by S W Vaughn
“Hello?” My heart is already sinking as I answer the call. It’s probably more bad news. Maybe the technical issues with my real estate license are permanent. Maybe I’m fired. Maybe Sabrina ran off to Vegas with all the money, including my half.
“Celine, I’m glad I caught you,” Maxine says. “Did you get the message from the commission?”
Great. It’s about my license. “No, I didn’t,” I say. “What’s wrong now?”
“Nothing, actually. They found the problem and fixed it, so you’re all set. Your license is valid.”
I want to be happy about that. But I can’t quite get there. A one-day-resolution is fast for the real estate commission, but it’s still one day too late. “Okay. Thank you,” I say, wondering why they didn’t call me. They must have emailed. I haven’t checked my work email since yesterday morning. “Maxine, I was thinking about —”
“You’ll be here tomorrow, won’t you?” Maxine says, interrupting me just before taking a few days off comes out of my mouth. “We had an inquiry from a new seller with a very high-end property, and I told them about your success with the Quintaine home. They want to sign on with you, and they’re highly motivated to sell.”
This is Maxine’s backhanded way of apologizing for giving my commission to Sabrina. She’s trying to bulldoze me into gratitude. Even though I did want a few days off, I’ll take the client — but I’m going to be petty and not actually thank her for it. “All right. I’ll be there in the morning,” I say. “See you then.”
I hang up before she can say anything further and toss the phone back on the bed. My tiny flash of defiance feels good for a minute, and when the guilt and self-recrimination for being rude hits me, I try to ignore it.
My ignorance doesn’t last long, but it’s nice while it does.
Chapter 15
Alyssa has her first show-and-tell today at school. She wanted to take a spaghetti dinner in to share with the class, but I managed to convince her that it was a better idea to bring something non-edible. She decided on her pinecone collection from our many mini-vacations with Jill to the cabin, which she’s been gathering since she was two.
Now she’s safely in class with her pinecones, and I’m pulling into the office, once again arriving a little after nine. It’s another small act of defiance, not coming in early, and I doubt Maxine will notice. But it makes me smile.
Unfortunately, my private smile withers when I walk inside to Maxine emerging from her office, with Hannah Byers right behind her.
I don’t get the chance to ask what she’s doing here. Hannah rushes over to me, grinning broadly, and says, “I asked Maxine about being a real estate agent, just like you said. And I’m going for it!”
“Going for what?” I stammer, shooting a quick frown at Maxine.
“Hannah’s going to join our agency,” Maxine says. “I’ve just helped her enroll in an online licensing course, and she’s going to start sitting in today, learning the ropes.”
I blink and look around the office, as if this is some practical joke and I’ll find hidden cameras somewhere recording my reaction. But all I see is a new desktop computer on the formerly empty desk next to mine. None of the other agents are here, so if she’s supposed to be sitting in today …
“I’m so excited that I’ll get to work with you,” Hannah says.
Good God, what is it with this woman? I really don’t understand why she’s latched onto me so hard. First she has a daughter just like mine, and now she wants a job just like mine? This is getting a little ridiculous.
“It’s a great opportunity,” Maxine says, looking pleased with herself. “Since you’re just getting started with new sellers, Hannah will be able to see the whole process from step one. She’ll be ready to jump in right away once she completes her license.”
Yes, a great opportunity. For Hannah. Not so much for me, because if I’m supposed to babysit her while she takes the licensing course, I’ll have to be in the office more often. And coordinate my schedule more carefully. And spend more time with Hannah.
None of these are things I want to do.
“Why don’t you give her to Sabrina, like you did with my commission?” I say. “She doesn’t have a child to take care of, and she’s really good at kissing ass when there’s something in it for her.”
Except I don’t actually say that. What I do is grin and bear it, like always.
I make the appropriate congratulatory small talk and head to my desk, half hoping that Hannah changes her mind and leaves. But she follows me, sits down at the newly equipped desk, and stares at me while I start up my computer and go through my briefcase.
I decide that if I’m going to be working with her, I’d like a few more answers.
“So, did you ever remember the teacher’s name for your daughter’s class?” I say casually. “I’m still trying to figure out if she’s in the same class as Alyssa.”
Hannah sighs. “I’m really not good with that sort of thing,” she says.
I can’t imagine not knowing who my child’s teacher is, but maybe it’s not that weird. I admit, I can be a little anal about things that involve my daughter. “You said her birthday is in October, right? What day?”
“The twenty-first,” she says promptly.
At least she pulled that one out fast, and it’s not the same as Alyssa’s. But it is the same numbers reversed, because Alyssa’s is the twelfth.
I remember that last time she asked not to talk about her daughter, so I switch gears. “Didn’t you say that you went to Oslow State for a while?” I ask her. “I went there too, but I never graduated. I … got pregnant and dropped out.” I almost mention Brad and the accident, but I really don’t want to discuss that with her. I don’t even talk to my actual friends much about that, except Jill.
Hannah brightens a bit. “We have so much in common. That’s exactly what happened to me,” she says. “We must’ve been there for the same years, since our daughters were born so close together. I don’t think I ever had a class with you, though.” She smiles. “I would’ve remembered.”
