaster on a fake smile. “Then I guess it’s a good thing you promised to protect me.”
He cups my face with his hands. “Always.”
I smile up at him, my eyes watering. This is going to be hard enough, so I force my emotions down and get back to the subject at hand.
“The realtor… Is anyone coming? Or are we just wasting our time?” I ask, standing up.
He rests his elbows on his knees as he watches me pace along the porch. “When I called the number on the sign, and asked about this particular house, they directed my call a Mr. Louis Reynolds. Does that name sound familiar?”
“No, I’ve never heard it before,” I tell him.
“Apparently, he’s the one who conducted the original sale through Burns.”
“Who bought it? And why is it for sale now?”
He shakes his head. “I have no idea, Brie. I don’t even know if anyone has lived here since you left. It should be a matter of public record. When we get back to the hotel, I’ll check the records database.”
“So, what now?” I ask, feeling dejected. Even though I wasn’t sure I could do it, I really do want to go inside.
“He said he’d send someone over with a key but not to get our hopes up. The house has been for sale for a couple of years, but the seller has turned down every offer so far. Even ones above the asking price.”
I frown, even more confused than before. “But why? What’s the point of keeping a house on the market if you have no actual intention of selling?” More questions continue to pile on top of one another, and I wonder if we’ll ever even get close to finding the answers.
Before he can respond, a shiny, red Miata pulls into the drive. He stands and crosses to me, taking my hand as a petite, blonde exits the car and smiles brightly at us. Her heels echo across the pavement as she makes her way towards us, waving along the way.
“Hi. You must be the Michaelsons. I’m Bridget Templeton,” she says, her voice sugary sweet.
The Michaelsons?
I raise an eyebrow at Rafe. He gives me a wink and a look that tells me to roll with it. Then he extends his hand to Bridget, and they shake.
“I’m Ben. This is my wife, Lila. We were out house hunting and happened by this one. We loved the outside so much we just had to have a look inside. Thank you for coming so quickly.”
The lies roll effortlessly off his tongue, and I smile warmly, hoping we present the picture of a blissfully married couple looking for a new home in which to start a family. My hand drops to my stomach, and my smile widens. Perhaps, one day soon, it’ll actually be true.
“We’re expecting,” I tell her, and she beams from ear to ear. “We’re looking to upgrade before the little one comes and things get hectic.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful!” she gushes, clasping her hands together. “This is a lovely neighborhood. Perfect for raising a family. The school district is excellent—one of the best in the state. You really can’t go wrong with this location.”
I don’t tell her that I already know that. This is a picture-perfect neighborhood. Under any other circumstances, I’d be quick to raise my own children here.
She keeps talking, but I tune her out as she unlocks the door and opens it, stepping aside so we can enter. I can’t help the gasp that escapes my lips when we walk through the door and my eyes land on Monet’s Flowers at Vetheuil. Mom thought it was welcoming, especially after guests strolled up the drive. It was almost as if she wanted her work of art—her flowerbeds—and the Monet to blend together.
But why is it still here?
As my eyes wander, they grow wider by the second. It’s as if I’ve been transported back in time. Every single thing is the same. Exactly as I left it the last time I walked out the door, vowing never to return.
Well, not exactly. The last time I was here, the house had already been cleaned, repainted, but I couldn’t see it that way. In my memory, the house had been ransacked. Blood pooled in the kitchen where they found my mom. Bloody handprints on the wall where my dad tried to get to her before he collapsed in the hall. That’s how I’ve always remembered my childhood home.
But now that I’m here, everything seems to be back in its original place. Almost as if no one had ever broken in. As if no one’s lived here for years. It’s unsettling, to say the least.
I inch forward, and my fingers touch the reproduction. When I pull them back, there’s no dust. What is going on here?
Rafe’s watching me intently when I look at him. My expression tells him something, and he clears his throat and glances at Bridget.
“Does anyone live here currently? I was under the impression it was empty, but the furnishings suggest otherwise.”
Her face pales, as if she doesn’t want to relay the dirty details of the home, but ever the professional, she replaces her frown with a warm smile. “There was a terrible tragedy in the home a few years ago where the lovely couple who lived here passed.” She grimaces, her smile faltering.
Passed. I almost scoff, but I stop myself. Of course, no one wants to buy the house where the lovely couple was murdered. Passed is a much easier explanation.
“Oh, that’s terrible,” Rafe remarks, playing along. “Has it been on the market ever since?”
