The Golden Hour

by L. M. Halloran

  The tears welling in my eyes are real, because the last words, at least, are true.

  She leans back in her chair with a sigh and closes the notepad. “Callisto—”

  “Call me Calli.”

  “Calli, I’ll be frank. I don’t think you’re telling me the whole truth. You’ve been through a harrowing experience, and I understand it might be difficult to talk about. I’d like to get you checked out by a doctor, and potentially meet with a—”

  The door of the interview room rattles as someone pounds on it. Before Detective Wilson is halfway out of her chair, it opens. I stand just as a man in a custom suit strolls inside.

  I recognize him immediately.

  “This interview is over,” snaps Hugo Barnes, longtime lawyer for my family. His flat gray eyes land on me. There’s no emotion in them; not because he isn’t shocked to see me, which he likely is, but because he’s paid handsomely to remain stoic during all manner of crises.

  Behind Hugo stands another detective. He shakes his head at Detective Wilson, whose pinched expression tells me she’s gearing up for a fight.

  “Calli, good to see you,” croons Hugo. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be here sooner to spare you this indignity. Come with me, please.”

  Detective Wilson stares at him with contempt. “Calli is the victim of a crime, Mr. Barnes. She walked into the building of her own accord, and it’s our job to find out what happened to her so her abductor can be brought to justice. I can’t do that without—”

  “Yes, yes,” interrupts Hugo in a bored tone. “You have my assurances that she’ll be entirely forthcoming with any ongoing investigation. At this time, however, it is the wishes of my client’s family that she be brought home immediately.” His voice lowers, edged with ice. “Or do you want to explain to your superiors—and every news outlet in the country—why you’re preventing the decade’s most anticipated homecoming?”

  The other detective rolls his eyes. Wilson glances at me, her gaze probing. “Do you want to leave with this man, Calli?” she asks softly, a thread of steel in her voice.

  She knows.

  Somehow, this woman knows, or suspects, that the Avellinos aren’t the shining example of goodness they pretend to be. Perhaps she wonders if they might have had something to do with my abduction themselves.

  For a moment, I consider staying and telling her everything. The actual truth. Why I ran and what I’m afraid of. But without any real evidence to give her, I might as well tie nooses around both our necks.

  “Yes, I’d like to go home,” I say in the firmest tone I can manage. “I want to see my sisters and stepmom.”

  She scans my face for another moment.

  “Are we done?” asks Hugo.

  The other detective says, “You’re free to go, Ms. Avellino.”

  Wilson tries one more time. “She needs to see a doctor. We’d like to compare past and present medical records.”

  Hugo waves away her words. “She’ll see the family doctor, of course, and we’ll disclose all necessary information.”

  I don’t miss the subtext—they’ll disclose what they deem necessary—and neither does Wilson, who flushes an angry red.

  “Mr. Barnes, I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation. Obviously the case of Callisto’s disappearance has been reopened. If I could speak with Vivian Avellino—”

  “Mrs. Avellino has no comment at this time.” Hugo’s reptilian eyes fix on me. “All she wants is to welcome her stepdaughter home.”

  I’m sure she does.

  I turn to Detective Wilson. “Thank you for being so kind and listening to me. I’m sorry I wasn’t more help.”

  She extends her card. “If you remember anything else, and I mean anything, please give me a call.” After I’ve taken it, she steps back, a professional mask sliding into place as she looks at Hugo. “My partner and I will be in touch. I’m sure Mrs. Avellino wants the person who abducted her stepdaughter behind bars as much as we do.”

  Hugo nods, ignoring the implied barb, and gestures me toward the door. A small, oily smile tilts his thin lips.

  “After you.”

  13

  A black town car idles outside the department. Hugo ushers me into the backseat, then slides in beside me.

  “My car—”

  “Is not our priority at the moment.”

  The door closes and the sounds of traffic outside fade to a hum. Hugo fastens his seatbelt, waits to me to fasten mine, then nods at the driver.

