The Thriller Collection

by S W Vaughn

  “My agent?” She blinks once. “I thought you were my agent. Aren’t you the one selling this house?”

  I press my lips together to keep the frown back. “I’m the listing agent. I work for the sellers,” I say slowly. “Ms. Byers, is this your first time buying a home?”

  “Please, it’s Hannah.” She looks confused, and more nervous than ever. “I just thought … I mean, no, I’ve never bought a house before. I didn’t know I needed an agent.” She gives a little sigh and takes her sunglasses off, tucking them into the bag slung over her shoulder. Her eyes are a startling blue, a shade almost as deep and vibrant as her car. She really is movie-star beautiful. “Can’t you be my agent, too?” she says. “I really don’t want to be bothered finding a different one. I just want to buy a house. Hopefully this one.”

  My throat goes a little dry, and I try not to think about the possibility of this working out. If she does retain me, and the sale goes through, I get the full six percent commission instead of a fifty-fifty split. Twenty-four thousand dollars. But I have to be careful, because there are all sorts of rules about dual agency.

  “Well … Hannah, I can represent you in the sale,” I say in a measured tone. “But—”

  “Perfect,” she interrupts with a relieved smile. “You’re my agent, then.”

  “But as a dual agent, I’ll have to work with the best interests of the sellers in mind,” I say anyway, because I’m required to. “Not that there’s anything to disclose with this property. It’s pretty straightforward. Still, you should be aware that a separate buyer’s agent is recommended.”

  Hannah flaps a slim, expertly manicured hand at me. “You’re fine. I trust you,” she says. “I’m really good at reading people.”

  I’m almost proud of myself for hesitating before I reply. It’s hard not to jump at the chance to double an already huge commission without considering the ethics, but I’m determined to do this all above-board.

  “Okay. I’ll just need you to sign an extra disclosure form, and I can represent you,” I say. “Sound good?”

  She smiles. “Fantastic, thank you. Can we look at the house?”

  “Of course.”

  As I lead her across the walkway from the garage to the front door, my thoughts return to this morning and how out-of-place she seemed at the school, alone in a bathrobe with no child in evidence. I decide to poke at the mystery a little. “You know, this home is ideal for a big family,” I say as I retrieve the house key from my purse and stop in front of the entrance. “Do you have any children?”

  She doesn’t answer right away. When I glance at her, there’s a strange, almost distant look on her face. “I have a daughter,” she says in a soft, halting tone. “Her name is Alice. She’s four, but she’ll be five in October. We … need a lot of space.”

  My breath catches, and I fumble the key as I’m trying to insert it in the deadbolt. It’s just a coincidence, but it’s a hell of a big one. “Wow, that’s amazing,” I manage in a normal voice, this time slipping the key home. “My daughter is four, and her birthday’s in October too. Her name is Alyssa.”

  “Really?” Hannah flashes a smile that’s almost painfully shy. “Maybe our daughters will be friends,” she says. “See, I knew there was a reason I trusted you. This must be fate.”

  I’m not so sure about that, but at least I know she wasn’t at the elementary school for no reason. Still, it’s bizarre to think that she dropped her daughter off wearing a bathrobe, and then stood there staring at the kids for who knows how long.

  “Okay, here we go.” I turn the key and open the door onto the grand foyer, ready to start my pitch. After all this time, if I finally manage to sell this house — and at double the commission — I’m definitely going to celebrate.

  As I hold the door open for Hannah, I realize I’ve forgotten to ask about financing. And as a first-time homebuyer who thought she didn’t need an agent, she probably didn’t know much about the rest of the process either. “Hannah, do you have a pre-approval letter for the mortgage?” I say. “If you need help with financing, I can get you started with your bank or a lending company.”

  She gives another dismissive hand-wave. “Oh, I don’t bother with things like that,” she says. “I’ll just pay cash.”

