by CD Reiss
“Bullshit.”
My bags were intact, though shuffled around from the drive. I looked beneath and between them, in the corners and under the carpet.
“Damnit.”
My laptop was gone. I slammed the trunk closed and it popped open a few inches, as it was when I’d found it.
“Fuck you too.” I cursed at the trunk but it didn’t seem insulted.
I muttered obscenities, getting into the driver seat, door open, one foot still on the pavement as I put the key in the ignition and turned. Nothing happened. Not even a whrr whrr. Not even a click.
Harper got in front of the car and wedged her fingers in the hood. “Can you pop this?”
“You are a cliché of a cliché,” I said.
“What?”
Fuck it. I wasn’t explaining the word cliché or how the small-town girl who knew her way around a car was so unlikely it was obvious.
I popped the hood and joined her at the front grille.
“Well, doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see your battery is gone.” She slapped the hood down before I could get a better look. “My friend Orrin owns a garage. He’ll give it a tow. Until then—”
“You knew the code for the gate the whole time.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You grab me the minute I get into town and send me to a hotel you know damn well is closed. Then you follow me, all surprised, and take me to the fucking factory. And who suggested the roof? You. I was ready to go and then, ‘Oh, try the roof,’ because you might miss the big, fat fucking message.”
I stepped toward her, and she stepped back. I didn’t want to be threatening, but let’s face it, I did.
“You knew the code to the lock, didn’t you? If I couldn’t pick it, you knew it.”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
“You know exactly who he is.”
“Who?”
The innocent act was cute. Real cute. Once I got to the bottom of this, I was going to fuck the cute right off her.
“Just take me to him, Ms. Barrington.”
Her big, multicolored eyes got even bigger, and that crease in her fucking lip got deeper when her mouth opened in surprise. She recovered so quickly I doubted I’d seen it at all.
“I go by Watson.”
“Since when?” I glanced at her finger. No ring.
She put her hand in her pocket. “You know my name. So?”
“Explains the earrings. Your father owned this town.”
“And?” Her back was against the car, and I was six inches from her. “I don’t own anything. The state owns the property for back taxes. And these were my mother’s earrings. Sorry if I’m not allowed to have them.”
“Take me to him.” I was up in her face because fuck her explanations.
“I don’t know any guy.”
“Fuck you don’t.”
A car pulled up. I didn’t look at it. In my world, cars passed all the time. I didn’t look away from her defiant face or her chest heaving under the plaid jacket.
“I told you,” she said.
“You lied.”
“I did not—”
The wind went out of me. The world got swept into a whirl of color. Pain flashed through my back. A dog barked and growled.
When my vision cleared, I recognized his face. The guy from the truck outside the grocery store. He smelled of cigarettes and wintergreen gum. He pushed me up against the Caddy by my throat so hard that my back was arched against it and the only parts of my feet touching the ground were my toes.
“Orrin.” Harper’s voice came from my right, about five miles away. “He’s all right.”
“I don’t like the way he was talking to you.”
“Yeah, well.” Her hand curved around his bicep. “He’s from California.”
“Aw, shit.” He dropped me like a wormy sack of flour. I fell to my knees, rocks sticking in my palms, humiliated. “Why’s he here?”
“Car broke down.”
“Huh. Well, I can take care of that.” He yanked me up by the collar until we were face-to-face. “I’m going to take your car to the shop. Give it a look. In the meantime, you are going to treat this lady like the queen she is. You understand?”
I breathed in the affirmative.
“Where’s he staying?” Orrin asked Harper.
“I’ll keep him at the house.”
“Aren’t you nice.”
“You know us. We take all comers.”
He got in my face. “I’m driving.”
“I can take an Uber.” This dipshit, backwoods, broken-down Deliverance shithole town without decent signal didn’t have Uber. I knew that. But even though I kept my mouth shut for a living, I couldn’t keep it shut in front of this guy.
He pushed me into his truck. “As far as you’re concerned, I’m Uber.”
The pressure on my chest disappeared when he let me go, and I found my footing. Adjusted my jacket. Despite all logic to the contrary, my pride was intact. My value was lodged firmly between my ears. I’d been beaten up by knuckleheads more times than I could count. And that was saying something.
“Now that you two are best friends,” Harper said, “let’s go. I’m getting hungry.”
XII
Orrin drove and Harper followed. He didn’t say why she followed to her own house and he wasn’t taking questions. That was what it was. His dog, a bloodhound named “Percy, short for Percival” licked my cheek raw from the backseat. I scratched his neck.
“You like dogs?” Orrin asked.
“Love them.”
“You got any?”
“Nah. I work twenty-hour days. Once things slow down, I’m getting one. Two, maybe. This a bloodhound?”
“Ridgeback. Runt of the litter but can still chase a rabbit halfway down a hole.”
“Bet you can,” I said to the dog, who ate up the attention, dropping a big slobber on my shoulder. It was all right. A dog knows when you like him, and if he likes you, he lets you know back. You didn’t need to decode them.