  As we pull away from the building, Hugo tugs at his tie, loosening it around his neck. His cologne is overpowering, his annoyance clear in the set of his narrow shoulders.

  “What on earth were you thinking, walking into the damn police department?” he hisses. “Why didn’t you just come to the house? And where the fuck have you been for six years? We don’t like surprises, Calli.”

  We, but we both know he means Vivian.

  “I had amnesia,” I tell him indignantly. “Probably from the trauma of someone abducting me, keeping me drugged in a basement for weeks, then bashing me on the head and dumping me in a field to die.”

  Hugo stares at me appraisingly, one thin eyebrow raised. “My, my, someone’s grown a backbone.”

  I snort. “Yeah, well, I spent years not knowing who I was or where I came from. I guess you could say I learned everything no one ever taught me about survival in the real world.”

  After a pregnant silence, Hugo coughs. “I have to ask, were you forced to… or rather, did you, you know, to earn money—”

  “No,” I snap, eyeing him with disgust. “I didn’t prostitute myself. This conversation is over. I don’t want to talk about it, and when I do, it definitely won’t be with you. I’d like to see my family, take a long bath, drink a bottle of champagne, and forget the last six years.”

  Hugo’s phone rings and he answers. “Yes, I have her—Twenty-five minutes or less—Uh-huh—Don’t worry about that, Vivian—Of course, we’ll spin it however we want to.” He glances at me. “No—You’ll see for yourself—That’s fine.”

  He hangs up and fiddles with his cuff links. “Your stepmother is beyond excited to see you, my dear. But your timing is shit. A word of advice? Behave as you were raised to, or your homecoming won’t be everything you hope it to be.”

  I settle back in my seat, oddly calm in the face of the veiled threat. Be the doormat you were before. Stay in line. Behave.

  In the reflection of the window, I see my small smile.

  Not gonna happen.

  In the hills of affluent Calabasas, the town car approaches iron gates and they slide open on a cobblestone driveway lined with trimmed hedges. At the end, seated like a fat monarch with his hands out, is the house my father bought Vivian in their first year of marriage.

  The palatial, Spanish reconstruction glows from within. Outside, hundreds of tasteful landscape lights bathe the exterior. Above the red-tile roof, the evening sky is starless and expansive, punctuated only by the shadowed, spiked heads of palms.

  The car veers in a smooth arc around a gaudy, imported marble fountain and comes to a stop before the oversized front door.

  Hugo exits the car with me, leading the way toward the front door, which opens as we approach it. Light spills out, along with rosewater perfume and my smiling stepmother.

  “Callisto!” she gasps, rushing down the steps in a flurry of silk, pearls, and surgically enhanced beauty to take me in her skeletal arms. “My sweet girl, God be praised, He brought you back to us at last. How I wish your father could be here!”

  Her too-tight embrace makes my skin crawl. It only takes a moment for me to find the hired photographer standing behind a nearby row of bushes. No doubt he captured every moment of her graceful flight from the house to me, as well as the tears on her face, likely courtesy of eye drops.

  “I’m so glad to be home,” I say, then extricate myself from her grip to look toward the empty foyer. “Where are Ellie and Lizzie?”

  Vivian
ignores me, tucking her arm in mine and pulling me into the gilded foyer with its huge portrait of my father that, with one glance, I still don’t think resembles him. Hugo follows us in, closing the door with a resounding thump. My stepmother releases me to pat the damp skin beneath her eyes.

  “Eleanor will drive up from UCLA in the morning, and it’s late, so Elizabeth is sleeping. She’ll greet you tomorrow.” Her voice has dropped its saccharine pretense, reverting to the crisp tones I remember well.

  I nod, my face carefully blank.

  “Your old room has been repurposed, so I had the staff make up a guest room for you. If you’re hungry now, you can help yourself to whatever’s in the kitchen. When you’re finished, I’d like to see you in my office.”

  “I’m not hungry, thank you.”

  After a pause in which her dark green eyes scan my face, she looks pointedly at Hugo. The fine fabric of his suit whispers as he takes a step forward and clears his throat.

