by S W Vaughn
“Okay, okay,” I laugh. “I get it. There’s no Alice in your class.”
“No Alice,” she agrees. “I wish Izzy was in my class, though. She’s in Miss Wilson’s. Izzy says that Miss Wilson smells like a barn. What does a barn smell like, Mommy?”
I have to clap a hand over my mouth to keep from laughing. When I get control of myself, I say, “Barns smell like hay. Listen, honey … just so you know, it’s not nice to tell people they smell like a barn. Okay?”
“Okay,” she agrees cheerfully. “Mrs. Jocasta smells like pancakes.”
Well, at least it’s better than a barn.
Home is a nice three-bedroom, split-level white ranch with green trim, just six blocks from the elementary school. Maxine Hughes, the owner of the agency I work for, helped me get this place at an auction shortly after Alyssa was born, and I’m kind of proud of it. I’ve been luckier than most single mothers.
My heart clenches as I remember the news about Brad, and I pull into the garage trying to push the thought aside. I just can’t deal with that tonight.
But I know I’ll have to soon.
Alyssa waits until the engine turns off and the door unlocks, and then she springs from the car holding her backpack and races for the inside door to the kitchen. “I’m gonna win!” she shouts.
I take my time and let her win, gathering my purse and briefcase, then hitting the close button for the garage door on the way. By the time I reach the wooden steps, she’s already inside, beaming triumphantly. “I won,” she says. “Can I please have a Go-Gurt and some popcorn and watch cartoons?”
“Absolutely. Why don’t you go put your backpack away in your room, and I’ll meet you in the living room?”
“Yay!” She scrambles off into the house.
When I get inside, I set my stuff on the small table next to the door, then kick my shoes off and shove them under it. I’ll get Alyssa’s snack, and then put everything away and change into something comfortable. The rest of today is cancelled, huge pending commission or not. I’ve already promised to spend it with my daughter.
I cross the kitchen, open a cabinet and grab a bag of popcorn, tearing the plastic wrap off before I toss it in the microwave and give it five minutes. That’s way too long, but I don’t trust the ‘popcorn’ button to stop the oven in time. I just listen for the pops to slow down.
My phone chimes in my pocket as I’m headed for the fridge, and I pull it out thinking I should set it on vibrate, or just turn it off. The notification is a text message. I debate ignoring it, but decide to check just this one before I make myself unavailable.
I tap through to my messages, and my heart drops in an unlovely swoop.
I know what you did. Murderer.
My mouth goes cotton dry. With shaking hands, I open the message, but there’s no more. Just those six words. I don’t recognize the number it came from, but the area code is Oslow. Where she lived.
A surge of helpless anger breaks through my panic, and I tap out Who the hell is this? and hit send. I am not a murderer. She’s dead, it’s my fault and I have to live with that, but it wasn’t murder.
Shivers run through me as I clench the phone almost tight enough to crack the screen, and I stare at it willing whoever this is to reply. I’m barely breathing and I can’t seem to swallow. This can’t be happening. Or maybe it’s just a joke, an awful, tasteless prank sent to the wrong number.
My phone chimes again.
Wouldn’t you like to know?
Oh, God. What am I supposed to do about this? Maybe I should call the police — but it’s not exactly a threat, the way it’s worded. Just an accusation.
It feels like a threat, though.
“Mommy? Are you okay?”
Somehow I manage not to scream at the sound of my daughter’s voice, but I drop the phone and wince as it bounces on the tiled floor. “I’m fine, munchkin,” I say without turning around, not wanting her to see my face until I calm down a little. I grab the phone and curse inwardly before I shove it in my pocket. The screen’s cracked. “Everything okay with you?”
I turn to find her standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room, her nose wrinkled in distaste. “It smells like a barn in here,” she says.
That’s when I finally notice the burning smell.
“Oh, no. The popcorn!” I rush to the microwave and yank the door open. Clouds of scorch-scented smoke billow out, and I cough and wave a hand in front of my face. “Stay back, honey,” I say. “I have to make sure it’s safe.”
