The Life She Stole

by S W Vaughn

  Jill snorts a laugh. “I thought that’s what you’re supposed to say about sellers,” she says, typing rapidly in the background. “Sure, no problem. Send it through and I’ll make sure you have it by this afternoon.”

  “You’re amazing. Thank you.”

  “Hey, I’m super-paralegal. Able to leap tall filing deadlines in a single bound, no matter how many weeks certain people who aren’t even my boss have failed to tell me about the aforementioned deadlines,” she says with cutting sarcasm. Now I know exactly what she’s going to rant about tonight: Danny Voltaire, the firm’s newest junior partner, who’s been a six-month thorn in Jill’s side. The kind of guy who’d forget his own head if it wasn’t attached. I don’t imagine that extreme forgetfulness is a good quality for a lawyer to have.

  “Can’t wait to hear this one,” I say with a smirk. “Thanks again, Jill. I’m sending the contract now.”

  After a few seconds, she says, “Okay, got it. Talk to you later — I have to run over to the courthouse for some mysteriously immediate reason.”

  “Yeah, I wonder what that is?”

  That gets her laughing. We say goodbye and hang up, and I see Lucas Turow coming in from the back, burdened with a shoulder bag, a briefcase, and a bunch of signs under one arm. Speaking of people who aren’t exactly organized. But Lucas is a decent guy — and with another agent around, Sabrina will cool her heels. She saves her worst snark for one-on-one sessions with whoever’s lucky enough to be alone with her.

  I wave good morning to Lucas and go back to my computer, tabbing over from my email to the license renewal form. I should’ve had another full year before I needed to renew, but with the closing on the Quintaine property coming up so fast, I don’t want to bother arguing with the real estate commission. I’ll just fill this out and pay the eighty bucks, and then worry about disputing it next week. They take forever to do anything.

  For some reason my auto-fill isn’t working, and I have to type in all my information separately. But my computer is dragging, the cursor blinking too fast and the letters lagging behind my keystrokes. It’s not a big deal, just annoying. I chalk it up to everything about this property being a huge pain in the ass.

  I can’t wait to close and get it out of my life.

  6

  Alyssa’s second day of school was apparently even more exciting than the first two, now that she’s had pizza for lunch two days in a row with Izzy. From the way my daughter talks about her new friend, Izzy might be the second coming of Christ. But I’m glad she’s happy.

  I have her in bed by eight, and she’s sound asleep before the sitter gets there at nine. I’m glad Tabitha Foster is available tonight. She’s been Alyssa’s regular sitter since my daughter was a baby, and I thought she’d left for college a few weeks ago, but it turns out she’s not starting until the winter semester. Tabitha knows my numbers and where everything is in the house, so it’s just a matter of saying hello and thanking her before I head out.

  It’s almost nine-thirty when I get to Old City, the most popular of the three bars in Wolfsbrook. The place is the last building on a dead-end street at the ‘waterfront’ of Saginaw Creek, a fat ribbon of dark green water that no one would dare swim in but everyone loves to look at. There’s plenty of parking available tonight, since it’s the middle of the week, so I grab a spot and head inside.

  Jill is already at the bar. She stands and waves when I come in, like I don’t see her in the bright green top and white yoga pants she’s wearing. I can’t get away with outfits like that anymore, but she looks amazing as always.

  The bartender she was talking to walks off, and Jill squeals a little as she hugs me. “Oh my God, you’re gonna be rich!” she says. “How does it feel?”

  “Unbelievable.” I laugh and take the stool next to her. I’ve been spending too much time figuring out how much I’ll actually get — about fifteen thousand, after taxes and agency fees — and what I’ll do when I get it. So far all I know for sure is that I’m finally getting a remote starter installed in my car for winter, and Alyssa is going to have the most amazing fifth birthday ever. “I tell you, though. After two years, I feel like I made about three bucks an hour on this.”

  “You think way too much, do you know that?”

