The Thriller Collection

by S W Vaughn

  Sabrina springs to attention as I’m walking to my desk and gets up to follow me. “Celine, I just wanted to say that I’m really sorry about yesterday,” she says in a tone that’s about as genuine as a politician during an election year. “I didn’t mean it. It was just my time of the month — you know, the old hormones talking.”

  I manage to glare at her. I’m not sure why she’s apologizing, since Lucas didn’t see what happened and usually she only backtracks the horrible things she says for show. But maybe Courtney was paying attention after all, and maybe she ratted her out to Maxine.

  “Fine, whatever,” I say. “Did you …”

  Send me a text is on the tip of my tongue. I’m determined to say it out loud, to actually confront her, but then I see a small piece of paper on the surface of my desk from a Hughes Real Estate notepad. Written on it, in Maxine’s no-frills handwriting, is ‘My office, please.’

  Dread sinks its claws into my stomach. Something’s gone wrong with the sale, I just know it. Did Hannah back out? I thought Saturday night went pretty well, except for Missy’s unfortunate interruption. Jill had ended up flirting with some tattooed guy for a while after that, and it was just me and Hannah. She seemed happy when she left. But maybe I’d done something to upset her.

  “Is something wrong?” Sabrina says with a tiny smile, and suddenly I know why she apologized. She must’ve seen Maxine put the note on my desk.

  Whatever happened, she knows about it. Because she did it.

  “No, not a thing,” I force myself to say with a smile, snatching the note to stuff it in my pocket. “But thanks for your concern, Sabrina. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  Her smile widens. “I’m not.”

  I ignore her and walk to Maxine’s office on legs that want to tremble. I’m sick with worry, but I think part of it is pure anger. Sabrina’s done something to screw this up for me. She must have. And what, exactly, am I going to do about it?

  Nothing, a small voice whispers in my head. Just like you always do.

  God, I hate that I’m so fucking passive.

  Maxine’s door is ajar. I open it a little more and stick my head in with a nervous smile. She’s sitting behind her desk, and she looks up immediately. Her expression is blank.

  “You wanted to see me?” I say.

  “Yes. Come in.” Maxine sighs, and I know it’s going to be bad. Even worse when she says, “Close the door.”

  I do it without looking back where, Sabrina and Lucas are sure to be staring at me. She doesn’t ask me to take a seat in the chair in front of her desk, but I do anyway. My legs are no longer steady. “What’s wrong?” I blurt.

  In typical blunt fashion, Maxine gets straight to the point. “Your real estate license is expired,” she says. “The commission CC’d me on the email they sent to you. I can’t let you close on this property today.”

  “That’s impossible.” My head starts throbbing sickly, and my voice is a disbelieving whisper. “It was supposed to be good until next year, but … anyway, I renewed it when I got the notification about it expiring. I did it last week, right from my work computer.”

  Maxine’s features soften slightly, and I realize with a shock that she thought I just let it lapse. As if I could be so forgetful, or lazy, about something that important. For an instant I’m furious with her for that. “Well, maybe there was some kind of mix-up at the real estate commission. Crossed wires somewhere,” she says. “If you can get it straightened out today, fine. But … Celine, you know how slow they are at resolving issues.”

  The anger is building in my gut, a slow burn that sends tremors through me. “And if I can’t get it fixed today?”

  Her mouth is a firm line. “Then Sabrina will represent the buyer and the agency at the closing today.”

  “No,” I spit out. “I’m not … Maxine, I can’t lose this sale.” My anger comes out as a wheedling plea, and I hate myself for it. “I’ll call Hannah. I’m sure she won’t mind waiting a few days while I sort out —”

  “I’ve already spoken to Ms. Byers,” Maxine interrupts. “She doesn’t want to wait. And I’m not going to lose this sale for the agency because you allowed your license to lapse.”

  “I didn’t allow it!” My fists clench in my lap. “I told you, I renewed it last week.”

  Maxine shakes her head. “Not according to the commission,” she says. “And you’re not going to lose the sale. You’ll split it with Sabrina as the agent of record for the seller, once you’ve straightened out your license.”

