by Mary
I recognize the name, if not the face. Jim Sinclair is the owner of HouseMart, the home supply giant. Didn’t Dad mention he wanted to get our products into their stores?
Jim is a middle-aged man with thinning hair and an expensive suit. We shake hands and then he introduces the woman with him.
“This is my daughter Angela. Angela, you know Albert. And this is his son Brent.”
I shake Angela’s hand. She’s a petite blonde with ultra-white teeth and a demure black dress. Her handshake is firm.
We make small talk and then Dad invites them to eat with us.
Crap. Dinner definitely won’t be over until late.
An inkling whispers through me before we get to the booth. A premonition, if you will. This was planned, probably for a reason I won’t like.
My suspicions are confirmed as we’re walking to our table. “I wouldn’t mind finding a way to join our two empires,” Dad mutters to me with a wink and a nudge in Angela’s direction.
He’s maneuvered it so Angela and I are sitting side by side, across from our dads.
And there it is.
I’m being whored out by my own father.
Great.
Maybe now would be a good time to tell him I’m impotent.
My jaw clenches. Not that the state of my cock even matters. I’m fine. It’s fine.
As Jim’s drones on and on about some merger or acquisition or whatever, Angela clears her throat and leans in my direction. “He’s really into scalable business strategies and leveraging things,” she whispers. “Pretty much anything involving business jargon that sounds impressive but is actually useless.”
“You’re not into it?”
“Not really. But I pretend to be for my dad.” She shrugs. “This stuff is important but he never—” She cuts off and glances over at our fathers.
“He never what?”
She shakes her head. “It’s nothing.”
Dinner is served and it’s actually not a bad time.
Angela is nice enough. She’s smiling and listening to our fathers talk, a look of perfect interest and understanding on her face while she quietly sips her wine. Every part of her is pressed and smooth, not a hair out of place.
Not like Bethany’s haphazard bun with the escapist curls.
I take a long drink of cold water. None of that matters. I can’t be thinking about women. Too many other things on my plate. Not to mention the fact that my lower half is useless. Not something that’s necessarily bothered me much over the past few months, considering my other concerns . . . but it kind of bothers me now.
I wish the night were over already. Exhaustion is wrapping languid fingers around my body, making my thoughts fuzzy around the edges.
As it is, I’ll have to go back to the office to pick up my car—I left it in the lot next to the building. I pat my pocket surreptitiously to make sure I have my keys and realize I’m missing something else.
My pills.
I left them in Marc’s office.
“Brent,” Jim interrupts my thoughts. “I hear you’re involved in a lot of charity work. Angela is involved with the Ladies Auxiliary right now, raising money for children of active-duty military families.”
They’re all staring at me, waiting for a response. “That’s really great.”
“We’re having a charity auction in a couple of weeks.” Angela smiles at me. “A lot of the sponsors are big Sharks fans.”
The eyes of my table partners land on me like a three-hundred-pound barbell. I can’t say no. “I would love to help.” That’s not a lie. It’s a worthy cause. But this isn’t about the charity. It’s about manipulating me into spending more one-on-one time with Angela Sinclair.
“Something that won’t take up too much of your time,” Angela says. “Maybe a signed football? I’ll give you my number.”
Dad claps me on the back and answers for me. “That sounds great.”
Chapter Four
A lot of love at first sight is like the first time you meet a sociopath.
–Karen Kilgariff
My Favorite Murder episode 66
Bethany
After Mr. Crawford and Brent leave, the rest of the day hums with activity. There’s a mad dash to rearrange schedules and appease ruffled feathers since Mr. Crawford left early. In addition, a good chunk of the day is spent making sure everyone in the building has what they need from Mr. Crawford’s office. Which is a lot, since there’s a mass infiltration as soon as he exits the premises.
On top of that, I have to deal with a missing pallet in the Jersey warehouse, act as a buffer between payroll and a distraught salesman yelling about a missing commission check, and answer the never-ending phone line with calls from investors, buyers, and anyone and everyone else in the kitchen supply industry.
By the time I’m leaving, the sun is setting on another day. I wave goodbye to Stan the security man and then begin the trek home, which involves three different subway changes.
It’s not too bad, though. The subway isn’t as frightening a place as I always imagined it would be. Back home, there’s nothing like it for public transportation. I’ve had to adjust.
And it’s not just the subway. Everything here is so different from home. Out west, everything is large and open. A mortgage for a five-bedroom house costs the same as my teeny tiny apartment. Manhattan Island is tightly packed, over a million people in a twenty-two-mile radius. Reno has a population of four hundred thousand over a hundred-mile radius. New York smells like greasy food and exhaust. Nevada is all clear mountain air and sagebrush.
I’m surrounded by all of these people, but I know almost no one.
All my best friends still live back home. But at least I’m three thousand miles away from my mother. Even though her long tentacles of guilt manage to reach me from afar.
I’ve got my key in the lock when the neighbor’s door opens.
“Hey there, Bethany. Work late?”
Dammit. So close. “Hey, Steven. Yeah this whole adulting thing is bullshit.”
