by S W Vaughn
“Your friend? Not at all.” She’s so relieved, I can hear it in her breathing. “Maybe we can meet there at nine?”
“That works for me. See you then.”
We hang up, and I smirk at the phone for a moment. Hannah really is something — I just wish I knew what. Now I have to call Tabitha to make sure she’s available tomorrow night to watch Alyssa, and Jill to make sure she’ll come with me. But before I can do any of that, I notice Sabrina stalking across the room toward my desk, spoiling for a catfight.
I imagine myself making some outrageous remark just to shut her up before she gets started, like ‘What’s wrong, Sabrina, did your plastic surgeon tell you he can’t fix stupid?’ Instead, like always, I paste on my fake smile and wait for her to drop the gauntlet.
It’s not a long wait. She stops in front of me and drawls, “So you’re finally closing the deal, are you? Took you long enough. I mean, if I had a property like that, I could’ve sold it in a week.”
“Yes, well, we can’t all be perfect like you,” I fire back. It’s the closest I dare to get to what I really want to say, and even speaking those words out loud makes me shaky. “Listen, Sabrina, I’ve got a lot of work —”
“Oh, I’ll bet you do.” She isn’t going to back off. “By the way, have you been to see Brad yet? I have,” she says. “His parents were so happy to see me. In fact, I’m thinking of giving him another chance.”
“You’re so full of shit!” I shout, startling myself — and Courtney, who glances over briefly from the reception desk before she goes back to playing on her phone. “You don’t care about him,” I say in a lower voice. “Go ahead and be the queen of real estate if you want to, but stop dragging Brad into whatever this is between us. He’s been through enough.”
Sabrina lunges and smacks her palms on my desk, leaning toward me with a shark’s grin. “You’re right. I don’t care about Brad,” she says. “You, on the other hand … I’m going to get rid of you.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Her expression turns frosty. “I’m tired of busting my ass around here, just to watch you land the easy scores. I mean, how did you pull off a cash deal on a four hundred grand property? Nobody does that.”
I’m actually a little scared now. She looks deranged. “I just got lucky. Right place, right time,” I say in what I hope is a calm voice, glancing around to see whether Courtney is paying attention. Of course, she isn’t. “Sabrina, what’s this all about?”
The back door opens then, and Maxine bustles in with a cup of coffee in one hand and a box of donuts in the other. Sabrina backs off instantly, all smiles for the boss, but there’s a predatory gleam in her eyes.
“Happy Friday. Don’t say I never got you anything,” Maxine says as she crosses the room to deposit the donut box on the counter next to the coffee pot. If she notices the tension in the room, she doesn’t mention it.
Courtney makes a beeline for the donuts. I wouldn’t mind one, but I’m not ready to move just yet. I’m still shaken by Sabrina’s outburst.
“You’re the best, Maxine,” Sabrina says. “Wish I could have one, but I’ve got to run. I have an open house this afternoon and I’m expecting at least half a dozen offers.”
Maxine rolls her eyes slightly. “Good for you,” she says, already heading toward her office. “Hope you don’t sprain your arm too hard patting yourself on the back.”
I manage to clamp my mouth shut over a laugh, but it’s close.
At least Maxine’s presence has taken the air out of Sabrina’s sails. She heads stiffly to her desk, grabs her purse and briefcase, and turns to look at me. “Enjoy being on top while you can,” she says with syrupy sweetness. “You won’t stay there long.”
I shake my head as she walks to the back door and leaves the building. Whatever’s gotten into her, she’ll probably get over it once the closing is over and she has more amazing sales to boast about. I won’t be much competition for a while. I’m already planning to coast on my little windfall, at least for a few weeks, while I deal with other things. Like Brad.
Once Sabrina is gone, my heart rate finally settles somewhere around normal. I grab my phone to call Tabitha about tomorrow night. But it chimes in my hand as a text comes in, and my nice, normal heartbeat stops entirely.
You don’t deserve the life you have.
It’s from the same unknown number as the one accusing me of murder. Shivering, I tap on the message bubble, and another text chimes in as the thread opens.