  At once, I’m too furious to speak. Sabrina. She’s done this, somehow. She couldn’t stand the idea of me pulling ahead of her sales record, so she arranged it to make this one even, so she’d still be ahead.

  I’m not going to keep my mouth shut this time.

  Without another word, I stand, wrench Maxine’s door open and stalk out, heading straight for Sabrina’s desk. Her cat-ate-the-canary smile turns to a surprised O as she glimpses my face, right before I swat a stack of files off the edge of her desk, scattering manila folders and papers everywhere. “It was you!” I shout, almost delighting in her fear as she cringes back. “You fucked with my license, and you sent those texts.”

  Sabrina gasps and shoves her chair back, away from me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she stammers.

  “Bullshit. I know it was you,” I say as I take a step forward. “This is my sale. I’ve worked on it for two years, and you’re going to keep your bitchy little hands out of it!”

  “Celine?” Sabrina says in Maxine’s voice. “I said, you won’t lose the sale.”

  I blink rapidly and let out the breath I was holding. I’m still sitting in Maxine’s office, my hands clenched in my lap. I never went out there to confront Sabrina. Just like every argument I ever had with my mother, it was all in my head.

  I can’t do it.

  Maxine purses her lips. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?” she says. “Go home and try to relax, see if you can make any progress with your license. I’ll make sure you get your half of the commission, one way or another.

  My half. Damn it, it was supposed to be my whole. But I can’t muster any more anger at the moment, or even a mild disagreement. I’m hollowed out to the core, hurt and humiliated and dazed, unable to think anything beyond How did this happen? How?

  I know what will happen now. I can see it unfolding. I’ll go home with my tail between my legs and say nothing to Sabrina, or anyone else. Eventually I’ll get my license straightened out — it’ll turn out to be some stupid glitch. Then I’ll take fifty percent of my commission and pretend it’s great, it’s what I wanted all along. It’s what I expected.

  And I’ll carry this hurt around with me forever, like I carry all the others.

  Chapter 11

  When I get home, I finally allow myself to break down and have a good cry, alone in my living room with my face pressed into the couch cushions and my shoes kicked on the floor. I’m crying for Brad, for Rosalie, for my lost commission and the frightening texts, even for Joan Carpenter. And I’m crying for my failure as a human being to have some kind of spine, to stand up for myself. Because there’s no one else to stand up for me.

  My mother would say that I’m having a pity party and I’m the only one invited. Maybe she’s right. But this is the only way I’ve ever been able to release some of the toxic buildup inside me — even if it’s only to make room for more.

  An hour later, I’m cleaned up and dressed down, sitting in front of the blank television with my phone in hand. I’ve spent most of that hour on the phone with the New Hampshire Real Estate Commission, being transferred to various people who had no idea what went wrong but have assured me that they’re looking into it and will get back to me within three business days. Of course, I don’t have three business days between now and one o’clock this afternoon.

  I hate this feeling, the powerless sensation of being an observer in my own life while everything happens around me. I’m goin
g to do something about something.

  I decide to call Brad.

  Retrieving my purse from where I dropped it carelessly on the floor when I came in, I dig around until I find the café receipt with Brad’s room and phone number written on it. My hands shake as I tap through to the dial pad. I manage to put in the area code and the first number before I chicken out, swipe back, and redial the main hospital number, where I ask to be connected to the fifth floor nurse’s station.

  A woman that might be the same one from before answers on the second ring, and I swallow in an attempt to relieve my dry throat. “Hello,” I say. “I was wondering … can you tell me whether Brad Dowling has any visitors right now?”

  “That’s an interesting question. I don’t think anyone’s ever asked something like that before,” the woman says. At least she sounds friendly, and not mocking. “I’m honestly not sure if I’m supposed to give out that kind of information. Can I ask why you want to know?”

  Because his mother is insane, I want to say. But I don’t. “I just really need to talk to him directly,” I say. “Without …”

  “His mother?”