The smoke clears slowly. At least the bag isn’t on fire, but it’s blackened along the top and still smoldering. I grab the bottom edge, rush over to the sink, and run tap water over the whole bag. Steam hisses from the charred edges as the cold water drenches and shrivels everything.
And a small voice pipes up behind me: “Do I have to eat that popcorn, Mommy?”
The laugh that bursts from my throat is shrill and desperate, but at least it’s a laugh. I lean down and pick up Alyssa, carrying her away from the sink. “No way. I’ll make you a whole new bag,” I say as I head through the dining room and into the living room. “One that doesn’t smell like a barn.”
I expect a giggle or a smile, but my daughter only looks at me, her small face serious. “You’re so sad,” she says. “It’s okay. I don’t need popcorn.”
“Oh, honey.” I stop beside the couch and hug her, breathing in the sweet smell of her hair. I have to force myself not to shake. “Trust me, popcorn is not a problem.”
She squeezes me back and plants an unexpected kiss on my lips. “I love you.”
“I love you, too. So much.”
I swing her down to the couch, and she giggles as I tickle her. “Now serving popcorn and Go-Gurt in the living room,” I say. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
I’m trembling as I head to the kitchen. As if Rosalie’s suicide and Brad basically returning from the dead isn’t enough, now I’ve got someone threatening me through text messages. And I have no idea what to do about any of it.
For now, I’m going to stick with the plan and spend the day with my daughter, having fun — or trying to. It’s something I think we both need.
5
Tuesday
It’s day two of kindergarten, and Alyssa is already insisting that I don’t have to walk her all the way to her classroom. I take her as far as the sidewalk past the buses, and she hugs me before she joins the throngs of kids flowing into the school. She’s so small that I lose sight of her almost instantly, and I’m tempted to follow after her, just to make sure she’s safe. But I head back to my car and drive to work instead.
I don’t see Hannah at the school this morning, with or without the child who has so much in common with mine. Part of me wonders if she’s lying about having a daughter. But I know I’m being ridiculous — why would she lie about that? Besides, there are four kindergarten classes at the school, so Alice Byers must be in one of the other three.
Today is going to be a little outside the norm. I’d called Jill last night after I got Alyssa tucked into bed and told her about my big sale. She was more excited than me and insisted that we go out for a quick drink tonight, even though it was a weekday. I did want to celebrate, but I’d feel guilty leaving my daughter. So we’d compromise. I’d get a sitter to come after Alyssa was asleep, and we’d hit Old City for an hour or so.
We’d talked briefly about Brad, and I told her I still hadn’t decided what to do. I almost mentioned the disturbing text, but I changed my mind at the last minute. Telling Jill what I’d done wasn’t at the top of my list of confessions I wanted to make. I was too ashamed to admit it to anyone.
But I have to put that out of my mind now. I’m almost at work.
The office of Hughes Real Estate is less than a mile from the elementary school. It’s a small, one-story building that looks more like a house than a business, with a row of six parking spaces out front and a slightly larger parking lot in the back. I drive aroun
d back and park far from the building, reminding myself to focus on work, because it’ll help me keep my mind off everything else for a while. Then I head inside. It’s still early, not quite eight, but Maxine will be here. No one knows exactly how early she gets in, but it’s always before everyone else.
The office is an open floor plan with most of the space dedicated to desks. Eight stations, each with a small, flimsy ‘privacy wall’ rather than traditional cubicles, and then a reception area by the front entrance and Maxine’s private office at the back. Right now we only have four agents, plus Maxine and her niece, Courtney, whose job is to sit at the reception desk and work hard at avoiding work. She’s the only one who isn’t on commission, and the word hustle is definitely not in her vocabulary.
When I walk in, the main area is deserted and Maxine’s door is closed, but her office lights are on and I can see her shape in there behind the frosted glass. I head for my desk, planning to spend the morning on editing photos, updating my listings, and tackling any busywork I can find. I need a little down time after all that’s happened.
