The Golden Hour

by L. M. Halloran

  In the kitchen, I grab a bottle of water and a snack, then head back to my room and lock the door behind me. A memory surfaces of a conversation not meant for a child’s ears, triggered by the sound of Vivian’s sharp voice through the office door.

  “Handle it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Get rid of him, Enzo! With Rafael behind bars, I’m in charge of this family. Don’t make me repeat myself again.”

  “You got it.”

  Would the recollection of an imaginative child hold up in court? No. Not without supporting evidence, which I don’t have. I don’t even know how old I was when I heard those words. Maybe fourteen? Sixteen? Like any teenager, my worldview was limited, my focus primarily on myself. What to wear to school the next day. Whether or not David would finally ask me out after months of flirting. How to navigate the minefield of high school and an increasingly hostile home life.

  God, I wish I could go back in time and slap myself. Tell myself to wake the fuck up and face the nightmare that lived under the same roof. Do the right thing and go to the authorities.

  But I hadn’t. I’d liked my BMW convertible. My legacy acceptance to university. My spending account and personal shoppers and the envy of my classmates.

  “Your family is full of crooked elitists and murderers.”

  Finn was right. In some ways, I’m as guilty as they are.

  17

  At a few minutes till midnight, I leave the house through the side door of the garage, fingers crossed that it’s still the only exit that lacks a motion-sensing floodlight. It does. With a sigh of relief, I move quickly along the side of the house, then dart across a grass lawn toward the dark thicket of trees near the wall.

  I’m breathless by the time I reach my destination: an old, oxidized iron bench safe from the angled ground lights, forgotten behind the border of trees. The surrounding foliage has crept closer over the years, and the peeling surface is sprinkled with bird shit and leaves. Meager moonlight reveals the solitary figure leaning against the wall past the bench.

  “Rabbit,” I breathe.

  She pushes away from the wall. Her arms surround me and we hold each other tightly, our bodies speaking the words our mouths can’t.

  “What the fuck, Calli?” she whispers as we part.

  “I can explain.”

  “You better.” She shakes her head. “I almost had a heart attack when I saw the news. What happened? Why are you here? It’s because of the governor shit, isn’t it?”

  “Mostly, yes.”

  “Damnit. I knew you wouldn’t be able to stomach it, but I hoped you were chilling in a jungle somewhere with no TV or radio.” She clasps my hands in hers. “You’re not safe here. You know that. That woman hates you, your uncles are savages, and God only knows what your sisters have turned into.”

  “They’re okay,” I murmur. “Still clueless, I think.”

  I hope.

  Rabbit stares at me hard, her face painted with moonlight, heart-shaped features older, sharper, and even more arresting than they were at nineteen.

  I finger her short hair. “Orange or pink?”

  She smirks. “Orange.”

  “I love it.”

  “You can’t see the color in the dark.”

  I shrug. “I still love it.”

  She sighs. “You kill me, you really do. What’s your endgame, huh?”

  “Vivian and my uncles behind bars.”

  “How?”

  “Evidence.”

  “What evidence?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Wow. Solid plan.”

  I smile at the familiar, acerbic tone. “You missed me.”

  “Like a limb I severed that suddenly grew back.”

  I bite my lips to keep from laughing. “What have you been up to? Tell me everything.”

  “Same old same old.”

  “Did you finish your degree?” I ask wistfully.

  “Yeah,” she says, voice subdued. “It sucked after you fake-died, though. I was the chick whose best friend was probably murdered.”

  “I thought you hated Los Angeles and were never coming back.”

  She shrugs. “Feelings change. After four years on the East Coast, I missed it. Things are cool now, though. I work for a boutique design agency downtown. I like it. Pay is great.”

  “What else? Any serious relationships? You’re not married, are you?” I gasp. “Are you a mom?”

  I see a flash of teeth as she grins. “No, but the idea isn’t as horrifying as it used to be. I have a boyfriend—he’s a total jock. I have no idea how we started dating, but somehow it’s been almost four years.”