Bridget frowns and bites her lower lip as she glances at the file in her hands. “It sold once, quickly after the incident. It has, however, been on and off the market ever since, but a sale has never gone through. This time, it’s been for sale for about eight months or so.”
I figure out the timeline in my mind. Eight months. That’s when everything with Adrian changed. This connects somehow. It has to. I just can’t put the pieces together. If Rafe notices, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he continues.
“The furnishings. Do they come with the home?”
&nbs
p; “Oh, no,” she laughs. “In fact, we were prepared to box everything up, but the owner was adamant that everything stay exactly the same.”
“Have you met the owner?” he asks, his tone even and one of mild curiosity. He’s questioning her and she hasn’t a clue. She’s just happy to have his attention, something I can’t even be mad about.
“I haven’t. Only Mr. Reynolds has, and even then, he still does most of his communication through e-mail and the telephone. He’s a mysterious one. As I told you on the phone, he’s extremely picky when it comes to potential buyers.”
The back-and-forth is giving me a headache, so I tug on Rafe’s arm and give him a pleading look. He smiles down at me then steps forward and takes Bridget’s arm.
“Do you mind if my wife takes a look around? Get a feel for the house? She’s an interior designer and needs complete silence to envision how she’d decorate a room. Do you mind?”
I could kiss him for how easily he lies. Briefly, I wonder if it was that easy for him to lie to me, but I shake the thought out of my mind. It was necessary at the time, and we’ve dealt with it. There’s no point in getting worked up over it again.
“Oh, of course not. Take your time. I’ll just be in the kitchen. If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
As soon as she disappears from view, I start my exploration, forcing my feet to move one in front of the other as they carry me throughout the house. It’s uncanny how nothing has changed. As I travel from room to room, my hands trail over the walls where reproductions of artwork are still displayed. All of my mother’s favorites still adorn the walls as if they’ve never been moved. Hell, they probably haven’t.
All that appears missing are the family pictures I took down and boxed away for storage. Instead of blank space on the walls, however, picture frames now sit in their places, the stock photos still inside.
It’s like whoever bought the home wanted nothing to change.
But why?
None of this makes sense.
The hair on the back of my neck rises as I climb the steps that lead towards my room. Goose bumps rise on my skin from a chill I’m sure only I can feel as I make it to the top. The long hall stretches before me, all of the doors closed. I walk past a guest bedroom and Dad’s office, and then I pause when I make it to my door.
My fingers tremble as I slowly turn the knob and then push the door open, taking a step inside.
The last time I saw this room was in my dreams. I half expected to see that ethereal sheath covering the room as my mom looked up at me from the rocking chair. But I don’t. The heavenly nursery is long gone. Just as the rest of the house is the same, so is my room. Everything I didn’t place in storage or take to Philadelphia is still here, in this room, as if no one’s lived here since I left town. As if the church members who were supposed to box up everything and use it for donations never came. I hear Rafe’s footsteps behind me and turn to look at him.
“Rafe, this doesn’t make any sense. Why is this stuff still here? It’s been years.”
He sits on the bed, the one that used to be mine, and pats the space beside him. “I want you to tell me everything about that day. The details of your last day here. Anything you can remember.”
So I do. Shame causes my face to flush as I mention the bottle of tequila, but Rafe listens intently as I retrace my steps.
“Mr. Burns assured me the church would do everything. Honestly, I didn’t really care. I was relieved I didn’t have to go through their things. I couldn’t bear the thought of having to sort through clothes and personal items one last time. To smell Dad’s aftershave or Mom’s perfume. So, instead, I closed their door, resigning myself to never seeing anything of theirs again. And after I left, I never felt the need to follow up. What did I care if a stranger was wearing Dad’s suits? Or Mom’s beautiful dresses? I didn’t want or need to know who was sitting on our couch or reclining in Dad’s chair. I simply took what I needed, left, and never looked back. In hindsight, I should’ve spent more time here, and I’m lucky that the storage unit I had was already full of things from my childhood that Mom once said I’d regret ever throwing out.”
“What about the Monet? Why did you leave that, Brie?” he asks softly, peering into my eyes. “If it meant so much to you, then what is it still doing hanging on the wall? Has it really been there this whole time?”
My eyebrows knit together. He glances at the wall behind me. Slowly, I look there too, my heart sinking as my eyes fall on The Railway Bridge at Argenteuil.
“This isn’t right. I know I took that painting. It was the one thing from the walls I took. It shouldn’t be here. It shouldn’t be here,” I chant, scrambling across the bed to inspect it. As I move closer, my suspicions are confirmed. “That’s not the right one, Rafe. That’s not my painting,” I tell him, looking back at him, my eyes wide and wild as all the breath leaves my lungs.