As I’m sitting down to start my computer up, Maxine emerges with an empty mug and heads for the coffee counter behind the reception desk, giving me a nod of acknowledgment as she passes. She’s one of those women who make aging seem effortless — at sixty-five, she looks fifty and acts forty. Today she’s wearing a bright-print wrap skirt and a white top with a silver shimmer that matches her close-cropped hair, large silver hoop earrings, and a pretty turquoise pendant.
If she had a matching head wrap, she’d look like a fortune teller. But I’m not going to mention that. Maxine’s breezy fashion sense suits her just fine.
She pours herself a cup of black coffee and turns back, slowing as she approaches me. “That’s what I like to see. People chained to their desks first thing in the morning,” she says with a teasing smile. “How’s your daughter doing with school?”
“Great so far. She took right to it,” I say.
“Good to hear.” Maxine nods and sips at her coffee. “Great work on the Quintaine property, by the way. I really didn’t think that one would ever sell.”
I shake my head. “Same here.”
“Well, it’s in the bag now. Nicely done.” She lifts her mug slightly in a half-salute, and then keeps walking toward her office without another word.
I figure that’s her small-talk quota for the day. Maxine doesn’t like to waste time.
By now my computer’s finished cycling to life, and I get started on all the tedious, mundane tasks that require a lot of time but not much attention. An hour passes before I know it, and I only notice the time when the back door opens and someone walks in. I glance up, and then look away fast, hoping I didn’t make eye contact.
Sabrina Groth is not my favorite person in the world.
Damn, she’s coming toward me. I hold back a sigh and look up, pasting on a smile that’s as phony as they come, but I don’t care if she notices. Sabrina is the top selling agent in the company and makes sure everyone knows it. She’s the competitive type, and for some reason she’s decided that I’m her main competition.
But she never seems to get that she’s only winning the game because I’m not playing.
“Good morning, Sabrina,” I say when she stops in front of my desk. “I like your sweater.”
I don’t actually. It’s pink and fuzzy, probably angora, and it reminds me of Dolores Umbridge from the Harry Potter movies. Come to think of it, Sabrina basically is Umbridge — all outward sweetness and light, with a nasty undertone to every word she utters.
I’m waiting for her to say something like ‘oh, this old thing?’, but she doesn’t. She gets right down to business. “Hello, Celine. I hear you found a buyer for the Quintaine place,” she says with a brittle smile. “Congratulations. It must’ve been a fluke, like winning the lottery.”
Maybe it was, but I won’t give her the satisfaction of agreeing. “Did you need something, Sabrina? I have work to do.”
“Do you?” Her smile curls up like the Cheshire cat as she leans back and inspects her blood-red nails. “I thought you’d be at the hospital today. You know … with Brad,” she says. “Weren’t you with him before the accident? I mean, he probably still thinks you’re his girlfriend.”
My jaw clenches hard. “I think Brad has enough problems right now,” I say.
“Really. So you’re a problem?” she says sweetly, blinking innocent eyes at me. “You had him the longest, even though he was probably cheating on you, too. I never understood why you stayed.” She leans forward and stage-whispers, “He’s really not that good in bed. I only had him twice, before I gave up on him.”
“Well, Sabrina, everybody else thought he was a great fuck. So maybe the problem was you,” I fire back before I can think about it. I really shouldn’t be surprised that Brad was with Sabrina. He’d moved to Wolfsbrook during his senior year, when I was a junior, and he’d still managed to screw most of his class and half of mine before he graduated — or at least it seemed that way. The big, handsome football hero. Then he’d moved on to screw his way through college.
And yeah, I was the last one before the accident and the coma. But I’d been with him for a year, and …
I’m not going to think about that.
Sabrina only looks shocked for a second. She straightens and recovers with a sanguine smile. “You poor thing. You must’ve been a virgin before Brad,” she says. “Have you been waiting all this time for him? You really don’t know what you’re missing.”
My phone vibrates, saving me from saying something really nasty. I pull it out and see Hannah Byers’ number on the screen. “Excuse me, I have to take this,” I say, giving back all of her saccharine sweetness and then some. “It’s the Quintaine buyer. You know, the fluke?”