I’m going to take it from you.
“What the hell?” I say aloud, hitting the reply box. I’m half tempted to go out to the back parking lot and see if Sabrina is sitting in her car on her phone, but I tap out a reply instead. Is this you, Sabrina?
I send the message and wait. Eventually, the phone pings again.
It’s not going to be that easy. You’ll never see me coming.
I’m cold all over and wondering whether I should call the police after all. This definitely sounds like a threat. I just don’t know what they’re threatening.
But I have a sinking feeling I’m going to find out.
Chapter 9
Alyssa is thrilled about Tabitha coming over tonight. Since it’s not a school night, she gets to stay up late and watch movies and be goofy. She’s in her pajamas on the couch, and I’m next to her in my going-out clothes — boots and black jeans, a lacy cream-colored top, and a long, lightweight cardigan with big pockets.
My daughter works the remote, navigating Netflix with frightening ease. I don’t recall being this easy with technology at four years old. But then, who remembers being four? My first memory is turning eight, and feeling angry because my parents bought my little sister a present for my birthday so she wouldn’t feel left out. They never got me a present for her birthday. I remember thinking I’d confront my mom, and then playing out the conversation in my head: Why does Vivian get a present for my birthday, but I don’t get one for hers? Because you’re the big sister, Celine. You have to be responsible, and Vivian is too little to understand why she doesn’t get any presents. But she’s five, Mom. She does understand. It’s not fair. Well, if it’s not fair, then we’ll just take all the presents back to the store and no one will get any.
That exchange never took place, because after I thought about it, I decided not to complain. Even then I was afraid of confrontation.
Now Vivian’s in California, studying structural engineering at UC Berkley — and I’m still here, disappointing my mother. She’s never been the looking-forward-to-grandchildren type, and although she loves Alyssa, I know she wishes I’d done something more with my life. And both of my parents are still furious that I won’t tell them who the father of my child is.
How could I, when he doesn’t even know?
“Look, Mommy. It’s the blue fish movie,” Alyssa says, pointing the remote at the TV where she’s selected Finding Nemo. “I ’member it from when I was little.”
I laugh and ruffle her silky hair. “You’re still little, munchkin,” I tell her.
“Not as little as I used to be.”
“That’s very true,” I say. “And you haven’t seen this one in a while. Are you going to watch it tonight?”
“Maybe,” she says, drawing the word out. “Or maybe I’ll watch Frozen again.”
That seems likely. Frozen is the best movie ever, after all.
The doorbell rings, and I get up to answer it. Tabitha is a few minutes early. When I open the door, she’s standing there with a shoebox-sized plastic container and a smile, her laptop bag slung over a shoulder. “I made us cupcakes. Hope you don’t mind,” she says.
“Oh, you’re definitely going to be Alyssa’s favorite person tonight.” I return the smile and step back to let her in. “Thanks for coming. I’m sorry about the short notice.”
Tabitha walks in and waves to Alyssa, who’s mugging like mad from the couch. “It’s no problem at all,” she says. “The only hot date I had tonight was with
my bathtub, and that’s over now. You look great, Celine.”
“Thank you. But I don’t have a hot date either,” I say with a laugh. “Just a client.”
We head to the kitchen, and I grab my purse while Tabitha puts the cupcake box on the counter. She’s three years younger than me and runs some kind of online business — I’m not sure exactly what, but she makes decent money and has a super-flexible schedule since she can work anywhere from her laptop. She’s also getting dual degrees in programming and business management, attending Oslow and an online school at the same time.
For some reason, she makes me feel old.
Just as I’m about to go back to the living room and say goodnight to my daughter, Tabitha says, “Hey … did you hear about Brad Dowling?”
It seems everybody’s hearing about Brad lately. Apparently, I can’t stop hearing about Brad. “You mean about him waking up?” I say, struggling to keep it casual.
“Yeah. It’s wild, right? Five years,” she says as she shakes her head. “I can’t even imagine what that’s like, to wake up and find out you’ve been asleep that long. He must be pretty strong to survive that. Didn’t he get crushed or something?”