  The understanding in this woman’s voice lifts a weight from me. “Yes, exactly,” I say.

  “She’s really something else. Don’t mention I said that,” the woman says.

  “Believe me, I won’t. Is she there now?”

  The woman pauses, and then says, “Unfortunately. She’s almost always there.”

  Disappointment threatens to choke me. I’ll never be able to talk to Brad, now while Willa is around. Even if I stand up to her, she simply won’t allow it. And I’m not family.

  “But I’ll tell you this,” the woman says quietly. “She never comes in until at least ten, sometimes closer to eleven. And visiting hours start at nine.”

  A lump forms in my throat, and I feel a sudden kinship with this voice on the phone. “Thank you so much,” I say. “Um … who are you, if you don’t mind my asking? I just really appreciate this.”

  Another pause. “You won’t tell anyone what I said?”

  “Never. Trust me, I know how Willa Dowling can get.”

  She laughs. “I’m Teryn. Teryn Holmes,” she says. “I’m a nurse here.”

  The name sounds very familiar, and I think maybe I went to college with her. “Thank you, Teryn,” I say. “I’m Celine Bauman, by the way.”

  “Oh my gosh. I remember you!” she says with happy surprise. “Weren’t you going out with Brad when — oh, no. I’m so sorry,” she moans.

  “It’s okay,” I tell her. “But yes. That’s why I need to talk to him.”

  “Wow, yeah, you do. No wonder you’re so worried about Willa. That woman is a battleship,” she whispers, and then laughs a little. “She actually tried to get me fired, just because I dated Brad for like a month.”

  I suck in a breath and shake my head ruefully. There is no end to Brad’s parade of ex-girlfriends. “That sounds like her,” I say. “Well, thank you again. I’ll try him tomorrow before the battleship gets there.”

  Teryn laughs again. “Good luck. I’m rooting for you,” she says.

  With the call ended, I settle back on the couch and close my eyes. I might be too afraid to confront Willa Dowling, but I’m determined to talk to Brad. And since I’m apparently not going to work for a few days, it’s going to happen tomorrow.

  Even though I have no idea how to actually tell him something so big, so completely unexpected, after he’s already had the shock of learning he was unconscious for five years.

  I’m about to get up and go in the kitchen to start some coffee when my front doorbell rings, startling my heart into a higher thump bracket. Whoever it is, it can’t be good news. My few friends who might stop by know I’m usually not home during the day, and they have jobs themselves. So maybe it’s a salesperson, or a Jehovah’s witness … or worse, someone official.

  Everything in me wants to sit here quietly and pretend I’m not here. But when the doorbell rings again, I get up to answer it, driven by the horrible thought that something might’ve happened to Alyssa.

  The front door doesn’t have windows or a peephole, so I’ll have to open it blind. I steel myself with a deep breath, turn the knob, and pull the door open slowly to find two men in suits standing on my stoop. They’re both in their mid-thirties, one with light brown hair and the other with black. They have badges clipped to their belts … and guns in holsters. They’re police officers, and they have no good reason to be here.

  Alyssa.

  “What happened?” I gasp, on the verge of fainting. “Oh my God, is my daughter okay?”

  The brown-haired one frowns slightly and glances at his partner. “Ma’am, do you have some reason to believe your daughter wouldn’t be okay?”

  Oh, God. I’m so dizzy. I grab the side of the door and force myself to breathe, squeezing my eyes shut as white flashes behind them. “No. I mean, she’s in kindergarten,” I blurt. “Did something happen at the school?”

  “Maybe we should start over,” the brown-haired cop says. “We’re not here about your daughter. I’m sorry if I startled you. Are you Celine Bauman?”

  The relief that flits through me is short-lived, between the confirmation that Alyssa is safe and this man knowing my name. My stomach is a quivering puddle. I can’t even begin to imagine what they want with me — did I get a ticket and forget about it? Can I be arrested for having an expired real estate license?

  “Ma’am?” This time the one with black hair speaks. “Could we have your name, please?”

