by S W Vaughn
But I’ve already decided to find out more about Hannah on my own, and I know where to start looking.
16
That night as I’m tucking Alyssa into bed, she says, “Mommy, if you call my school and ask them, will they put Izzy in my class?”
I smile at her. “Probably not, munchkin,” I say. “Is she having problems with her class, or do you two just want to spend more time together?”
“Well, yes. She’s my best friend,” Alyssa says with an unspoken duh, as if I’ve just asked the dumbest question in the world. “But Izzy doesn’t like her teacher. Mrs. Jocasta is nicer than Miss Wilson, so she wants to be in my class.”
“I see. In that case, Izzy’s mommy would have to ask the school if she can be in a different class.”
“Oh.” My daughter sighs. “What if it’s not Izzy’s real mommy?”
Oh, boy. I should’ve realized that when she started school, Alyssa was going to be a little more exposed to different types of families. She’d have a lot of questions about them. And I knew that eventually, it would lead to questions about her father. She’s only asked about her father once, when she was three, and I told her that he lived somewhere else. That had satisfied her then, but it wasn’t likely to the next time she asked.
I was going to have to tell Brad about her, very soon.
“Whoever takes care of Izzy all the time is the person who should call the school,” I finally tell my daughter. “Whether it’s her real mommy or not.”
I wait for her to ask about stepmothers, or adoption, or some other type of non-traditional arrangement. But she says, “Oh, good, because Izzy’s real mommy doesn’t like her. So she wouldn’t call my school.”
My heart goes out to Alyssa’s friend, even though I’ve never met her. No child should believe that her mother doesn’t like her — a feeling I understand through personal experience. That’s one of the reasons I try so hard, maybe too hard, to make sure my daughter never feels that way.
“Well, Alyssa’s mommy loves her very much,” I say, leaning down to kiss her.
She giggles. “Alyssa loves her mommy very much, too.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Goodnight, sweetheart,” I say. “Sweet dreams.”
“Goodnight, mommy.”
She snuggles into her covers, and I turn off the light and leave the door half-open as I head for the third bedroom, which I’ve made a home office. Since Hannah won’t tell me anything about her history, I’ve decided to find out what I can for myself.
I sit down at the desk and open Facebook first, typing ‘Hannah Byers’ into the search bar. It returns almost a hundred People results. I scroll down the list, looking at profile photos and opening separate pages for accounts that don’t have pictures of people, but none of them seem to be her.
Okay, so she doesn’t have a Facebook page, but she developed an app that uses Facebook. That’s not weird or anything.
Who am I kidding? Everything about Hannah is weird.
I switch to Google and enter her name. Most of the top results are lists of social media profiles and a few items about someone who works at a museum, which isn’t her. I add ‘New Hampshire’ to the search and run it again.
This time I get results. The first is a news article from The Nashau Telegraph with a stark, ominous headline: CEO of Byers Financial Dies in Deadly Residential Blaze
I click through to the article and read the brief text with mounting horror.
Last night, a fire claimed the lives of Byers Financial CEO Jonathan Byers and his wife, Elizabeth Byers, in the largest residential blaze Nashau has seen in fifty years. The Byers’ 25-room mansion, situated at the top of Birch Hill, was fully engaged at the time firefighters arrived on the scene, and the home was deemed a total loss. Investigators believe that arson may have been involved and are launching a detailed inquiry into the fire.
The couples’ adult daughter, 24-year-old Hannah Byers, was home at the time but survived the fire. Circumstances surrounding Ms. Byers’ escape from the deadly blaze are unclear at this time, as the young woman suffered a breakdown at the scene and was taken to St. Joseph’s Hospital for treatment.
Mr. Byers was the founder and CEO of Byers Financial, a hedge fund management company with reported annual revenues of $500 million. Mr. Byers’ personal worth has been reported as high as one billion dollars, and he frequently appeared on the Forbes 400 list. Mrs. Byers was a homemaker and advocate for various charities, including Habitat for Humanities and the Bumblebee Conservation Trust.