“Car accident,” I say absently as I wrestle with sudden, painful memories of that night.
Tabitha doesn’t seem to notice. She’s looking into the distance, a fond smile on her face. “I had such a crush on him in high school,” she says. “You know, the whole gorgeous senior, geeky freshman fantasy. I even did that notebook thing, filled a whole one up with his name and mine like we were married. Mrs. Tabitha Dowling, Mr. and Mrs. Brad Dowling, all that dumb stuff, with hearts and flowers all over. God, I was stupid.” She shakes herself back to the present and grins. “But I’ll bet half the girls who went to Wolfsbrook High that year had a notebook just like it,” she says. “Did you know him? You were a junior, right?”
I manage a nod. “We were in college together,” I say, and leave it at that. “So, do you need anything else for tonight? I have to head out soon.”
“I think we’re good. I’ll call you if we have any problems.”
“Thanks again. I’m just going to say goodbye,” I say, already headed for the dining room. “I won’t be gone too long, probably eleven at the latest.”
“No worries,” she calls after me.
By the time I wrap up the mommy’s-leaving ritual with Alyssa, Tabitha is in the living room with a plate of cupcakes and two glasses of milk. My daughter hardly notices that I’m going. She’s preoccupied with mounds of frosting, not to mention Elsa and Olaf.
I feel worse than ever about Brad. Somehow, I’ve got to stand up to his mother and tell him what happened, before life carries him away from me again.
Old City is packed tonight. There’s a local band playing live rock music, and they’re not half bad, but they sound better from a distance. That’s why the three of us are outside, standing by the rail of the concrete barrier that separates the patio from the creek. There’s a breeze blowing across the water, still warm for September, and I’m pleasantly buzzed for the second night in a week. It’s a record for me.
Jill is decked out in a leather mini-dress and thigh-high boots, sipping her third Jack and Coke as she casually peruses the selection of single males. Unfortunately, there’s not much variety — in a town like Wolfsbrook, you find pretty much the same faces every time. And then there’s Hannah, with a fire-engine-red silk top over spangled gold tights and her nails painted to match. She’s alternately chain-smoking red Marlboros and chewing on her thumbnail as the conversation comes in awkward fits and spurts.
“So,” I say after a swallow of my own drink. I’m sticking to tame Tom Collins so I can drive myself home, but Jill took an Uber here. “How does your daughter like kindergarten?”
Hannah startles, and Jill looks on with sly anticipation while she fumbles for an answer and finally says, “She’s fine, I think. No complaints.”
Well, that’s vague. I decide to press a little harder. “Which teacher does she have?”
“Um. Mrs. Somebody,” Hannah says with a slight flush. “I’m not sure, actually. I’m terrible with names.”
“Is it Mrs. Jocasta?” I say. “Alyssa’s in her class.”
Hannah bites her lip. “I don’t know. Maybe,” she says, and looks away. “Can we talk about something else?”
She seems distressed. At this point I’m not sure if she’s lying or actually doesn’t like to talk about her daughter for some reason, which seems strange, but I’ll drop the subject. No reason to alienate her before the closing. “Okay, sure,” I say. “What did you do before you came to Wolfsbrook?”
“Oh, you know. Mostly I just hung around being rich,” she says with a small laugh. “And I did a little programming for a while. I designed an app. Look, I’ll show you.” She digs in her purse — Louis Vuitton tonight instead of the Hermès — to come up with a cell phone, and swipes a password to unlock the screen. “Here it is,” she says, pointing to an icon. “It’s … not great or anything, but it works.”
The icon is a cartoon megaphone with a funny, wiggly mouth at the wide end and a blue musical note imposed across the center. “Um. What is it?”
Hannah presses her lips together. “It’s called ShoutTone,” she sort of mutters. “You connect it to your address book, and it uses your conversations and stuff to match celebrity quotes or bits of music to your contacts, and give them all unique ring tones and text notification sounds.” She gives a one-shouldered shrug. “It works right about half the time.”