  “Cash?” I stammer, my dreams of a fat commission unraveling like smoke. Nobody pays the full asking price in cash, especially with a six-digit property. “Um. Well, unfortunately the sellers aren’t willing to negotiate the price—”

  “Four hundred thousand, right?” This time her smile is teasing, like a woman with a wicked secret. “Yes, I know. I’ve got it,” she says. “I’m disgustingly rich, and I don’t like to wait for what I want. I can pay the full price, in cash.”

  I hope she can’t see the dollar signs dancing in my eyes as I follow her into the house.

  Chapter 4

  Alyssa talks a mile a minute about her day, all the way out of the school to the car. She’s still talking when I pull onto the main road and head for home. I feel guilty for not hearing every word or responding as much as I should, because my head is still spinning.

  Hannah Byers put in a purchase offer on the Victorian for four hundred thousand, cash, and the Quintaines accepted immediately. I’m selling the house.

  I’m getting twenty-four thousand dollars.

  “Mommy, did you hear me?” Alyssa says from the back seat.

  I startle and blow out a long breath, trying to clear my head. This is a huge day for my daughter too, and she deserves my full attention. “I’m sorry, munchkin,” I say. “I was tickling sheep.”

  She giggles at our private little joke. One of my mother’s frequent sayings is ‘I was woolgathering,’ and I picked up the habit from her to brush off those spaced-out moments. The first time I said it to Alyssa, she wanted to know what it meant. I didn’t know myself, exactly, and somehow from my rambling explanation, she boiled it down to ‘tickling sheep.’ We’d both ended up on the floor, laughing like lunatics, and the expression stuck.

  “Well, stop tickling them,” she says, still giggling. “I said, I have a new best friend. Her name is Izzy. We ate lunch together, and we had pizza! She’s really nice.”

  “That sounds awesome. The friend, and the pizza,” I say, thinking suddenly of Hannah and her mystery daughter. “Can I ask you something, honey? Do you have a girl named Alice in your class?”

  I glance in the rear view mirror and catch my daughter’s adorable, scrunched frown of concentration. “No,” she says as she starts counting on her fingers. “There’s Sophia, Lavender, Pammie, Dallas, Addison, Miguel …”

  “Okay, okay,” I laugh. “I get it. There’s no Alice in your class.”

  “No Alice,” she agrees. “I wish Izzy was in my class, though. She’s in Miss Wilson’s. Izzy says that Miss Wilson smells like a barn. What does a barn smell like, Mommy?”

  I have to clap a hand over my mouth to keep from laughing. When I get control of myself, I say, “Barns smell like hay. Listen, honey … just so you know, it’s not nice to tell people they smell like a barn. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she agrees cheerfully. “Mrs. Jocasta smells like pancakes.”

  Well, at least it’s better than a barn.

  Home is a nice three-bedroom, split-level white ranch with green trim, just six blocks from the elementary school. Maxine Hughes, the owner of the agency I work for, helped me get this place at an auction shortly after Alyssa was born, and I’m kind of proud of it. I’ve been luckier than most single mothers.

  My heart clenches as I remember the news about Brad, and I pull into the garage trying to push the thought aside. I just can’t deal with that tonight.

  But I know I’ll have to soon.

  Alyssa waits until the engine turns off and the door unlocks, and then she springs from the car holding her backpack and races for the inside door to the kitchen. “I’m gonna win!” she shouts.

  I take my time and let her win, gathering my purse and briefcase, then h
itting the close button for the garage door on the way. By the time I reach the wooden steps, she’s already inside, beaming triumphantly. “I won,” she says. “Can I please have a Go-Gurt and some popcorn and watch cartoons?”

  “Absolutely. Why don’t you go put your backpack away in your room, and I’ll meet you in the living room?”

  “Yay!” She scrambles off into the house.

  When I get inside, I set my stuff on the small table next to the door, then kick my shoes off and shove them under it. I’ll get Alyssa’s snack, and then put everything away and change into something comfortable. The rest of today is cancelled, huge pending commission or not. I’ve already promised to spend it with my daughter.