As the couples’ only child, 24-year-old Hannah stands to inherit the bulk of the Byers fortune. At the time of this writing, Ms. Byers was not available for comment.
I get to the end of the article and shiver. Beyond the shock of finding out Hannah’s parents died in a fire that might have been deliberately set, I also learn that she’s originally from Nashau, like Brad. And the date of the article places the fire at about a week after Brad’s accident.
Of course, that doesn’t have to mean anything. Nashau is a big city. But lately I’ve been getting a lot more suspicious about coincidences.
I return to the results page and find another article further down, this one from a newspaper called The Horizon. And it’s apparently all about Hannah, because the title is Byers Heiress Committed to Psychiatric Hospital.
The article is longer than the first one, but it doesn’t go into much personal detail. It says that due to ‘mental strain resulting from the traumatic events leading to the death of her parents,’ Hannah had developed several psychological disorders and had been involuntarily committed to the Seton-Frischer Clinic, an isolated ‘mental retreat’ in the White Mountains.
It also refers to her committal as a ‘sentence’ of five years. Which suggests that she came to Wolfsbrook right after she was released, bought a house worth nearly half a million dollars, and decided to become a real estate agent.
There’s no mention of a daughter, anywhere. But if she does actually have a child, she was pregnant when she was committed and gave birth while she was at the clinic.
I don’t know much about psychiatric hospitals, but I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t let involuntarily committed patients raise children.
Though I’m not sure I want to find out any more about Hannah Byers, I return to the search results and look through them. There isn’t much more to read. Another brief article from the Telegraph reports that the Byers mansion fire was ruled arson, but police and investigators were unable to identify the culprit. I find Hannah’s name mentioned on a Facebook page for a Nashau high school, one in a list of her graduating class. And then once more, in an article about Oslow State football team’s big win over UMass. I actually remember that game from my freshman year at college.
Hannah’s name is in the caption of a crowd photo taken at the front row of the game, but it’s not the only one I recognize.
She’s standing next to Joan Carpenter.
I close the browser with a hand that’s starting to shake, and sit there staring at the computer screen for a long time. There are too many coincidences here to ignore. I have no idea why, but Hannah is in Wolfsbrook — and in my life — for a reason. And I suspect it’s connected to Brad.
Tomorrow morning, I’m going to see him again.
17
Thursday
I head out to Hayhurst right after I bring Alyssa to school, arriving firmly in the Willa-less window of time. Teryn isn’t at the nurses’ station today, and all of the staff seems strangely subdued. But at least Brad seems happy to see me.
Hopefully, that means I didn’t imagine what happened the last time I was here.
He’s sitting in the wheelchair this morning instead of the bed, and he wheels toward me and stands for a hug. That convinces me the other day wasn’t my imagination. We hold each other a little longer this time, and it feels so good that I want to cry.
“I’m sorry. I know you’re tired of hearing it, but I have to say that you really are in amazing shape,�
�� I say as I let go reluctantly.
He settles back in the chair with a sigh. “Yeah, I guess. My parents made sure I had the best coma therapy that money can buy.” His smile is bitter, and I’m not sure whether it’s directed at the coma, or his parents. “Please, come in and sit down.”
I follow him to the chair by the bed. As I take a seat, he says, “I’m glad you decided to come back, after my mother’s outburst. I really hate the way she gets sometimes.”
I shrug and smile. “Well, I didn’t come to see your mother.”
The way he looks at me stirs up things I haven’t felt in years, and I have to glance away.
“So,” he says after a slightly awkward pause. “Did you hear about Teryn Holmes?”
I’m not sure how, but suddenly I know that something terrible happened to her. Cold shivers down my back and tightens my skin as I say, “What about her?”
Brad shakes his head slowly. “She died. Right here at the hospital,” he says.