We pulled up in front of the house I’d seen from the roof of the factory. I knew it was the same from the piebald roof. Victorian with original windows, warped wood, wraparound porch. It was pale yellow with trims in five different colors. The paint was so cracked and dulled I couldn’t tell if the color combination had been an attempt at period authenticity or if they’d just used what they had. It would have been worth a fortune in Northern California.
The front yard was well-trimmed, with grass that was green and lush. The rosebushes were flowerless and thorny. The hedges were perfect. Five other cars were parked on the dirt patch to the left of the house, in the shade of the setting sun. Orrin put the truck at the end, behind Harper’s car, which was still clacking as it cooled.
“Thanks for the lift,” I said.
“You mind what I told you.”
I nodded, but maybe I wasn’t emphatic enough.
I was halfway out the door when he grabbed my shoulder. “Percy likes you, and that counts for something. But not everything. If I see you get like that with our Harper again, you and I are going to have more than words.”
Our Harper? While I appreciated his protectiveness, I was curious about who was included in our. “I think that’s more than fair.”
The dog stepped over my lap and poured out before running up the side porch steps, where a woman waited to pet him. She was in her late twenties, no makeup. Short, curly blond bob. Jeans and an apron.
“Orrin,” she said, “you staying?”
“Nah. Mal’s cooking.”
She eyed me. “You must be Taylor.” She held her hand out, and I shook it. “I’m Catherine. You’re welcome here.”
“Thank you.”
“Harper’s in the kitchen if you want to say hello.”
Behind her, Harper already stood at the screen door. She was diffused behind the ripped screen, wiping a bowl with a dishcloth.
“Hey,” I said.
“You made it.�
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“I thought he was going to dump my body in the river.”
“The river woulda killed you if he didn’t.” She pushed the door open halfway and stood to the side so I could get into what looked like a mud/laundry room.
As soon as I crossed the threshold, I was assaulted by the sound of people. Children. Pots banging. Parents shouting. China clacking.
“What’s the occasion?”
She headed for the kitchen, and I followed, practically tripping on two toddlers, one running with a clean fork in each hand.
“Same occasion as always. People need to eat.”
I checked my packet sniffer for signal. Nothing on data and no random Wi-Fi.
“We’re partying like it’s 1999,” I grumbled.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
We crossed a few rooms, and I peeked into others. They were spotless but bare to the floorboards. No furniture. No rugs. On the walls, between the sconces, were hooks, wires, and pale rectangles where pictures used to be.
The kitchen hadn’t been updated since the seventies. Three women and a girl of about seventeen fussed with steaming pots and running water. Harper took a bowl from a woman who wasn’t a day under ninety. She had a bandana around her wrinkled forehead and bangly bracelets on her thin wrist.
“Mrs. Boden, this is Taylor.”
“Nice to meet you.” Her handshake was firmer than I would have guessed possible.
“Likewise.”
With her free hand, she pinched the scruff on my chin, which had just grown to a pinchable length. “Oughta do something about this. You look too French Resistance. And they couldn’t free Paris without help, you know.”
Harper broke in. “Carmen, Juanita, Beverly”—she pointed at each woman then the high schooler—“Tiffany. This is Taylor.”
They each greeted me. I repeated their names so I’d remember, and Tiffany blushed and looked away when I did. Harper slapped me with her dishtowel as if I’d tried to seduce the girl, then she stuck her head into the hall before I could deny it.
“All children in the house! Wash your paddies!” She brushed by me. “You too.”
A line of kids stomped past on their way to a sink and soap. I stood at the kitchen faucet and pushed up my sleeves. Harper stood next to me.
“This the usual no-occasion crowd?” I asked.
“Sometimes. You staying tonight? You’re welcome to.”
I didn’t know what I should do. I felt trapped, but I wasn’t. Not really. There was a hotel and a country club one town over, apparently. They probably had Wi-Fi. I could help Deepak track down our hacker from there, or I could make some calls to soothe buyers.
I could make it look good enough to stabilize the deal but not fix it. I couldn’t walk into that meeting with conviction. I wasn’t that good a bullshitter. My confidence came from doing things perfectly.
“I have a lot of work to do,” I said.
True. But also false. I had work, but without a connection, I couldn’t do shit.
“Orrin will probably have a new battery in it in the morning.” She handed me a towel.
I shook off my hands. She had the loveliest smile. I had to remind myself that I could do both of us more harm than good. She was too sweet. Too sharp. Too blond.
Sideways to the sink, I dried my hands. “Who would take my battery?”
“Thieves?” She washed her hands.
“Very funny.”
“Fresh batteries are worth money, which people here don’t have a lot of. I’m not condoning it—”
“Or the spray paint, which was just mean.”
“Or the spray paint.” She dried her hands.
Everyone was out of the kitchen but us.
“Which was the same color as the painting on the roof. I’m thinking it’s the same person. Or people.”
She looped the towel around a drawer handle. “Even if I knew…” Which she did. I’d have bet my balls on it. “I wouldn’t tell.”
“Harper, I want you to know, if it’s some kid crying for help, I’m not an animal. Actually, I just want to know how he did what he did.”