“So we’re the same age, too,” I say. “Did you grow up in Wolfsbrook?”
If she says yes, I’ll know she’s lying about that. She would’ve been in my graduating class, and I remember just about everyone I went to high school with.
But she shakes her head. “I came here from Oslow,” she says vaguely.
I notice that she doesn’t say that’s where she grew up.
My suspicions about her are elevated, but I don’t feel all that confident interrogating people. In fact, my pulse is already starting to race. I drop the questions and instead start introducing her to the websites and programs she’ll be using, since she’s randomly decided to be a real estate agent. She seems to pay attention and take an interest. At least that’s something, if I’m going to be stuck with her.
But I’ve already decided to find out more about Hannah on my own, and I know where to start looking.
Chapter 16
That night as I’m tucking Alyssa into bed, she says, “Mommy, if you call my school and ask them, will they put Izzy in my class?”
I smile at her. “Probably not, munchkin,” I say. “Is she having problems with her class, or do you two just want to spend more time together?”
“Well, yes. She’s my best friend,” Alyssa says with an unspoken duh, as if I’ve just asked the dumbest question in the world. “But Izzy doesn’t like her teacher. Mrs. Jocasta is nicer than Miss Wilson, so she wants to be in my class.”
“I see. In that case, Izzy’s mommy would have to ask the school if she can be in a different class.”
“Oh.” My daughter sighs. “What if it’s not Izzy’s real mommy?”
Oh, boy. I should’ve realized that when she started school, Alyssa was going to be a little more exposed to different types of families. She’d have a lot of questions about them. And I knew that eventually, it would lead to questions about her father. She’s only asked about her father once, when she w
as three, and I told her that he lived somewhere else. That had satisfied her then, but it wasn’t likely to the next time she asked.
I was going to have to tell Brad about her, very soon.
“Whoever takes care of Izzy all the time is the person who should call the school,” I finally tell my daughter. “Whether it’s her real mommy or not.”
I wait for her to ask about stepmothers, or adoption, or some other type of non-traditional arrangement. But she says, “Oh, good, because Izzy’s real mommy doesn’t like her. So she wouldn’t call my school.”
My heart goes out to Alyssa’s friend, even though I’ve never met her. No child should believe that her mother doesn’t like her — a feeling I understand through personal experience. That’s one of the reasons I try so hard, maybe too hard, to make sure my daughter never feels that way.
“Well, Alyssa’s mommy loves her very much,” I say, leaning down to kiss her.
She giggles. “Alyssa loves her mommy very much, too.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Goodnight, sweetheart,” I say. “Sweet dreams.”
“Goodnight, mommy.”
She snuggles into her covers, and I turn off the light and leave the door half-open as I head for the third bedroom, which I’ve made a home office. Since Hannah won’t tell me anything about her history, I’ve decided to find out what I can for myself.
I sit down at the desk and open Facebook first, typing ‘Hannah Byers’ into the search bar. It returns almost a hundred People results. I scroll down the list, looking at profile photos and opening separate pages for accounts that don’t have pictures of people, but none of them seem to be her.
Okay, so she doesn’t have a Facebook page, but she developed an app that uses Facebook. That’s not weird or anything.
Who am I kidding? Everything about Hannah is weird.
I switch to Google and enter her name. Most of the top results are lists of social media profiles and a few items about someone who works at a museum, which isn’t her. I add ‘New Hampshire’ to the search and run it again.
This time I get results. The first is a news article from The Nashau Telegraph with a stark, ominous headline: CEO of Byers Financial Dies in Deadly Residential Blaze
I click through to the article and read the brief text with mounting horror.
Last night, a fire claimed the lives of Byers Financial CEO Jonathan Byers and his wife, Elizabeth Byers, in the largest residential blaze Nashau has seen in fifty years. The Byers’ 25-room mansion, situated at the top of Birch Hill, was fully engaged at the time firefighters arrived on the scene, and the home was deemed a total loss. Investigators believe that arson may have been involved and are launching a detailed inquiry into the fire.
The couples’ adult daughter, 24-year-old Hannah Byers, was home at the time but survived the fire. Circumstances surrounding Ms. Byers’ escape from the deadly blaze are unclear at this time, as the young woman suffered a breakdown at the scene and was taken to St. Joseph’s Hospital for treatment.
Mr. Byers was the founder and CEO of Byers Financial, a hedge fund management company with reported annual revenues of $500 million. Mr. Byers’ personal worth has been reported as high as one billion dollars, and he frequently appeared on the Forbes 400 list. Mrs. Byers was a homemaker and advocate for various charities, including Habitat for Humanities and the Bumblebee Conservation Trust.
As the couples’ only child, 24-year-old Hannah stands to inherit the bulk of the Byers fortune. At the time of this writing, Ms. Byers was not available for comment.
I get to the end of the article and shiver. Beyond the shock of finding out Hannah’s parents died in a fire that might have been deliberately set, I also learn that she’s originally from Nashau, like Brad. And the date of the article places the fire at about a week after Brad’s accident.
Of course, that doesn’t have to mean anything. Nashau is a big city. But lately I’ve been getting a lot more suspicious about coincidences.