  “He treats you right?”

  She nods. “Like the goddess I am.”

  I can’t resist giving her another quick hug. “I’m so happy for you. I’ve missed you so much. There are so many things I never got a chance to tell you, like thank you for—”

  “Save it for later,” she interjects softly. “Callie, what can I do to help? Time’s almost up.”

  I glance warily at the house. At exactly twelve twenty-five, the main alarm is set and all the doors auto-locked.

  “Can you get me a burner phone?”

  “I’ll leave it under the bench tomorrow night. What else?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing.” When she starts to protest, I lift a hand. “Seriously.”

  “Are you Lone Rangering me? For real? After everything we’ve been through?”

  “I don’t want you anywhere near this, Rabbit. I love you, and I’m so happy you’re happy. I won’t risk screwing up your life, too.”

  She pulls me in for a hard, final hug. “Be safe,” she whispers. “I love you, too.”

  She jogs back to the stone wall, scaling it easily using the footholds we installed in high school and the muscle memory of having made the climb countless times. Draped as the wall is with vines, it looks like magic as her lithe body zigzags to the top. Then she’s gone.

  With two minutes to spare, I slip into the dark garage and carefully close the door. I’m halfway down the hall to my room when I hear the familiar beep beep of the alarm being set. Like a net has closed around me, cinching tight, I feel the air in my lungs compress. Quickening my steps, I dart into my room and lock the door, then stand panting until my heart rate slows.

  When I see the Post-it on the nightstand, my pulse jumps anew. Someone was here.

  Calm down, idiot. Maybe it was Lizzie.

  I grab the note and read the three words.

  Painting over dresser.

  “What the hell?” I whisper, glancing at the framed Monet replication.

  Hackles rising, I walk to the dresser. My eyes track slowly over the canvas and frame, and when I don’t see anything, I look again from another angle.

  And there it is.

  A tiny, shiny black circle set into the baroque, gold frame near the bottom left corner.

  A camera.

  18

  When I walk into the formal dining room for family dinner the following night, I’m intentionally ten minutes late and armed. My weapon? The minuscule camera I dug out of the painting’s frame with scissors and a steak knife. The frame is a goner, but at least I was careful with the canvas.

  The first course—ceviche, which I hate—has already been served, and I’m met with a range of reactions. Vivian’s mouth is pinched in disapproval; Lizzie’s fork slips from her fingers and clatters on a dish; Ellie stares at me with openmouthed shock.

  And finally, my dear uncles Enzo and Franco jolt to standing, their fixed smiles disappearing as I stalk forward and toss the camera on the table next to my stepmother.

  “What on earth is that?” she asks with convincing surprise. She picks it up, examining it like she’s never seen anything like it before.

  “It’s a camera I found in my room.”

  Lizzie gasps. “What the fuck?”

  “Language,” murmurs Vivian distractedly. She glances up at me, and for a momen
t, I think she’s being genuine and didn’t know about the surveillance. Then her eyes flicker behind me and narrow with accusation, and I can’t believe I didn’t put two and two together before now.

  I turn a glare on Franco, the family’s tech wizard. He offers a rueful grin, his hands lifting, palms facing me. With his slicked-back hair and narrow face, he always reminded me of a weasel. And he still does.

  “Hey, can you really blame me? We aren’t the trusting sort, Callie-Bear, and you’ve been gone a long time. Besides, it was just sound. I’m not creepy like that.”

  “Yes, you are,” mutters Ellie, and Lizzie snorts.

  Vivian ignores the girls. “Enzo, did you know about this?”

  Enzo, beefier and rougher all around than his younger brother, shrugs. “Maybe.”

  Vivian sighs and turns her attention back to me. “Callisto, I apologize for the breach of your privacy. It was inexcusable. Franco, apologize to your niece.”

  “Sorry,” he says, without sounding sorry at all.

  “Now for the love of God, everyone sit down so we can eat like civilized people.”

  Just like that, it’s over.