  Jill smiles and elbows me, grabbing my hand as I start to wave for the bartender. “I already ordered you a Tom Collins,” she says as she wiggles the nearly full glass on the counter in front of her. “Got mine right here, all ready for a toast.”

  “Perfect.”

  It’s not long before the bartender brings my drink, and as I take it with a nod of thanks, Jill lifts her glass. “Let’s see,” she says, striking an exaggerated thinking pose. “Here’s to Celine, she’s a good old bean.”

  “Old bean?” I arch an eyebrow. “Here’s to Jill, she’s quite a thrill.”

  Jill’s lips twitch. “Here’s to Celine, she’s rich but not mean.”

  “Here’s to Jill not falling down a hill.”

  We both dissolve into laughter and clink our glasses together. I still feel a little guilty leaving Alyssa, like I always do, but it’s good to be here. To be me for a while, and not just Alyssa’s mom.

  Jill launches into her latest story about Danny Voltaire and his incompetence, and I listen and laugh and drink until I’m pleasantly buzzed. Eventually we order cheese sticks and move to a side table. I find myself thinking about the past, about college and all those nights like this — only much later and with more people — and Brad’s face fills my mind like an accusation.

  “Jill,” I say into a moment of comfortable silence. “I’ve got to do something about Brad.”

  Concern fills her face, and she sighs as she toys with a half-eaten cheese stick. “I can’t believe he’s awake,” she says. “I mean, five years. That has to be some kind of record.”

  I swallow back unpleasant laughter. Brad Dowling probably broke a lot of records, on the football field and in the bedroom. He also broke a lot of hearts, including mine. As the absolutely gorgeous, only son of incredibly wealthy parents, everyone wanted him — and he often wanted everyone right back. It honestly wouldn’t surprise me if he’d cheated on me during the year we’d been together.

  But I still love him. God help me, after all this time and all the energy I’ve spent actively not thinking about him, I still love him.

  And there’s something he has to know.

  “I have to tell him,” I say aloud, mostly to convince myself. “Don’t I?”

  Jill gives me a sympathetic smile. “Maybe not yet,” she says. “He’s probably really weak and he’s going to need a lot of physical therapy, after five years in bed. He’ll be confused about everything. Plus, he might have brain damage.”

  “Brain damage?” I echo. “Wait, how do you know all this stuff?”

  She smirks. “I did a little research on coma patients. Morbid curiosity.”

  “Oh, God. What if he does have brain damage?” I say in a cracked whisper. “What if he’s awake, and I still can’t tell him about …”

  I don’t even realize I’m crying until Jill reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. I jump a little, startling a tear down my cheek. “It’s only been a few days,” she says gently. “Give it time. He probably has a lot of people throwing a lot of things at him right now, especially his parents.”

  The thought of Willa and Bennett Dowling leaves me cold. They’re the reason I stopped visiting Brad a few weeks after the accident, and eventually stopped believing he’d wake up. I have no idea how they found out about the argument we had that night, since I’d never told anyone and Brad couldn’t. They must’ve known someone at the restaurant.

  However it happened, Willa Dowling had made her feelings about me crystal clear to the entire fourth floor of Hayhurst Memorial Hospital.

  “Celine?” a somewhat familiar voice says, dragging me from the memory of Willa’s red, contorted face and shrill screams. “That is you, isn’t it?”

  I blink and
find myself looking at Hannah Byers, who’s standing next to our table with a full wine glass in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other. She’s wearing a glittering gold cocktail dress and a white sash that says Bead Babe, and there are feathers stuck in her hair. I’m not sure what look she’s going for, but I’m pretty sure she hasn’t achieved it. I guess she’s so gorgeous that it doesn’t really matter.

  She’s also out at a bar, alone, on a school night. Interesting.

  “Hi, Hannah,” I finally say, flashing an apologetic smile at Jill. “Uh, this is my friend Jill. Jill, this is Hannah Byers. She’s buying the Quintaine house.”