His eyebrows are drawn together as he watches me curiously.
I point to the corner. “The frame was chipped right in this corner. I’d been jumping on my bed, dancing and singing to some new Maroon 5 song. I accidentally knocked it off the wall, and it chipped. I promised to replace it when I saved up enough babysitting money, but Mom said it added character. Plus, it was only a reproduction.” I smile, recalling the way Mom rolled her eyes at me while I was acting like it was the end of the world.
He moves closer and rubs his thumb along the smooth edges. “This looks brand new,” he says then holds his finger up. “And look. Just like downstairs, no dust.”
“Someone beat us to it,” I murmur, feeling dejected. “Not that I even know what it is at this point.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure, Brie,” he responds, studying it. “But someone definitely wanted it to appear as if the painting had never left.”
“But why?”
“I wish I knew. This whole thing—this house, the mystery buyer and the seller who refuses to sell… It’s only deepening the mystery.”
“So, what now?”
He turns to look at me. “Now, we go to the storage unit and hope like hell it’s in there. Because after that? I have no idea what to do.”
AFTER LEAVING MS. TEMPLETON with promises that we’ll follow up as soon as possible, we get in the car and drive towards the storage unit where she’d placed her things. She hasn’t said a word since we left her room, which is okay with me. I’m lost in my own thoughts. My hope that something would spark a memory in Brie is sinking, and I’m regretting my decision to bring her here this weekend. All it’s done is uncovered more questions, and I’m worried about how much more she can take. Still, she’s shown incredible strength today, and only a few tears have been shed. But the last thing I want is to cause her or the baby undue stress.
The call I made to the real estate company has me reeling. Even I didn’t know that Morningstar dabbled in real estate, and I have a feeling I know when he started. Probably right around the time the Lathams were killed. And if my hunch is correct, I know exactly who purchased their home.
The question in the forefront of my mind is: Why?
And why is everything still in place, almost as if it’s a shrine to the couple? To the family, even.
Nothing makes sense. I would’ve loved to have spent time scouring Andrew Latham’s home office, but I needed to get Brie out of that house. That doesn’t mean I won’t be back on my own.
This trip was supposed to answer questions. All it’s done is created more.
“It’s dumb, isn’t it?” she asks, breaking the silence.
“What?” I ask, shooting her a glance. She’s nibbling on her thumb, a tell that she’s nervous. Or confused. Possibly even freaked out.
“It’s only been about three years since I left Chicago. Yet it feels like so much longer. And still, I can’t even remember what’s in that storage unit. I have no idea what I put in there. How dumb is that? I don’t even know what I have left of my parents.”
I reassuringly squeeze her
hand. “That’s not stupid, Brie. Far from it. You weren’t exactly in the right frame of mind, and no one would blame you for blocking out that time.”
She nods. “I suppose that’s true. Honestly, I was in such a fog, I barely remember those days. Right before I left for Philadelphia, I packed up my dorm and put my belongings in my car. Instead of driving east, I found myself driving towards the storage unit. I didn’t even make it out of the car. I just stared at it for minutes, hours… I don’t even know how long. But I drove away without even going inside, and I haven’t been back since.
“It has to be there, Rafe,” she says firmly. “That’s why I went back that day. To get the painting. But in the end, I was too weak to walk inside. Too weak to even open the door. That’s all I’ve been ever since. Weak.”
“You weren’t weak, Brie. You just weren’t ready.” I pause as the sign for the storage place comes into view. “Do you think you’re ready now?”
“I’m going to have to be, don’t you think?” she asks. Her hand is clammy, and her other one is anxiously tapping her thigh as she directs me towards her unit.
When I park, she jumps out of the car. By the time I catch up to her, the door to the storage unit is wide open. She swallows hard, takes a deep breath, and then steps inside.
Right behind her, I find the light switch and flick it on. The small space is flooded with light, and when I look at Brie, she’s studying the unit with a critical eye.
“Someone’s been here,” she whispers, her eyes widening. “Even though things were kind of a blur back then, I’m meticulous when it comes to organization. I know it, Rafe. Someone has been here.”
She points out things that are out of place, and I usher her farther inside so I can close us in, far away from the possibility of prying eyes. We spend the next hour hunting, continuously coming up empty. As Brie combs through boxes, I realize that this has become more of a trip down memory lane. While she’s sorting through photos, often wiping tears from her eyes, I leave her be and resume my own search, even though I’m not exactly sure what I’m looking for.