Thunderheads form in her eyes, and she pivots on a heel and stalks across the room to her desk.
I have to resist an overwhelming urge to stick my tongue out at her as I answer the call. “Good morning, this is Celine.”
“Hi, it’s Hannah. I’m buying a house from you?” she says uncertainly.
A smile twitches across my mouth. This is like calling Domino’s and saying ‘I’m the one who ordered a pizza.’ “Yes, Hannah, hello,” I say. “I remember you. Can I help you with something?”
She pauses, and I hear a quick intake of breath. “I was just wondering if I’d be able to move in soon,” she says. “I know there’s more paperwork, but can we do that today? I’d love to move tomorrow.”
Oh, my stars and garters. It’s another of my mom’s favorite sayings, and it’s all I can think to describe my reaction. She really is completely clueless. “Well,” I say slowly, “closing on a house usually takes four to six weeks. But since this is a cash sale, it shouldn’t take that long. I’d plan on about two weeks, total.”
“Two weeks?” she says with real dismay. “Oh, no, that’s far too long. Can’t we do it faster?”
I frown and notice Sabrina smirking at me from across the room, like a lion catching the scent of a wounded gazelle, so I force a smile. Apparently this property is going to give me trouble right through the bitter end. “Tell you what,” I say. “I’ll make some calls, and I might be able to push things up to first thing next week.”
Hannah gusts a relieved breath. “Really? That would be so much better. Will Monday work, do you think?”
“That’s what I’ll aim for,” I tell her. Today is Tuesday. The longest part of the process, other than mortgage processing which Hannah doesn’t need, is usually waiting on the lawyers — but Jill is a paralegal at the firm we normally work with, and hopefully she’ll help me fast-track this one. “I’m sorry it can’t be sooner, but —”
“Monday is fine,” she says brusquely, as if she hadn’t just been panic-stricken when I told her she couldn’t move in tomorrow. “Thank you so much, Celine. You’ll keep me updated, won’t you?”
“Yes, of course.”
I manage to get in a go
odbye before she hangs up, and I stare at the phone for a moment, shaking my head. Hannah seems … a bit eccentric. But maybe this is normal for her. I’ve never met an actual rich person before, so who knew. They might all be like this.
“Is something wrong, Celine?” Sabrina calls out, looking terribly concerned.
“Not a thing,” I say as I swipe to my address book and pull up Jill’s office number. I find myself wondering if this sale will put me ahead of Sabrina in commissions, if that’s why she’s coming at me so hard, and smile at the idea. Serves her right if it does.
Tuning out the woman who would be queen of real estate, I dial Jill and open my email on the computer, so I can forward her the contract. She answers on the second ring with, “Jeff Lindstrom’s office, can I help you?”
“Hey, it’s me,” I say.
“Morning, hon. Wait a second,” she says. “You’re not calling to cancel drinks tonight, are you? Because I already need one.”
I laugh. “That kind of day, huh? No, I’m not cancelling.”
“Good. I’ve got the biggest rant ever for you later,” she says. “What’s up?”
“Actually, I need a favor if you have time,” I say as I start scrolling through my inbox for the contract. “On the Quintaine sale, the one we’re celebrating. The buyer is — oh, what the hell is this?” I break off as I see an email from the New Hampshire Real Estate Commission about renewing my license. The bar is shaded like it’s already been clicked on and read, but I don’t remember reading it.
“What happened?” Jill says. “Don’t tell me something went wrong already.”
“No, it’s not that,” I mutter as I click on the email, which informs me that my license is going to expire in seven days. But the message is dated last Friday, so it’s actually expiring in three days. How could I have missed this? I’ll have to take care of it right away. “Apparently my license is expiring,” I say.
“Your driver’s license?”
“My real estate license. I thought it was … well, whatever. I’ll just do it,” I say, opening the renewal link in a new tab and then going back to my inbox. “Anyway, I was wondering if you could get this contract reviewed fast. Like, maybe today? The buyer is highly motivated.”