“What did he do? Besides maybe rip off your car battery?”
“He hacked into a system, a computer system I’m developing. Whatever he did, it was really difficult. Really well-timed. The execution was perfect. Guy like that doesn’t belong in jail. I’d probably hire him.”
I couldn’t decode what happened with her face. Surprise opened it a little, and I saw anger and happiness at the same time. Before I could pin it down, it was gone. She kept looking at me, and I kept my attention on her.
“Harper!” Catherine called in a singsong.
“Let’s eat.” She turned away and went into the dining room.
* * *
Dinner had been loud, messy, and pretty delicious in a not-too-complex way. Men appeared from the yard when the food was out. We had stew in chipped bowls. The silverware was real silver, and the water glasses were canning jars. Folding chairs set next to white, plastic picnic chairs around a card table. I remembered most of the names. The kids were lively and well-behaved. Harper sat next to me.
When I was asked where I was from, my answer elicited questions about the weather, gas prices, and state taxes.
What I could gather from them was that the factory closing had hit them hard, but Catherine, who blushed when mentioned, had been the town caretaker ever since.
“I remember when she sold the dining room set we should be sitting on right now,” a weathered man named Neil said. “My wife wanted to throw herself on it when they loaded it onto the truck.”
“It was so nice.” Beverly shook her head slowly. “How much did you get for it?”
“Enough to pay down Phil and Dina’s mortgage. And worth every cent.” Catherine stood and started taking plates, ending the discussion. “Harper made bonnet cookies this morning. Who’s ready?”
The kids clamored to pick up every dinner plate. The dining room descended into chaos again.
“Bonnet cookies?” I whispered to Harper, catching the scent of the air before it rained.
She turned to me, and we were face-to-face in the middle of a crowded room. “There are so many eggs in the recipe. When my great-grandmother was a girl, they wouldn’t fit in the bag. She put them in her bonnet on the way home.”
“That’s nice.” I said it to fill space, watching the flickering changes in her expression. I didn’t know if I should kiss her or grill her until she revealed who’d hacked me. Maybe I could do both.
* * *
Orrin had brought my bags in from the car. Everyone had said it was nice to meet me and left. I turned my back, and Catherine had somehow folded herself into the walls. The house fell into a dark stillness.
Harper led me upstairs, flicking on lights with loud clacks from old switches. The steps creaked like nobody’s business.
“How old is this house?” I asked.
It was the smallest of small talk. But the house felt haunted, and that seemed like a relevant data point to proving it wasn’t.
She stood at the top of the stairs with her hand on the banister. “Nineteen eleven. You look freaked out.”
“Me?”
“You.”
“I don’t freak out. I have nerves of steel.”
“Want a tour?” she asked at the head of the hallway. Two short halls went east-west, and a longer one went north-south. All were as bare as the lower level. “There’s not much to see.”
“That would be great.”
“I figure it’ll ease your mind.” She put her hand on a knob.
“I’m not freaked out.”
“Sure.” She flicked on the sconces. The room we entered had a cot, a two-drawer dresser, and peeling wallpaper. “This was my room when I was a kid.”
“Where do you sleep now?”
She was already out a door on the other side of the room. “This is a linen closet. It’s between two rooms. They all are.” Shelves. T
owels. Sheets. A bulb on a wire. “This was my mother’s room.” There was a pause where I thought of asking a question, but she moved on before I could get a word out.
She strode through the room without stopping, clacking the switch behind her. “My sister’s room.”
It looked as though someone actually slept there. A half-open armoire had clothes in it, and the sheets on the full-sized bed were fresh but mussed.
“Catherine?”
“Yup.”
She continued. We wound up in one of the short halls. A stairway led up to a door at the top. Framed pictures hung on the stairwell walls. I hadn’t seen a single thing on the walls yet, and I slowed down to look.
“We keep the bodies up there.” She waved me toward her. “Come on.”
She blew through old maids’ quarters, a narrow back stairway, three more closets, two bathrooms with toilets that hissed and sinks with separate faucets for hot and cold, a library full of books, and the only comfortable-looking chair I’d seen since entering the house. Every room was clean. Every one had the absolute minimum amount of furniture. None had a decorative element that could be moved without ripping off a part of the house.
“The master suite is the nicest.” She opened the carved mahogany door a few inches. “You’re not allergic to mold, are you?”
“Nope.”
“Good.” She opened it all the way.
It was the nicest, biggest, and it did smell of mold. A chandelier had hung in the center of a ceiling that seemed just a little higher than the rest. It had a mural of delicate flowers preserved under a layer of dirt. The hardwood inlay on the floor was in a chevron pattern, with a wide border of darker wood. Past wide French doors, a balcony looked over the black night of nowhere.
“It is nice. I don’t see the mold. I can smell it but not see it.”
She pointed at water damage on the wall. “It’s worst on the bathroom side. There’s a mushroom that grows out of the wall every year.”
“That’s not mold. It’s—”
“Fungus. I know. We have both.”
“The mismatched shingles are above this room?”
“Yeah.” She opened the French doors to the outside.
“But there’s a third floor?”