  I sit in the empty spot adjacent to the head of the table and Vivian. Chairs shift, forks lift, and the rest of the meal passes like a theatrical production of normalcy, with questions like, How did your paper come out, Eleanor? and Any more thought on what college you’d like to attend, Elizabeth? When my sisters attempt to engage me, Vivian interjects and steers the conversation away.

  I pick at the main course—veal, which I’m also not a big fan of—and am ignored by everyone but Lizzie, who sends me funny faces and eye-rolls. Her engagement is all that keeps me anchored in the present, reminding me I’m not a ghost.

  By the time dessert is cleared, my shoulders are knotted with tension. I didn’t know what to expect from confronting them about the camera, but the swift, blasé response has left me reeling and deflated, and feeling much like I did most of my life in this house—powerless.

  I use a headache to excuse myself.

  Vivian smiles slightly. “Get some rest, dear.”

  Avoiding my uncles’ pointed, knowing stares, I say goodnight to everyone and retreat to my room. I don’t notice Selina walking toward me until she says, “Are you all right, miss?”

  I startle, then smile. “I’m fine, thank you. How are you?”

  “I’m well.” She pauses. “I took the liberty of cleaning your room and replacing the painting with another. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Embarrassment flushes my face. “Oh, um, about the frame—”

  “No need to explain,” she says, then drops her voice to a whisper. “I’m glad you found it.”

  I freeze. “You left the note?”

  She nods, glancing furtively behind me, then asks, “What note?”

  My neck crawls with confirmation of the long-held fear. “Never mind, I was confused for a second. Thank you, Selina. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Goodnight, miss.”

  As we walk past each other, she touches my arm and whispers, “Phone calls in the bathroom only. Turn the shower on first.”

  Swallowing the lump in my throat, I nod and hurry to my room. It doesn’t occur to me until much later that night, when I have the burner phone Rabbit delivered in my hand, to wonder how Selina seemed to know so much about avoiding surveillance. But by then, I’m half-asleep and it isn’t the danger I’m in or the insanity of being here I’m thinking about.

  Instead, I’m thinking about a pair of blue eyes and the challenge in them.

  You’re no hero.

  Maybe tomorrow, I’ll feel again the need to prove him wrong.

  But tonight? I agree with him.

  19

  Beyond the sparkling waters of a stone-rimmed swimming pool, the elite of Los Angeles mingle in the afternoon sun. The scents of freshly mown grass and faint chlorine mix with the perfumes of entitlement.

  This echelon of society has always intrigued me. From an artistic standpoint, I’d love to wash off all the makeup, hairspray, tanning lotions, and pomades, and strip off the tailored polos, slacks, dresses, and Spanx, and photograph them in this current tableau—laughing too loudly as they sip champagne and scotch, oozing sincerity while inside they’re bursting with contempt. All framed by the placid Southern California weather and Vivian Avellino’s so-perfect-it-looks-fake backyard.

  It could win me a Pulitzer, for sure.

  Too bad I’m not here for art.

  “What are we doing here again?” grumbles the man beside me.

  “Mingling.”

  Teddy Prescott III was the first person I called and the last person I expected to be the answer to my prayers. We were buddies in college—the drinking kind—and he happens to be the son of one of the city’s oldest and most monied families. It was sheer luck he had an invite to this little soiree sitting on his desk when I called. It didn’t take much to convince him to bring me as his guest—a bottle of thirty-year-old single malt Balvenie a client sent me for Christmas last year.

  I’m regretting the sacrifice now, as we’ve only been here twenty minutes and he’s already complaining.

  “All the women here are over forty.”

  “This party is boring as fuck.”

  “At least the caterers are hot.”

  Then,

  “Hello there,” he murmurs with a lecherous grin. I follow his gaze to the French doors at the back of the house, my blood running hotter and faster in anticipation.

  But it’s not her. Just a couple of young, blond socialites in stylish pastel dresses. The younger Avellino sisters. They look cartoonish to me—too groomed, too pretty. I prefer women with a little character to their faces. One or two flaws. My camera prefers them as well.