  “Yes. I’m Celine Bauman,” I finally squeak out. “What … what is it?”

  They share another glance. “I’m Detective Garfield, and this is Detective Chambers,” Brown Hair tells me. “We just want to ask you a few questions. Can we come in?”

  Detectives? This isn’t right. They have no business being here, and now I’m more angry than scared. In fact, I think that Sabrina is behind this, or maybe Brad’s mother. But I’m certainly not going to be railroaded into a false arrest. I have rights.

  “No, you can’t,” I say firmly. “I don’t know what this is about, but I haven’t done anything. And I don’t have to let you in without a warrant. In fact, I suggest that you speak to whoever sent you here again, because they’re lying.”

  Detective Garfield clears his throat. “Ms. Bauman? Can we come in?”

  I haven’t said any of that aloud. I’m still standing here, staring at them like a deer in headlights. With a mute nod, I step back and pull the door open wider as my stomach churns with self-loathing.

  The detectives seat themselves on the couch. In a small act of defiance, I leave the door open and walk slowly to the armchair, settling myself on the edge. “What do you want?”

  Detective Chambers takes the lead. “We’re looking into the death of Rosalie Phillips,” he says as his partner produces a notebook and pen. “You knew her, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. I mean, I went to school with her,” I say. “But … it was suicide.”

  My face heats up as the words leave my mouth, and I’m sure it’s turned bright red. I don’t know why I said that, after Missy told me that the note was faked and they were investigating it as a murder. I should have just admitted what she said. Now I look like I’m lying to the police.

  And they look like they know it.

  “We originally thought it was suicide,” Chambers says carefully. He has rich brown eyes, and they’re digging into me like lasers. “Now we have reason to believe there was foul play involved. But you knew that, didn’t you?”

  I try to swallow past the lump in my throat. If I change my story now, I’m admitting to lying — but if I keep going, I’ll just look more guilty. I have to come clean. “My friend Missy mentioned that they … I mean, that you thought the note was a fake, the other night. I just forgot she said that.”

  They don’t seem satisfied by my answer. Garfield scribbles something on his pad, and Chambers leans forward slightly. “That wo
uld be Missy Wilson?”

  I nod. “Yes. She … her and Rosalie were best friends.”

  “We’ve already interviewed Ms. Wilson. And that’s correct about the suicide note. The handwriting doesn’t match Ms. Phillips’,” Chambers says, still speaking slowly and searching my face. “Now, Ms. Bauman. I understand that you had a relationship with Bradford Dowling at the time of his accident. Is that correct?”

  I still have no idea why they’re questioning me, and I’m edging closer to panic with every breath. “What does Brad have to do with —”

  “Just answer the question, ma’am,” Garfield interjects bluntly.

  A fist closes around my stomach. “Yes,” I whisper. “I was seeing Brad.”

  Chambers nods, and Garfield writes something else down. “And what were you doing at Juniper State Park on the afternoon of August 30?”

  “What?” I gasp as startled tears form in my eyes. That’s the day Rosalie died. And I was nowhere near the park — I was out school shopping with Alyssa all day. “I … I wasn’t …”

  “August 30,” Chambers repeats as he takes a folded piece of paper from his pocket and opens it to a computer printout of a Facebook page. From my account. “You logged your location in as Juniper State Park, with friends, at 4:25 PM. It’s right here. There are photos of the park with the post.”

  I feel the blood drain from my face as I stare at the paper, almost uncomprehending. This is impossible. “I wasn’t. I never,” I stammer. “I didn’t post that! I was school shopping with my daughter. She started kindergarten this year.”

  My words sound hollow in my ears. Oh my God, they think I killed Rosalie.

  I’m going to throw up.

  I desperately swallow bile as Garfield’s blue eyes narrow on me. “Are you sure about that?” he says. “We can check the location of your phone when that post was made, you know. We can tell if you’re lying.”

  They can’t do that. They can’t. And even if they could, I’m not lying. I have to get a hold of myself, for Alyssa’s sake. She needs me. I can’t be her mother from jail.