  I cross the kitchen, open a cabinet and grab a bag of popcorn, tearing the plastic wrap off before I toss it in the microwave and give it five minutes. That’s way too long, but I don’t trust the ‘popcorn’ button to stop the oven in time. I just listen for the pops to slow down.

  My phone chimes in my pocket as I’m headed for the fridge, and I pull it out thinking I should set it on vibrate, or just turn it off. The notification is a text message. I debate ignoring it, but decide to check just this one before I make myself unavailable.

  I tap through to my messages, and my heart drops in an unlovely swoop.

  I know what you did. Murderer.

  My mouth goes cotton dry. With shaking hands, I open the message, but there’s no more. Just those six words. I don’t recognize the number it came from, but the area code is Oslow. Where she lived.

  A surge of helpless anger breaks through my panic, and I tap out Who the hell is this? and hit send. I am not a murderer. She’s dead, it’s my fault and I have to live with that, but it wasn’t murder.

  Shivers run through me as I clench the phone almost tight enough to crack the screen, and I stare at it willing whoever this is to reply. I’m barely breathing and I can’t seem to swallow. This can’t be happening. Or maybe it’s just a joke, an awful, tasteless prank sent to the wrong number.

  My phone chimes again.

  Wouldn’t you like to know?

  Oh, God. What am I supposed to do about this? Maybe I should call the police — but it’s not exactly a threat, the way it’s worded. Just an accusation.

  It feels like a threat, though.

  “Mommy? Are you okay?”

  Somehow I manage not to scream at the sound of my daughter’s voice, but I drop the phone and wince as it bounces on the tiled floor. “I’m fine, munchkin,” I say without turning around, not wanting her to see my face until I calm down a little. I grab the phone and curse inwardly before I shove it in my pocket. The screen’s cracked. “Everything okay with you?”

  I turn to find her standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room, her nose wrinkled in distaste. “It smells like a barn in here,” she says.

  That’s when I finally notice the burning smell.

  “Oh, no. The popcorn!” I rush to the microwave and yank the door open. Clouds of scorch-scented smoke billow out, and I cough and wave a hand in front of my face. “Stay back, honey,” I say. “I have to make sure it’s safe.”

  The smoke clears slowly. At least the bag isn’t on fire, but it’s blackened along the top and still smoldering. I grab the bottom edge, rush over to the sink, and run tap water over the whole bag. Steam hisses from the charred edges as the cold water drenches and shrivels everything.

  And a small voice pipes up behind me: “Do I have to eat that popcorn, Mommy?”

  The laugh that bursts from my throat is shrill and desperate, but at least it’s a laugh. I lean down and pick up Alyssa, carrying her away from the sink. “No way. I’ll make you a whole new bag,” I say as I head through the dining room and into the living room. “One that doesn’t smell like a barn.”

  I expect a giggle or a smile, but my daughter only looks at me, her small face serious. “You’re so sad,” she says. “It’s okay. I don’t need popcorn.”

  “Oh, honey.” I stop beside the couch and hug her, breathing in the sweet smell of her hair. I have to force myself not to shake. “Trust me, popcorn is not a problem.”

  She squeezes me back and plants an unexpected kiss on my lips. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too. So much.”

  I swing her down to the couch, and she giggles as I tickle her. “Now serving popcorn and Go-Gurt in the living room,” I say. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  I’m trembling as I head to the kitchen. As if Rosalie’s suicide and Brad basically returning from the dead isn’t enough, now I’ve got someone threatening me through text messages. And I have no idea what to do about any of it.

  For now, I’m going to stick with the plan and spend the day with my daughter, having fun — or trying to. It’s something I think we both need.

  Chapter 5

  It’s day two of kindergarten, and Alyssa is already insisting that I don’t have to walk her all the way to her classroom. I take her as far as the sidewalk past the buses, and she hugs me before she joins the throngs of kids flowing into the school. She’s so small that I lose sight of her almost instantly, and I’m tempted to follow after her, just to make sure she’s safe. But I head back to my car and drive to work instead.