  Teddy whistles softly. “Well, well. America’s Undead Sweetheart is looking damn fine today.”

  My head turns so fast my neck cracks.

  Callisto has joined her sisters. The full moon between two distant stars. Her silky dark hair swallows the light, her creamy skin luminous. She’s ethereal. Out of place. Remembering Solstice Bay and the first night we met, how vibrant and magnetic she was despite her shyness, I realize how different she appears now. There’s something almost translucent about her, like she’s been stripped of her personality.

  It bothers me. A lot.

  Her delicate features are impassive as she gazes around the scene, nodding at something one of her sisters has said. Standing stock-still, I wait for her eyes to land on me, both craving and slightly fearful of her reaction. What will she say? Do? The need for eye contact makes my back tighten, my fingers clench. If I could see her eyes, I might know if my being here is beyond stupid. If she has, indeed, come back here with an agenda similar to mine… or if she came back to take her place at her stepmother’s side.

  She doesn’t see me, though, and as I watch her, I realize her eyes don’t see much at all. Whatever’s going on in her head, it’s locked down. No more hint of the woman I met just a week ago, who blushed and stammered when I smiled at her.

  Two men approach the trio of sisters. Young, cocky, and rich. Oozing charm from their waxed balls to their tanned foreheads. Most of their attention is directed at Callisto, which the middle sister, Eleanor, doesn’t like much. The youngest, Elizabeth, watches her sisters with a grin on her face and happiness in her eyes, either not noticing or ignoring the undercurrent. Maybe she’s just glad to have the family back together. To have her sister back.

  Observing Elizabeth’s innocent joy, I almost feel bad for what I plan to do to her family. My gaze tracks back to Callisto, noting the shift of her expressions, the superficiality of them. She’s playing a role. Willingly or unwillingly?

  “Bro, you look weird, all intense and shit. Are you crushing on the dead girl?”

  I spare Teddy a derisive glance and a scoff, then, as my gaze latches on to two new arrivals to the party, a plan forms.

  “See those women? Over by the bar?” I ask Ted
dy, who immediately perks up.

  “Sure do.” He rubs his hands together, eyes undressing the tall, lithe beauties I’ve pointed out. “What’s our strategy? Which one you want?”

  Neither.

  Aloud, I sigh. “Just follow my lead.”

  Without waiting for a reply, I head for the bar and the two women who turn, drinks in hand, as I reach them.

  “Abby, good to see you.”

  “Finn!” she squeals, bouncing forward on five-inch heels to throw herself into my arms. We’re almost the same height—she towers over most of the men here—but in her line of work it’s an asset. Her back bowed against my chest, she grins at me. “This is probably the last place I’d ever expect to see you! What the heck are you doing here?”

  Her sweet, Southern drawl reminds me of a few years ago and a weekend spent between the sheets after a photoshoot for Vogue. We’ve been friends since—last I heard, she’s engaged to some foreign oil tycoon’s son.

  “I was about to ask you the same thing,” I remark as she steps back to sip her fruity cocktail.

  “Oh, you know. Expanding my horizons and whatnot.” She giggles. “To be honest, though, I’m mostly here out of curiosity. You?”

  “Same,” I whisper conspiratorially.

  A quick glance shows me that Callisto and her sisters have separated. It takes me a moment to find her—she’s chatting with a former Democratic governor, laughing and touching his arm near the two-story pool house. He looks down on her dotingly, a gleam in his eye. He’s old enough to be her grandfather, which shouldn’t bother me. After all, she’s clearly acting a part.

  But it still bothers me.

  Teddy claps me on the back, truncating my thoughts. “Are you going to introduce me to your friends, buddy?”

  Abby’s brows lift and she shares a knowing smirk with her friend. I make the introductions, learning the other woman’s name, which I promptly forget. Teddy takes instant advantage, edging close to Abby’s friend and laying on the charm.