“Oh, no!” I blurt, completely shocked in spite of my premonition, or whatever it was. She’s dead, just like that? It doesn’t seem possible. “How? What happened? I saw her Tuesday morning when I came to visit, and she … well, she seemed fine.”
My voice starts to thicken as the guilt sets in. She’d asked me to have coffee with her, and I couldn’t be bothered because I was too scared of Willa. And now we’ll never be able to catch up. God, I’m such a pathetic piece of shit.
“They’re not sure how yet, but it actually happened the day you were here. Tuesday,” Brad says. “I guess they found her on a couch in the staffroom. She’d been dead for hours by the time they figured it out, because everyone thought she was sleeping and left her alone. It was pretty awful.”
I let out a soft groan. For the moment, I can’t form words. It is awful … and she was so young, just like Rosalie.
Oh, God. She had something else in common with Rosalie, too.
“You should be careful, Celine,” Brad says in a tone that tries and fails to be light. I can hear the misery, and maybe even fear, below the surface. “My exes are dropping like flies. First Rosalie, and now Teryn.”
It’s almost exactly what I just thought, and it startles me rigid. The warning that was meant to be playful echoes in my head like thundering doom: You should be careful, Celine.
The mystery texts. Whoever’s texting me, they’re responsible for Rosalie and Teryn. I just know it.
And I’m on their list.
“Celine, what’s wrong?” Brad says. “You just went white as a sheet. I was only kidding, you know.”
“Yes. I’m okay,” I force myself to reply. “I’m just shocked about Teryn, that’s all. We were friends in college.” There’s no reason to make him worry about this. He’s got enough problems of his own right now.
He nods sadly. “We’re all too young to die.”
I definitely agree with that.
I’m not going to tell him about the threatening texts, but there is something I want to ask him that may be related. “Not to change the subject, but I have a weird, totally out-of-the-blue question for you, if you don’t mind,” I say.
He smirks and folds his hands in his lap. “Go for it.”
“Okay.” There isn’t really a way to work up to it, so I just come right out and ask. “When you lived in Nashau, did you know someone named Hannah Byers?”
I expect some kind of recognition, but I don’t expect the curtain of cold fury that drops over his face. His eyes flash fire, his hands clench together until his knuckles turn white, and he blows a long, thin breath through slightly parted lips, like a woman trying to control labor pains.
“Why?” he finally grounds out. “What’s she done now?”
I’m so taken aback that I almost can’t catch my breath. “I don’t know,” I squeak. “She just bought a house from me, and—”
“Here? In Wolfsbrook?”
He practically shouts the questions, and I flinch. My mouth won’t move enough to say yes, so I swallow hard and give a little nod.
Brad deflates as suddenly as the anger came over him, and he bows his head. “Jesus, I’m sorry,” he rasps. “I swear I’m not mad at you. It’s just that Hannah —” He breaks off and looks up with effort, and there are tears standing in his eyes. “She was my girlfriend in high school,” he says in a low, horrified tone. “And she’s the reason we moved here for my senior year. My parents wanted to get me away from her, because she was fucking psychotic.”
“Psychotic how?” I whisper.
“I don’t know, just crazy. She fucked with my head so much. And she did things …” He shakes his head. “For one thing, she was insanely jealous. She broke some girl’s nose with her binder, and then held her down and cut all her hair off, because she thought the girl was flirting with me when she’d asked to borrow a quarter for lunch. And that was in ninth grade.” His throat works, and a tear snakes down his cheek. “She only got worse from there.”
Oh my God, it’s her. Hannah. She’s the one who’s been texting me.
She killed Rosalie.