  “Well, it’s the Byers house now, isn’t it?” Hannah says with a slightly brittle smile, but her expression smoothes as she nods in greeting. She doesn’t offer a hand, though — they’re both full. “Nice to meet you, Jill.”

  “You too,” Jill says, looking bemused as her gaze travels Hannah’s outfit. “I hear you’re getting a lot of house.”

  “The most my money can buy here,” Hannah agrees cheerfully. “I think I’m going to like Wolfsbrook. This is only the second bar I’ve been in tonight, and I’ve already found someone I know. It’s what happens in small towns, right?” She drops me a conspiratorial wink, as if we’re suddenly best friends sharing a secret. “How long have you two lived here?”

  Jill and I exchange a glance. Only the second bar? If she’s expecting to find a lot of thriving night life in Wolfsbrook to choose from, she’s going to be disappointed. “I grew up here,” I say. “And Jill’s been here since college. She’s from Oslow.”

  “Really? I’m from Oslow too. Well … sort of,” Hannah says with the same strange, distant look that came over her when she talked about her daughter. She shakes herself and smiles again. “I’m going outside to smoke. The bartender says there’s a great view of the river from the back. See you later, ladies.”

  She walks off, weaving a little as she heads for the back door that leads to the patio. I stare after her until she’s outside, and then I clap a hand over my mouth to keep a laugh from escaping.

  Jill doesn’t bother holding back, and soon I’m laughing right along with her. I’m not usually the type to make fun of people — but I’ve never met anyone like Hannah.

  “I think there’s something wrong with her,” Jill says. “You know, like …” She trails off and twirls a finger around her ear.

  “Yeah, maybe.” I calm down and sip at my drink. “But she’s also insanely rich, so I guess she’s allowed to be a little cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.” That sets Jill off again, and I laugh with her for a minute. “Seriously, though? I think she has a pretend daughter.”

  Jill frowns. “What do you mean?”

  I tell her about seeing Hannah at the school that morning and point out that she’s here alone on a school night. At least I have the excuse of being out with a friend. And I explain the little Hannah’s told me — that her daughter is four, turning five in October, and her name is Alice. I even say that Alyssa doesn’t have an Alice in her class and hasn’t met any kindergartners named Alice.

  The more I talk, the worse I feel about myself. I can’t believe I’m sitting here gossiping like a mean girl about a woman I hardly know. And I’m stretching the facts to fit some half-formed narrative that’s too crazy to be true.

  But Jill is into it, wide-eyed and nodding along. “That’s so insane,” she says. “I mean, even the name is almost the same. Alice, Alyssa. It’s like she made up a daughter just so she’d have something in common with you. Did you tell her about Alyssa before or after she mentioned this?”

  “She, uh …” Suddenly I can’t remember. Who mentioned which child first? I try to mentally replay meeting Hannah at the Quintaine property, remember the conversation before we went into the house. “She was first,” I finally say.

  Jill raises her brow. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.” I nod, confirming it to myself. “I asked her if she had any kids, because she was looking at this huge house by herself, and she told me all this stuff about her daughter. Then I said wow, that’s just like my daughter.”

  “Celine,” Jill says carefully. “Maybe she knew about Alyssa before she talked to you.”

  My blood runs icy cold, and I squeeze my eyes shut against a pulse of panic. But that’s a truly insane idea. Total paranoia. I’m not going to give in to that, especially since I’ve already embellished a lot of my ‘logic’ that points to Hannah having a made-up child. I’m sure Alice is real. “No, she couldn’t have,” I say. “She doesn’t know anything about me, or Alyssa.”

  Jill makes her eyes wide and waggles her fingers in the air. “Unless she’s rich … and psychic,” she intones. “Look into my crystal ball, dahling. Madame Bead Babe sees all.”

  I choke on a laugh, and soon we’re both giggling. I guess I’m a little more buzzed than I thought.

  Things will look better tomorrow.

  7

  Wednesday

  At least I’m not hung over the next morning. But I’ve got a lot on my mind when I take Alyssa to school, and I give her an extra-long hug on the sidewalk before she goes inside. She squirms out of it impatiently, smacking a kiss on my cheek before she runs off to join her friends.