  I don’t see Hannah at the school this morning, with or without the child who has so much in common with mine. Part of me wonders if she’s lying about having a daughter. But I know I’m being ridiculous — why would she lie about that? Besides, there are four kindergarten classes at the school, so Alice Byers must be in one of the other three.

  Today is going to be a little outside the norm. I’d called Jill last night after I got Alyssa tucked into bed and told her about my big sale. She was more excited than me and insisted that we go out for a quick drink tonight, even though it was a weekday. I did want to celebrate, but I’d feel guilty leaving my daughter. So we’d compromise. I’d get a sitter to come after Alyssa was asleep, and we’d hit Old City for an hour or so.

  We’d talked briefly about Brad, and I told her I still hadn’t decided what to do. I almost mentioned the disturbing text, but I changed my mind at the last minute. Telling Jill what I’d done wasn’t at the top of my list of confessions I wanted to make. I was too ashamed to admit it to anyone.

  But I have to put that out of my mind now. I’m almost at work.

  The office of Hughes Real Estate is less than a mile from the elementary school. It’s a small, one-story building that looks more like a house than a business, with a row of six parking spaces out front and a slightly larger parking lot in the back. I drive around back and park far from the building, reminding myself to focus on work, because it’ll help me keep my mind off everything else for a while. Then I head inside. It’s still early, not quite eight, but Maxine will be here. No one knows exactly how early she gets in, but it’s always before everyone else.

  The office is an open floor plan with most of the space dedicated to desks. Eight stations, each with a small, flimsy ‘privacy wall’ rather than traditional cubicles, and then a reception area by the front entrance and Maxine’s private office at the back. Right now we only have four agents, plus Maxine and her niece, Courtney, whose job is to sit at the reception desk and work hard at avoiding work. She’s the only one who isn’t on commission, and the word hustle is definitely not in her vocabulary.

  When I walk in, the main area is deserted and Maxine’s door is closed, but her office lights are on and I can see her shape in there behind the frosted glass. I head for my desk, planning to spend the morning on editing photos, updating my listings, and tackling any busywork I can find. I need a little down time after all that’s happened.

  As I’m sitting down to start my computer up, Maxine emerges with an empty mug and heads for the coffee counter behind the reception desk, giving me a nod of acknowledgment as she passes. She’s one of those women who make aging seem effortless — at sixty-five, she looks fifty and acts forty. Today she’s wearing a bright-print wrap skirt and
a white top with a silver shimmer that matches her close-cropped hair, large silver hoop earrings, and a pretty turquoise pendant.

  If she had a matching head wrap, she’d look like a fortune teller. But I’m not going to mention that. Maxine’s breezy fashion sense suits her just fine.

  She pours herself a cup of black coffee and turns back, slowing as she approaches me. “That’s what I like to see. People chained to their desks first thing in the morning,” she says with a teasing smile. “How’s your daughter doing with school?”

  “Great so far. She took right to it,” I say.

  “Good to hear.” Maxine nods and sips at her coffee. “Great work on the Quintaine property, by the way. I really didn’t think that one would ever sell.”

  I shake my head. “Same here.”

  “Well, it’s in the bag now. Nicely done.” She lifts her mug slightly in a half-salute, and then keeps walking toward her office without another word.

  I figure that’s her small-talk quota for the day. Maxine doesn’t like to waste time.

  By now my computer’s finished cycling to life, and I get started on all the tedious, mundane tasks that require a lot of time but not much attention. An hour passes before I know it, and I only notice the time when the back door opens and someone walks in. I glance up, and then look away fast, hoping I didn’t make eye contact.

  Sabrina Groth is not my favorite person in the world.

  Damn, she’s coming toward me. I hold back a sigh and look up, pasting on a smile that’s as phony as they come, but I don’t care if she notices. Sabrina is the top selling agent in the company and makes sure everyone knows it. She’s the competitive type, and for some reason she’s decided that I’m her main competition.