“That’s pretty cool,” I say. “Jill’s into that kind of programming stuff.”
Jill snorts and rolls her eyes. “I made a website once. That doesn’t make me a programmer,” she says. “It is cool, though. Your app, I mean.”
Looking pleased, Hannah starts to say something, but then a female voice shouts across the patio: “Oh my God, Celine! I can’t believe you’re here!”
It’s Missy. Again. I haven’t seen her since college, and suddenly she’s everywhere I go.
She pushes her way through the crowd toward us, and I notice the blond figure trailing her and realize I never did tell Jill about seeing her the other day. I lean toward her and whisper, “You’re not gonna believe this, but Missy’s engaged to your nemesis.”
She smirks. “Your friend is marrying Angeline Jolie?”
“Not that nemesis,” I say. “The one you work with.”
Jill’s jaw drops as Missy reaches us with her fiancé in tow. “Danny?” she blurts.
Missy’s eyes narrow, and the blond looks up and rubs the back of his neck. “It’s Dan,” he mumbles. “I don’t really like Danny.”
“Well, you never mentioned that. How was I supposed to know?”
“Excuse me,” Missy says with a brittle smile. “You two know each other?”
I step forward and hold out a placating hand. “Jill’s a paralegal. She works in Danny — er, Dan’s office,” I say. “And this is Hannah.”
Missy gives Hannah the full side-eye. “Weren’t you at Rosalie’s funeral?”
Hannah blinks and plucks a fresh cigarette from her pocket. “Yes,” she says.
“How did you know her?” Missy demands. “I’ve never seen you before then, and I know all of Rosalie’s friends and family. She was my best friend, you know.” Tears form in her eyes. She sniffles and holds a hand out, and Dan fumbles a travel tissue pack out, separates a single tissue and gives it to her.
I don’t dare look at Jill’s face during this little exchange. If I do, I know I’ll burst out laughing.
“She was in my sociology class. In college,” Hannah says almost woodenly.
“You went to Oslow?” Missy dabs at her eyes with the tissue. “I didn’t see you there.”
Hannah shrugs one shoulder. “I was only there for two semesters.”
“Well, you … oh, God, I sound like such a bitch!” Missy says. She’s on the verge of wailing. “I’m sorry. It’s just — Celine, you won’
t believe what happened.” She grabs my hand, switching moods from misery to breathless shock. “The police say that the handwriting on Rosalie’s suicide note isn’t hers. They think she might have been murdered,” she gushes, and now the tears start falling. “Isn’t that horrible? I mean, who would want to kill Rosalie?”
I’m too shocked to respond, but Missy doesn’t seem to require a reply. She throws herself into Dan’s arms, sobbing. “I’m so sorry. I think I need some air,” she says. “It was great to see you again, Celine. Jill, Hannah.”
Dan leads her dutifully away, without pointing out that she’s already standing outside where there’s plenty of air. I stare after them and try to process the news — Rosalie didn’t commit suicide. She was murdered. I know Missy tends to exaggerate everything, but she wouldn’t lie about this.
And now I have to wonder why whoever faked her suicide would mention Brad.
Chapter 10
After Saturday night, the rest of the weekend passes by quietly. I don’t even try to tackle the big problems — Brad, the threatening texts, Rosalie’s murder, none of it. I just want to get through the closing this afternoon and feel like I’ve accomplished something. Then I’ll worry about the rest.
I go back home for a while after I take Alyssa to school, and wait to head to the office until a little after nine. It’s cowardly of me, I know, but I don’t want to be alone there with Sabrina. The last text I got is so vague, I’m not sure what it meant, but I know it doesn’t rule her out. Though I’m not sure how she would have found out about Joan.
When I walk in, Sabrina and Lucas are at their desks and Maxine is in her office. Courtney hasn’t arrived yet, but that’s not surprising, since she views her nine AM start time as more of a guideline than a rule. And our fourth agent, Eleanor Finch, rarely comes to the office since she’s semi-retired and this job is basically her hobby. Maxine allows it because the two of them went to school together.