  “The police would like a current medical exam to compare to old records.”

  Vivian nods. “Very well. What else?”

  “Enzo is scheduling interviews with the usual morning shows for next week.” His gaze slides to me. “Long enough to decide how to… present everything.”

  “Good. That will be all for this evening, Hugo. We’ll reconvene at three sharp tomorrow afternoon.”

  Hugo takes the cue and leaves. As the front door shuts, a maid darts from an adjoining room to lock it.

  “Come with me, Callisto. We need to talk.” Expecting my compliance, she moves toward the hallway, high heels rapping sharply on tile.

  “I’d like to take a shower and go to bed. We can talk in the morning.”

  She jerks to a stop, her head swiveling toward me, eyes narrowed to glittering slits. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m exhausted. I’ve been driving the better part of three days.” I gesture at the elegant space around us. “Honestly, I’m at my emotional max right now.”

  “You’ve changed,” she states flatly.

  You haven’t.

  Since now isn’t the time to start the real game, I offer a placating smile. “I’ve been through a lot, and I’m overwhelmed with finally being home. I hope you understand.”

  Enhanced lips curve in a facsimile of a smile. “Of course. Get a good night’s rest. I’ll see you in my office no later than eight tomorrow.”

  It’s not a question, but I say, “I’ll be there.”

  Her shrewd eyes appraise me, but no matter how good an actress she is or how much Botox lives in her smooth forehead, I can tell I’ve rattled her. Unable to help myself, I close the distance between us and hug her like she’s the mother I wanted, not the monster I loathe.

  Because the goal isn’t for her to see me as an opponent.

  “I’ve missed you so much,” I whisper into her soft blond hair. Drawing away, I sniff back nonexistent tears. “I’ve missed everyone and everything about my life. We have so much catching up to do.”

  I’ve shocked her—that much is clear—but she recovers swiftly. “Yes, we do.” For a moment, I think I see genuine feeling in her eyes. Then she blinks and steps back. “Sleep well. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  She glides away, but pauses to turn back. Tears—real ones—shimmer in her eyes. “Welcome home.”

  I stare after her until soft footsteps alert me to a presence. The same maid who locked the door appears beside me. She’s younger than I thought, mid-thirties, with a kind face and downcast eyes.

  “I can escort you to your room now, miss,” she says in a soft accent.

  “Thank you. What’s your name?”

  Her eyes flicker up. “Selina.”

  “Thank you, Selina. I’m Calli.”

  “I know,” she whispers. “Welcome back, miss. Please, follow me.”

  Five minutes later, with a locked door at my back and a richly appointed guest suite before me, I sink to the hardwood floor and bite my knuckle against a scream containing all the emotion I’ve kept locked away. Silent tears leak out, an overflow of repressed fear, doubt, and bone-deep fatigue.

  Eventually I make it to the bathroom, then the bed, crawling beneath the smooth, pressed sheets fully clothed. I pass out in seconds, only to dream an old dream—an endless loop of being chased, captured, and locked in a windowless cell with fancy dolls wearing faces of the dead.

  14

  “Turn it up.”

  Molly jabs her finger into the remote, cranking up the volume on the television. We listen in silence as CNN relays Callisto Avellino’s miraculous return to her family. We’d surmised from the letter that she was headed back to them, but hearing that she actually did it? It makes me question her sanity along with her motives.

  As photographs of Vivian Avellino welcoming her stepdaughter home parade across the screen, Molly makes a soft sound of anguish. Even I flinch. It’s a bit like watching a Venus flytrap close around an unsuspecting insect. As the anchor babbles on, I stare at a pale slice of Callisto’s face, her chin tucked on Vivian’s shoulder. She looks numb, and my mind flashes back to the same blankness I saw on her face in the courtroom all those years ago.

  What was she thinking in that moment? Was a part of her happy to be there, back in the dark fold of her family? Relieved?