“Brad, I’m so sorry.” I slide forward in the chair and reach for his hands, taking them in mine. They’re hot and trembling. My heart explodes with sympathy for him — I can’t imagine what he’s gone through with Hannah, but it was clearly hellish. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
He squeezes his eyes shut, but another tear still falls. “Jesus, I can’t believe she’s in Wolfsbrook,” he says. “I might have to get a restraining order or something. At least she hasn’t been here yet. Celine … you have to stay away from her.” His green eyes meet mine with desperation. “She’s absolutely nuts. She gets in your head. Promise me you’ll stay away.”
“I promise.” I don’t tell him that she’s already managed to get a job where I work, or that she claims to have a daughter she can’t possibly have, with eerie similarities to mine. I’ve decided that I need to go to the police. Even if it means telling them about what happened with Joan. “And I’m sorry, but I have to go. There’s something I need to take care of,” I say. “I’ll come back tomorrow, okay?”
He flashes me a wary look. “What is it? If it has something to do with Hannah …”
“Not really,” I tell him, only half lying. It concerns Hannah, but I’m not going to deal with her directly. I’m just going to report her to the police. “It’s just work stuff. And I promise I’ll be back first thing tomorrow.”
“I hope so.” He smiles, but there’s sadness in it. “Have I told you how much I missed you?”
Not as much as I’ve missed you. I almost say it, but at the last moment I realize that’s in extremely poor taste. Brad might be trying to laugh about it, but I think it’s too early for coma jokes. So I simplify things, and say, “I missed you, too.”
His smile grows a fraction as he turns my hands over slowly. “No wedding ring.”
“No. I’m not married,” I say. “Or divorced, or engaged, or otherwise involved.”
“You’re single? I don’t believe that.”
“Well, it’s true.” I shrug it off. I’m aching to tell him that I’m single because the man I love has been in a coma for five years, but that’s too much, too soon. And I have to see how he feels about Alyssa first, before I throw my heart back at his feet.
I’ll tell him tomorrow. After I do something about Hannah.
Brad is still smiling, but exhaustion lurks in his expression. “I hope you won’t be insulted if I don’t get up to say goodbye,” he says. “I think I’ve had enough standing this morning.”
“Of course not. I completely understand.” I get up instead, and lean down to hug him.
He brushes his lips on my cheek. “You’ll come back tomorrow?”
“Yes, I will.”
It’s harder than I expect to leave him, especially knowing what I have to do now. But at least I have something concrete to show the police. I’m hoping that, if nothing else, exposing Hannah will keep her away from Brad — and f
rom me. And at best, if she really did kill Rosalie, she’ll be arrested.
I think about poor Teryn as I walk past the nurses’ station and wonder again what happened. How she died. It must not have been violent, since no one knew she was dead. And if she’d been murdered, I would’ve heard something about it by now, even in passing. So maybe this really was just a coincidence.
The elevator car I step into is empty, and I press the button for the parking garage level. I’m already trying to talk myself out of going to the police. But I have to, even though they’ll probably make me talk to the detectives who came to my house.
Chambers and Garfield are on my mind, and not in a good way. So when the elevator doors open and the two of them are standing there outside the car, I’m so startled that I scream and stumble back.
It turns out that’s the worst possible reaction I can have, because they came looking for me.
18
The fact that I’m not in handcuffs isn’t much of a consolation, and it doesn’t keep me from crying out of pure fear as I sit alone in a locked room at the police station. I’m sure that bawling my eyes out isn’t helping my case either, but that’s the reason I can’t help it. There shouldn’t be a case at all.
Now they think I had something to do with Teryn.
At the hospital, the detectives told me that I wasn’t being charged with anything, but that I had to come to the station with them and answer some questions. If I didn’t go voluntarily, they said they’d get a warrant and arrest me. And they wouldn’t let me take my own car. They’d put me in the back of a police car, refused to answer my questions or listen to me about Hannah, and then taken me to this room with a table, two chairs, and clock on the wall, and a camera in a corner of the ceiling. A female officer came in and confirmed my name, my address, and that I’d known Teryn Holmes, and then she took my purse and cell phone and left me here alone, locked in.