by S W Vaughn
“Sure you do. Rosalie Phillips and Teryn Holmes,” I say. “But don’t worry, Sabrina, I didn’t tell them. They’re just questioning all of Brad’s ex-girlfriends. And I know how proud you are of being with Brad.”
“Really, Celine,” Maxine interjects. “I know you’re upset about the Quintaine deal, but you’re accusing Sabrina of murder?”
“I’m not accusing anyone. The police are,” I say, throwing her a challenging look. “And I’ve got work to do right now. So … where’s Hannah?”
Maxine finally backs off. “She’s not coming in today,” she says weakly. “She called and said she had a long night.”
Yes, I’ll bet she did. I hope they grilled her like a steak.
“Fine. I’ll do the staging myself,” I say. “And I’m sure the police will bring your computer back soon. By the way, Sabrina … I wouldn’t leave town, if I were you. It’ll look suspicious.”
I walk out of the office, leaving them to gape at my back.
By the time I reach my car, the adrenaline has worn off and I’m badly shaken. But I don’t regret anything I said in there. I know people are used to me being a doormat, so this new Celine who doesn’t back down is going to be hard to take at first.
It’s harder on me than it is on them. I’m still moving forward, but my spine isn’t growing as fast as I’d like. Every confrontation takes more out of me than the one before. I start to hope that confidence is like a muscle, that it’ll get stronger the more I use it. But I have my doubts.
When I’m calm enough to drive, I head across town to the new listing. This one is a four-bed, two-and-a-half bath Tudor that’s not as elaborate as the Quintaines’ Victorian — it doesn’t have a pool, for one — but it’s still very nice, and the owners are much friendlier. It sits on two partially wooded acres with a private pond in the back, and the interior is luxury everything. There’s even a home theater with actual rows of seats.
Staging this place isn’t difficult. Most of it is impeccably clean, and the owners have already moved out, so I don’t have to work around anxious sellers as I wipe and dust the few areas that need it and take photo after photo. This part of my job relaxes me; I enjoy framing and snapping the perfect picture to showcase a room or a feature, getting those just-right shots that capture the character of a home. For a while I’m able to forget about everything that’s going wrong.
But eventually reality intrudes, and it’s time to head to the school. I’ll get there early, but I don’t mind waiting. I hit a drive-thru for coffee on the way back through Wolfsbrook and pull into the school parking lot around 2:30, planning to wait in the car until classes are dismissed.
My plans change when I spot a slender platinum-blond figure standing behind the fence next to the school, in almost the exact same spot I first saw her.
Hannah.
I grab my purse and phone, get out of the car, and make my way toward the school, fueled by growing rage at what she’s done to Brad — and to me. She sees me coming when I reach the sidewalk, and she actually smiles and starts to wave.
At least until I’m close enough for her to see my face.
“Celine?” Her brow furrows into a question that she doesn’t ask.
“Hello, Hannah.” I stop on the other side of the fence, feeling my heartbeat in my ears and my pulse fluttering in my throat. “Did you have a nice chat with the police last night?”
Her red lips part in shock. “How did you …”
“Oh, I know all about you,” I say. “Your parents, the fire, where you’ve been for the past five years. And I know about Brad,” I grind out.
She takes a step back, her vivid blue eyes blinking rapidly. “What are you saying?”
“I’m not saying anything. Except that you’re Brad’s psycho ex-girlfriend, and two women who used to date him are dead.” I fold my arms and meet her stare. “Do you even have a daughter?” I say. “You know what? Never mind, don’t answer that. What I really want to know is, did the police bother to ask whether you sent those texts to me?”
“What texts?” she whispers. “Celine, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. You’re trying to get back at Brad, and destroy me.”
She gasps. Her red lips quiver, and her eyes gleam with tears. She stands there for a long moment with her model-perfect face twitching and turning red. Finally, she screams, “I didn’t do anything!” Then she whirls and runs away, across the grass, leaving a trail of sobs behind.
Funny. She forgot to pick up her daughter.