Steven is close to my age, maybe a couple years younger. He’s tall and trim and has dark hair and a mustache. Not a hipster handlebar mustache, or a giant state trooper ’stache, more like a fluffy dead caterpillar that ends before the curve of his lips. It’s totally a porn ’stache. He’s friendly, if a bit odd. And hard to get away from, one of those people who just wants to chat and won’t shut up and you have to edge your way out of the conversation.
Also, I’m pretty sure he’s in a cult.
“We’re having ornithology club tonight. Did you want to come over? We’re going to come up with a new name for the group.”
See? Cult. Who belongs to a club about birds? In New York City, no less. What are they studying, pigeons? Hard pass. Besides, the only person I’ve seen showing up for these meetings is a guy named Adrian with dead eyes.
“You know, it sounds like so much fun, but I have plans.” I’ve got the first lock open. I stick my key in the dead bolt.
“Grandma Martha made crab cakes,” he says, like that will change my mind.
Martha’s cooking is terrible. She brought me cookies when I first moved in and I think she used salt instead of sugar. Gwen was always going on about how great Martha’s cooking was, but that ship has sailed. She has dementia and Steven moved in a couple months ago to help her out.
“Aw man, bummer I’m going to miss it.”
“We have a new member in the club. Natalie Furmeyer.”
“That’s . . . nice. Tell Martha and all the cul-ub members I said hi!” I finish unlocking the door and slide in, shutting it behind me before he has a chance to say anything else.
Now on to my big plans for the night.
Twenty minutes later, I’m in PJs, eyeballing my dinner choices: frozen meal or questionably aged takeout leftovers? How does one really decide? Before I can choose between explosive diarrhea now or explosive diarrhea later, my phone rings
.
Ted.
“Tell me something exciting,” he says in lieu of a greeting.
“Did you know Ed Kemper, a.k.a. the co-ed killer, has voiced over five hundred audiobooks? There you are, enjoying a nice relaxing listen to Flowers in the Attic, and really it’s the voice of a serial killer.”
He groans. “You and serial killers. You have a problem. Gimme something less murder-y, please. Anything exciting happen lately that doesn’t involve death and dismemberment?”
“I woke up in bed with Brent Crawford yesterday morning.”
He snorts. “Right. So really, who’d you bang?”
“I didn’t bang anyone. I had to go over to Marc and Gwen’s to sleep—”
He cuts me off with a groan. “Not the poltergeist crap again?” He heaves an exaggerated sigh. “Bethany. Ghosts aren’t real. Neither is Santa, the Easter bunny, or trustworthy old men in positions of authority.”
I gasp. “You’ve ruined Christmas. And the Electoral College.”
“You’re going to ruin your vagina.”
“I told you, there was no banging.”
“I’ve heard that story before.”
“Because it’s true,” I mutter. Back home it was always easier to let my friends believe I was clinging to my wild and randy youth rather than admit the reality. I didn’t want to go home. I still haven’t told them the full truth, and I probably never will. “Look, I haven’t actually gotten legitimate sleep in like a week. I was desperate and exhausted. Not horny. I woke up and he was there and I bolted like a total loser who doesn’t know how to socialize.”
“Like Lucy?”
“Exactly. Except I don’t have the science smarts, only the zero social skills. Then he came to my work to see his dad and witnessed another lovely firing from our favorite CEO.”
“How many times has Mr. Crawford fired you now?”
“I lost count around twelve. He doesn’t mean it. He’s just ornery. I think it’s because he’s lonely.”
Seriously. I found him once lingering in Marc’s empty office. He said he was looking for a file, but there was a hitch in his voice and a sheen in his eyes. He tried to hide it by yelling at me about the dust, but I saw it anyway.
“He’s lonely so he fires you?”
“He’s like a kicked puppy. He growls to protect himself, but inside he just wants love and maybe a doggie bone.”
Ted snorts. “You mean you want the bone.”
“Hell yeah I want the bone, but I swear I didn’t sleep with Brent. I’m keeping it in my pants, just like I told you I would.”
“Fine. I believe you. But I still think you’re tripping about the ghost thing. Ghosts aren’t real. It’s probably rats or noisy neighbors or something.”
A siren sounds outside. I move a few steps into the living room and shift the corner of the drapes with one finger. Lights flash in the distance, moving away and down the street. “Maybe.” I let the curtain drop. “I asked Steven and he hasn’t heard anything odd.”
“Steven! I love that guy. How’s the bird cult?”
“Ugh, don’t even get me started. He invited me over again tonight for their meeting.”
“Are you gonna go?”
“What? No. Are you insane?”
“Bethany, you need to get out. You need to make new friends, even if they are a bit culty and weird. I know it’s going to be hard to find someone as amazing and talented and good-looking as I am, but I’m three thousand miles away. I can’t meet all your needs.”
“No one can,” I murmur, more to myself than to Ted.
“I gotta go. It’s our twenty-three-month anniversary. Tony’s taking me to dinner.”
“Puke. Do you guys have to celebrate every month?”
“Yes. We’re adorable. Don’t be jealous. Actually, do be jealous because I kind of enjoy being envied.”