I return to the results page and find another article further down, this one from a newspaper called The Horizon. And it’s apparently all about Hannah, because the title is Byers Heiress Committed to Psychiatric Hospital.
The article is longer than the first one, but it doesn’t go into much personal detail. It says that due to ‘mental strain resulting from the traumatic events leading to the death of her parents,’ Hannah had developed several psychological disorders and had been involuntarily committed to the Seton-Frischer Clinic, an isolated ‘mental retreat’ in the White Mountains.
It also refers to her committal as a ‘sentence’ of five years. Which suggests that she came to Wolfsbrook right after she was released, bought a house worth nearly half a million dollars, and decided to become a real estate agent.
There’s no mention of a daughter, anywhere. But if she does actually have a child, she was pregnant when she was committed and gave birth while she was at the clinic.
I don’t know much about psychiatric hospitals, but I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t let involuntarily committed patients raise children.
Though I’m not sure I want to find out any more about Hannah Byers, I return to the search results and look through them. There isn’t much more to read. Another brief article from the Telegraph reports that the Byers mansion fire was ruled arson, but police and investigators were unable to identify the culprit. I find Hannah’s name mentioned on a Facebook page for a Nashau high school, one in a list of her graduating class. And then once more, in an article about Oslow State football team’s big win over UMass. I actually remember that game from my freshman year at college.
Hannah’s name is in the caption of a crowd photo taken at the front row of the game, but it’s not the only one I recognize.
She’s standing next to Joan Carpenter.
I close the browser with a hand that’s starting to shake, and sit there staring at the computer screen for a long time. There are too many coincidences here to ignore. I have no idea why, but Hannah is in Wolfsbrook — and in my life — for a reason. And I suspect it’s connected to Brad.
Tomorrow morning, I’m going to see him again.
Chapter 17
I head out to Hayhurst right after I bring Alyssa to school, arriving firmly in the Willa-less window of time. Teryn isn’t at the nurses’ station today, and all of the staff seems strangely subdued. But at least Brad seems happy to see me.
Hopefully, that means I didn’t imagine what happened the last time I was here.
He’s sitting in the wheelchair this morning instead of the bed, and he wheels toward me and stands for a hug. That convinces me the other day wasn’t my imagination. We hold each other a little longer this time, and it feels so good that I want to cry.
“I’m sorry. I know you’re tired of hearing it, but I have to say that you really are in amazing shape,” I say as I let go reluctantly.
He settles back in the chair with a sigh. “Yeah, I guess. My parents made sure I had the best coma therapy that money can buy.” His smile is bitter, and I’m not sure whether it’s directed at the coma, or his parents. “Please, come in and sit down.”
I follow him to the chair by the bed. As I take a seat, he says, “I’m glad you decided to come back, after my mother’s outburst. I really hate the way she gets sometimes.”
I shrug and smile. “Well, I didn’t come to see your mother.”
The way he looks at me stirs up things I haven’t felt in years, and I have to glance away.
“So,” he says after a slightly awkward pause. “Did you hear about Teryn Holmes?”
I’m not sure how, but suddenly I know that something terrible happened to her. Cold shivers down my back and tightens my skin as I say, “What about her?”
Brad shakes his head slowly. “She died. Right here at the hospital,” he says.
“Oh, no!” I blurt, completely shocked in spite of my premonition, or whatever it was. She’s dead, just like that? It doesn’t seem possible. “How? What happened? I saw her Tuesda
y morning when I came to visit, and she … well, she seemed fine.”
My voice starts to thicken as the guilt sets in. She’d asked me to have coffee with her, and I couldn’t be bothered because I was too scared of Willa. And now we’ll never be able to catch up. God, I’m such a pathetic piece of shit.
“They’re not sure how yet, but it actually happened the day you were here. Tuesday,” Brad says. “I guess they found her on a couch in the staffroom. She’d been dead for hours by the time they figured it out, because everyone thought she was sleeping and left her alone. It was pretty awful.”
I let out a soft groan. For the moment, I can’t form words. It is awful … and she was so young, just like Rosalie.
Oh, God. She had something else in common with Rosalie, too.
“You should be careful, Celine,” Brad says in a tone that tries and fails to be light. I can hear the misery, and maybe even fear, below the surface. “My exes are dropping like flies. First Rosalie, and now Teryn.”
It’s almost exactly what I just thought, and it startles me rigid. The warning that was meant to be playful echoes in my head like thundering doom: You should be careful, Celine.
The mystery texts. Whoever’s texting me, they’re responsible for Rosalie and Teryn. I just know it.
And I’m on their list.
“Celine, what’s wrong?” Brad says. “You just went white as a sheet. I was only kidding, you know.”
“Yes. I’m okay,” I force myself to reply. “I’m just shocked about Teryn, that’s all. We were friends in college.” There’s no reason to make him worry about this. He’s got enough problems of his own right now.
He nods sadly. “We’re all too young to die.”
I definitely agree with that.
I’m not going to tell him about the threatening texts, but there is something I want to ask him that may be related. “Not to change the subject, but I have a weird, totally out-of-the-blue question for you, if you don’t mind,” I say.