22
Alyssa and I are cleaning up from dinner that night when my phone rings. It’s Jill. I tell my daughter that she can go ahead and pick a movie to watch, and that I’ll finish up and bring dessert out. I wait until she’s in the living room before I answer the call.
“Hey, honey,” Jill says. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m still here,” I say with a laugh. “Thanks again for last night, by the way.”
“Totally no problem. Did they arrest anybody yet?”
I heave a breath. “They’re not even close,” I say. “But they’ve ruled out Hannah. She has alibis.”
“Oh my God, seriously? She’s so guilty it hurts.”
I’ve been thinking about that, and I’m not entirely convinced anymore. Hannah seemed genuinely shocked when I confronted her. But then, Brad did say that she’s manipulative, so maybe she’s just that good.
Unfortunately, I do have to consider that it might not be her. Which leaves a whole new set of problems open.
“I guess they’re still suspicious, but they can’t arrest her,” I say to Jill as I take the last of the dishes from the dining room into the kitchen. “They’re going around questioning all of Brad’s exes now.”
Jill laughs. “That’s going to take a while.”
“Tell me about it.” I decide not to mention the conversation I had with Brad this morning … not yet. It’s still too fresh, too mine to share. “Anyway, at least I’ve stopped getting texts,” I say. “All this activity must be scaring Hannah, or whoever it is.”
“You really don’t think it’s her now?” Jill says.
“Honestly, I don’t know. But I can’t worry about her.”
“Well, okay. Just be careful,” she says. “Celine, do you want me to come over and stay the night again? In case something happens.”
My first instinct is to say yes. I’m still scared, even though I’m outwardly handling it better. But I can’t turn Jill into a crutch. That’s not fair to her, or me. “No,” I say. “Thank you, but we’ll be fine.”
“Okay. If you’re sure,” she says. “In that case, I’ve got good news for you.”
I smile. Good news is definitely welcome right now. “Lay it on me.”
“You’re not going to believe this.” She pauses for effect. “I have a date tonight.”
“No way!” I practically squeal. Jill hasn’t been out on a date in almost a year. She tries to claim it’s because work keeps her busy, but I know she just hasn’t found anyone she’s all that interested in. “With who?”
“Remember Hunter from Old City?”
“Oh my God. That smoking hot guy with the tattoos we met that night with Hannah?”
“Yep, him.” I can hear the grin in her voice. “He’s taking me to Bel Votre.”
Holy crap. That’s probably the most expensive restaurant in Oslow. If he’s taking her to the city, he’s probably serious. “Oh, wow. That’s awesome, Jill,” I say. “You’d better have an amazing time!”
“I think I will,” she says. “But … are you sure you’re okay, Celine?”
“I’m fine. And if you don’t go, I might have to kick your ass,” I say with a laugh.
She snorts. “Maybe I won’t. Just because I’d really love to see you try.”
“Go. Date Hunter. Have a good time,” I say. “And tell me all about it tomorrow.”
“Will do, dahling. Love you.”
“Love you too.”<
br />
I hang up and head for the freezer to scoop out bowls of strawberry ice cream. When I bring them to the living room, Alyssa is on the couch, watching Nanny McPhee. She turns and lights up as I walk toward her. “Ice cream!” she says. “Is it strawberry?”
“Is there any other kind?” I say, smiling as I sit next to her and hand her a bowl. “This is a great movie. I’m glad you picked it.”
“Yes. It’s funny,” she says. “Izzy told me this is her favorite.”
I’m glad that my daughter’s made such a good friend already. I remember what she told me about Izzy the other night, how her mother doesn’t like her, and wonder if I can do anything about it. “Hey, munchkin. Do you want to invite Izzy over to play sometime?”
“You mean here, at our house?” she says with a broad smile. “Yes! Can she come over tomorrow?”
“I don’t know, sweetheart. That might not work,” I say, sorry to disappoint her. “Tomorrow is Saturday, and you don’t have school. We’d have to find out where Izzy lives and ask her mommy if it’s okay to come over. How about you talk to her on Monday about it?”