I laugh. “You’re such a bitch.”
We hang up and I finally decide to eat the questionable takeout. While it’s spinning in the microwave, I gaze up at the ceiling and think about what the hell I’m doing here.
I originally decided to move to New York to escape my mother and all of her issues, which had somehow morphed into mine. But it hasn’t turned out like I thought it would. I fantasized about making all kinds of friends, spending nights out on the town, really enjoying life without stress.
Instead, I’ve been working myself ragged and coming home alone to an apartment I can’t sleep in. And I’m still getting sucked into Mom’s problems. I thought she would be better without me but it’s getting worse.
Ted’s right. I need to find friends. A shoulder to cry on. Someone to distract me from my problems.
The most pressing one being my inability to sleep through the night.
Maybe there is a plausible explanation for the weird noises—one that won’t freak me out and make me think of every horror movie I’ve ever seen. And maybe tonight will be quiet.
A door slams somewhere down the hall and I nearly jump out of my skin.
Then again, maybe not.
Chapter Five
Never trust a beautiful person.
–Georgia Hardstark
My Favorite Murder minisode 74
Bethany
A bang reverberates through my dreams, jolting awareness into my sleep-addled brain. The overhead light is on. I blink drowsiness from my eyes, my tired mind rushing to register what’s happening around me.
My nose is numb with cold. It’s freezing.
The window is open.
It’s March. There was a nor’easter last week. I did not leave the window open before I fell asleep.
Was I sleepwalking? Not something I’ve ever done before.
I rush to the window, clicking it shut and twisting the lock. Then I glance around my living room, rubbing warmth back into my arms. I blink at the illuminated ceiling light and then over at the switch on the wall.
Someone turned it on. Someone opened my window.
This is not normal. This is not my imagination. This is not rats. Rats can’t open windows or turn on lights. They don’t have thumbs.
My heart thumps in my chest, trying to break out of the cage of my lungs.
There’s an overnight bag on the small chair in the corner, left there from all the other nights I’ve bailed and gone to Marc and Gwen’s. Can’t go there now, but I can’t be here either.
My instincts push at me.
Get out.
I grab the bag from the chair, then my purse from the counter. I rush out into the hall, locking the door behind me.
Now where to? I pull out my phone. I don’t know anyone and I’m not staying with Steven.
I check the time. And I’ve only been asleep for an hour.
Motherfucker.
A hotel is out of the picture. I paid my rent and then I had to pay Mom’s utilities for the month, which barely leaves enough for food for either of us.
There’s only one place I can think of to stay for free.
I splurge on an Uber to Park Avenue. What choice do I have? The office stays open all hours for late work nights.
“Stan. Can you do me a solid?”
Stan’s eyes are kind and concerned. “What’s happening, Ms. B? Shouldn’t you be home in bed? Or out at the disco or whatever you young people do these days?”
“I’m having a little issue with my apartment. I need somewhere to sleep. Just for tonight. So I was going to use the couch in Marc’s old office. Please don’t tell anyone,” I beg.
Maybe more than a night since this crap isn’t getting any better. If anything, it’s getting worse.
“I don’t know, maybe I should call Mr. Crawford. I’m sure he would put you up somewhere.”
“It’s just one night, Stan. I promise, I’ll talk to him in the morning.”
I’m not telling that old bastard anything.
Stan finally relents and I head up the elevator.
The office is quiet and full of shadows. I pass my vacant desk and groan at the voicemail light, shining in the dark.
Not thinking about it till tomorrow.
Marc’s office is almost exactly like my apartment, except bigger. There’s a mini fridge and a couch and he has his own private bathroom with a shower.
I put my bag on the chair and glance around the dim office. I don’t come in here very much. A picture on the desk catches my eye. It’s Marc and Brent with their parents. Their mother is laughing, and even Mr. Cranky Crawford is smiling. Brent still has those dimples. I put the frame back down next to a prescription pill container.
What’s this?
B. Crawford.
Some kind of football injury? I put it back down. None of my business.
In the bathroom, I smile at another sticky note from Marc. He left this one on the back of the door.
If you’re hiding from Dad in here, just picture flushing him down the toilet.
After peeing, I get out my stuff for the morning. I’ll have to get dressed and sneak over to the office before Mr. Crawford gets here. Shouldn’t be too hard. He’s notoriously late.
I’m pulling my mousse can out of my bag when I hear something.
Noises out in the office.
I almost groan out loud. Not here, too. I can’t deal anymore.
But it doesn’t sound like anything supernatural. There’s a cough. The shuffle of footsteps.
The cleaning crew is done for the night. No one would come into Marc’s office right now. What if someone followed me from my apartment?
No. No physical person could be in here. Stan wouldn’t let them in. Maybe it really is a ghost. Maybe I accidently opened a hellmouth and now the spirits have awakened and will follow me everywhere I go and I’ll have to find the graves to salt and burn the bones and escape their evil clutches.
I grab the only weapon I can find. The can of mousse I just put on the counter.
Great, Bethany, what are you going to do? Style the intruder to death?