  I can’t help the doubts I still have about Callisto’s motives. Despite the seeming sincerity of her letter to Molly, something inside me rebels against the idea of trusting her. I know well how deeply the threads of childhood experience root, how subtly they can guide us as adults.

  It’s not rocket science to assume that Callisto’s childhood left its mark on her in ways she might not fully understand. Or for that matter, have control over.

  “What do you think she plans to do?” I ask as a commercial takes over the screen.

  Molly shakes her head. She laughs, a little shrilly. “All I can imagine is her in a burglar costume with a flashlight in her mouth, looking through desk drawers in the dark. I have no idea what her intentions are, or how she plans to expose her family. But I know she’s not safe.” Her wide eyes find mine. “I’m scared for her.”

  “I know.” Propping my elbows on my knees, I scrub my face with my hands. “I haven’t told you everything, Mol, about what my PI turned up.”

  She jerks. “Tell me.”

  So I fill her in, detailing the investigator’s voicemail, that he found something incriminating and died for it. Molly listens with wide eyes.

  “We need to tell the police,” she says when I’m finished. “I know Rafael’s sentence being overturned gave you a bad taste in your mouth, but there are honest people in law enforcement, Finn. We need to find one. Let them look into what the PI found.”

  “I wish it were that simple,” I tell her, “but it’s not. My PI died in a hit-and-run and there are no witnesses or leads. Did you know only eight percent of hit-and-runs were solved in Los Angeles last year? It’s a dead end.”

  “But you can tell them—”

  “What?” I snap, then sigh. “I’m sorry, but really, what can I tell them? A conspiracy theory? My gut instinct? Whatever proof he had, it was in his head and died with him.”

  “What if it wasn’t—didn’t?” she asks mutedly. “Do you know where he lived?”

  This conversation has crossed into surreal territory.

  The news is back on, Callisto’s return left in the dust of the commercial break as the anchors eagerly focus on the next story.

  “Are you suggesting we break into his house?” I ask, then shake my head. “The Avellinos are thorough. They would have searched his files and computer and destroyed whatever they found.”

  Molly grabs my hands. Hers are ice-cold. I meet her gaze and am surprised by the ferocity I see in her eyes.

  “We have to start somewhere, and this is as good a place as any.” Her lips quirk. “Besides, I wasn’t always the upstanding citizen I am now. I was a teenager with a lock-picking kit back in the day.”

 
“Wow,” I deadpan, then frown. “Who are you and what did you do with my aunt?”

  She smirks. “There are only so many ways to entertain yourself as a kid in Solstice Bay. Ask your mom if you don’t believe me.” She frowns. “On second thought, don’t.”

  Unsmiling, I scan her face. “We’re talking about breaking and entering, which is illegal. If we get caught…”

  “I know,” she says decisively. “That’s why I’m going to do it alone.”

  “Aunt Mol—”

  “Listen to me, Finn, and listen good. We can sit here for weeks chasing our tails, or we can take action. We’re leaving for L.A. in the morning. I’m going to look into the PI, and you’re going to do exactly what we both know you’re going to do, but have been too much of a chicken to say out loud.”

  I still, unnerved. “What are you talking about? What is it you think I’m going to do?”

  “Use the high-society connections you’ve cultivated for years to get close to the family.” She pauses, gaze sharpening further. “Now that there’s a daughter in the house over twenty-five.”

  I have the errant thought that my aunt is a witch. Or perhaps it’s as I’ve always thought—we’re so alike that despite time and distance, she knows me in a way no one else in my family does.

  Because she’s right.

  I’ve been waiting years for the middle daughter, Eleanor, to hit an acceptable age. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t my type—blond, for starters—or that she seemed like every other airhead debutante. My plan all along has been to seduce her, make her fall in love with me, use her to get close to the family, find some hard evidence of illegal dealings, and watch them all burn.

  Back when I hatched the plan, on a lonely, drunken night in college, it was supposed to be the eldest daughter. The one closest to my age. The petite, dark-haired one. The one who has repelled me and intrigued me in equal measure ever since I saw her in that stupid dress in the courtroom so many years ago.