“Okay,” Alyssa says, happily enough. “But not her real mommy.”
I frown slightly. “What about her?”
“We can’t ask her real mommy.” My daughter swings her legs and eats a spoonful of ice cream. “We have to ask her Mama Julie.”
Julie. Where have I heard that name before?
“All right, then. We can talk to Izzy about all this on Monday.”
Alyssa seems satisfied with that.
I’m still trying to remember where I’ve heard the name Julie when my phone rings, and the number on the screen is Detective Chambers. “I have to answer the phone, munchkin, okay?” I say, leaning over to kiss her forehead. “I’ll be right back.”
“’Kay,” she mutters around a mouthful of ice cream.
She’s really into the movie, and she hardly notices when I get up and walk into the dining room. “Detective,” I say when I answer the phone. “How’s it going?”
“Frustratingly slow,” he sighs. “We’ve only checked on a third of the exes so far. But I wanted to tell you about your work computer.”
“You found something on it, didn’t you?”
“Yes. The same type of backdoor program that’s on your phone,” he says. “But it looks like this one was exclusively used for remote access.”
I only have a vague idea of what that is, so I decide to ask him a specific question. “If I tried to renew my real estate license online from that computer, would whoever used that program be able to screw it up?”
The detective pauses. “Probably,” he says. “They’d be able to get into your IP settings and reroute forms and data. There’s a lot you can do with remote access.”
“Okay.” I let out a breath. “Well, thanks again.”
“Listen, Ms. Bauman,” the detective says uncomfortably. “I know we got off on the wrong foot, but … I’m sorry about all this. And I’m sorry I don’t have better news for you, like that we’ve caught whoever’s doing this. I promise, we’re going to.”
“It’s fine. And I appreciate that,” I say.
We hang up, and I head back to the living room to be with my daughter. My strawberry ice cream is melting, but I don’t mind. It’s still sweet.
Just like my revenge is going to be.
23
Saturday
I’ve decided to go to Hannah’s housewarming party after all. The blunt approach didn’t work out so well, so I’ll switch tactics. I’ll be her friend and tell her how understanding I am about Brad, and maybe she’ll open up to me and confess. Or maybe I’ll find out that it’s not her, after all.
Either way, I intend to know the truth by the end of the night.
Jill isn’t coming with me. I talked to her earlier in the day, and she had an incredible time with Hunter, but she sounded absolutely awful. She’d picked up a nasty cold from somewhere. When I said I was going to Hannah’s, she insisted on coming along to help, but I told her to stay home and rest. It’s not like I’ll be alone with the crazy woman. She’ll have a houseful of people, so it’s the perfect time to approach her.
Now I’m pulling up to the curb, about half a block away from the Victorian mansion. It’s about 7:30. I wanted to wait until after the party started, just to make sure someone else would be here. And there are plenty of people now. Cars fill the long driveway and spill out onto the street — it looks like she’s invited half the neighborhood.
Alyssa is home with Tabitha, who’s saved my life once again by being available at the last minute, and I’ve promised to pay her double for tonight.
When I get out of the car, I can hear laughter, splashing, and chatter from behind the house. It sounds like most of them are in the massive in-ground pool that came with this place. The pool is heated, which was one of the major selling features, but tonight is unseasonably warm and they probably don’t need the heat.
I head for the front door I’ve already opened so many times, but I’m not the one with the key anymore, so I ring the doorbell. A few minutes pass before I hear footsteps approaching, and then the door opens and a blonde woman smiles out.
It’s not Hannah. This woman is shorter, curvy instead of slender. Her hair isn’t as blonde, and her eyes are a pretty brown. She has dimples, and she seems very warm and friendly.
“You must be here for the party?” she says.
“Uh. Yes.”
“Well, come on in.” She stands back, and I walk into the foyer.