  I watch her growing up so fast, and I know I have to tell Brad. I can’t put it off.

  There’s no way I can make this call from the office. I don’t want to be alone at home, either, because I’m going to have an emotional reaction no matter what happens. Maybe if I’m out in public, I won’t have a complete breakdown.

  I head for the Coffee Stop Café, all the way across downtown from the real estate office. For some reason I don’t want anyone to know what I’m doing, as if contacting the man I once thought I’d marry is some kind of dirty secret. But there’s so much about Brad and I that no one knows, sometimes it feels that way. Like a secret I’m ashamed to tell.

  I have too many of those.

  The café is on a corner lot next to an office building, which means it’s likely to be fairly busy even this early in the morning. I park at the curb on the side street and leave my briefcase in the car, walking inside to join the line of impatient people waiting for their morning dose of caffeine. It takes fifteen minutes for me to reach the register and place my order, but only a few before my name is called and I’m handed a hazelnut cappuccino and a blueberry muffin on a plastic tray.

  I find an empty table for two near the front windows and sit down, slowly tuning out the noise and chatter of the café while I stare outside at the passing cars and the pretty façade of this town. I never thought I’d be here, doing … this. I was supposed to get out. From the college in the city, where I’d been working on a degree in photography and digital cinematography, I’d planned bigger and better things. With Brad. Maybe after college we’d move to Nashau, where he lived before he came to Wolfsbrook, or maybe we’d head to New York City or even California. Somewhere fun and exciting. But then the argument happened, and the accident. From that point on, he had to be dead to me. It was the only way I could deal with the aftermath.

  I love my daughter more than life itself, and I wouldn’t trade her for anything. Not even all those dreams I used to have. But she wasn’t exactly planned.

  And her father has no idea she exists.

  My hands shake slightly as I take out my phone and stare at it. I still need a few more minutes. I take a sip of my cooling coffee, tap the screen and swipe my password, then pull up my texts out of habit. The message at the bottom catches my eye, the last reply from the unknown number: Wouldn’t you like to know? Yes, I think bitterly, I would like to know who you are. I haven’t received any more veiled threats since this brief exchange, and I should probably delete the message and forget about the mystery nutcase who sent it, but I don’t want to erase the evidence.

  Especially since I don’t know what it’s evidence of.

  I frown and swipe away from the text screen, then open my Firefox app and tap to Google. As I start ente
ring Hayhurst in the search bar, the full name of the hospital pops up and I select it before I can change my mind. The main result includes a linked phone number for hospital information. I take a breath, tap the number and hold the phone to my ear.

  After two rings, a pleasant female voice answers. “Hayhurst Memorial Hospital, how may I direct your call?”

  My stomach twists, and I almost hang up. I don’t want to do this. “Hello,” I stammer anyway. “I’m looking for a patient, I think. Brad Dowling?”

  “I can help you with that. One moment,” the woman says, and I hear her typing in the background. After a minute she says, “I have his room number and direct phone line. Would you like that information?”

  “Uh, yes. Please. Just let me …” I dig in my purse for a pen, and then grab the café receipt I stuffed in my pocket and smooth it out on the table. “Okay, go ahead.”

  She tells me he’s in room 548 — apparently he’s been moved up a floor — and then reads off a phone number. I write everything down. When she’s finished, I say quietly, “Can you tell me how he’s doing?”

  “Well, I can transfer you to the fifth floor nurse’s station,” she says. “I’m not sure how much they’ll be able to share, but you can ask.”

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  There’s a click, and the line buzzes a few times before another woman answers. “Fifth floor,” she says.

  “Hello,” I begin, but then I hesitate, not sure what I’m going to ask. Or if I want to hear the answer. Finally I say, “I was wondering if you could tell me about Brad Dowling. If he’s … awake.”

  After a brief pause, the woman says, “Are you family?”

  “No. I’m sorry.” I have no idea why I apologize for that.