The house is furnished for the first time in years — and it’s beautiful. A mix of modern and antique, with a lot of pale colors, rich woods, and light, airy accents. The place looks ten times better than it ever did when the Quintaines lived here.
Either Hannah or her decorator has exceptional taste.
“Pretty much everyone is outside,” the blonde woman who greeted me says after she closes the door, and then holds out a hand. “I’m Julie, by the way.”
Shock bubbles through me as I shake it. “Celine,” I mutter.
Julie. That’s the name my daughter said last night, the one I was trying to remember where I’d heard it. Mama Julie. Hannah had mentioned someone named Julie on the phone while I was talking to her about my license problem.
Julie lives with her. Is she family? An employee?
“It’s nice to meet you, Celine,” Julie says, still smiling. And then I finally notice the small hands wrapped around Julie’s leg, and the little blonde head hiding behind the woman. I’m not sure exactly where she fits into whatever arrangement Hannah and Julie have, but I know who she is.
I smile and crouch down a bit, trying to catch the shy little girl’s eye. “You must be Izzy,” I say. “I think you know my daughter Alyssa.”
The little girl gasps in surprise. “You’re Alyssa’s mommy?” she says in a small, clear voice. She still doesn’t look out from behind Julie.
“Oh, my. The famous Alyssa,” Julie laughs. “We’ve heard a lot about her. Izzy loves her to pieces already.”
A swell of pride moves through me as I straighten, thinking that the little girl will come out when she’s ready. “I’m pretty sure the feeling is mutual. I’ve heard a lot about your daughter, too.”
“She’s my daughter,” a familiar voice says behind me.
I nearly jump as I turn around and see Hannah watching me warily, as if she expects me to bite. Her nervous gaze moves from me to Julie, and then to the small, mostly hidden figure behind the other woman. “Alice, will you please come out and say hello to Celine?”
“Don’t call me that. I’m Izzy!” The child speaks with surprising force. She leans aside without letting go of Julie’s leg, until her face is in view — a small, delicate face, framed with winter-pale blonde hair. Her eyes are the same shocking pool-blue shade as Hannah’s, and they’re narrowed in anger. “I told you, I don’t like Alice,” she says.
“I’m sorry,” Hannah stammers. “Please, can
you just come and meet Mommy’s friend…”
“You’re not my mommy. I hate you!” the little girl shouts, and then runs off into the house.
Hannah flinches and rests a hand on her heart with the other arm folded protectively across her stomach, her eyes wide and hurt.
“Oh, no. I’m so sorry, Miss Byers,” Julie says in a small voice. “It’s been stressful for her today. I’ll speak to her about her manners.”
“No. Don’t reprimand her.” Hannah sips in a shaking breath and stares after the little girl as the hand on her chest trembles. “I know it’s going to take time. I just … after the other day, I thought we’d made progress.”
Julie walks up to her and rubs her thin shoulder. “You did. She just had a setback,” she says. “I’ll go and get her.”
Hannah shakes her head. “See if she’s okay, but don’t make her come out if she doesn’t want to,” she says. “We can try again tomorrow.”
“All right.” Julie gives her a gentle squeeze, nods to me, and then hustles off.
Now it’s just me and Hannah in the foyer. She stares at me, biting her lip, and then lowers her arms to her sides in defeat. “My daughter. Alice Isabel,” she says. “In case it’s not obvious … she hates me.”
She buries her face in her hands and bursts into tears.
I don’t know what to do. I put an arm around her shoulders and steer her into the parlor off to the left, which is furnished but empty of people. She’s crying harder than ever, and my pity outweighs any lingering doubts I have about her. And there’s no one else to comfort her.
So I hug her. At first she stiffens, but then she starts to relax against me. Soon she’s resting her head on my shoulder, clinging to me like an anchor as sob after heartbreaking sob wrenches from her chest.
She finally dwindles into wretched sniffles and pulls back, swiping at her ruined face. “Oh, God, I’m such a trainwreck,” she says in a voice like a foghorn. “This party was a stupid idea. And this house, and this town, and …”