Hidden Memories (Echo Valley #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

PRESENT

Nicholas died fifty-one days ago. Or maybe it was fifty-two. Maybe fifty-three. The main thing is, he’s dead. He went on a bachelor party and never came back. When he was a day late home, I figured he got too drunk and high to be allowed on a plane. When it was two days late, I hoped he met a stripper and fell in love.

Instead, he met his maker.

It might be only two months since Nicholas died, but he’s been dead to me for years. From the moment he shoved that unwanted ring on my finger to the moment I got the call about his passing, the man was cruel, controlling, and manipulated everyone in and out of my life. Not to mention the pushing. Never hitting. Always pushing. And that’s how I know he was calculated. Bruises were never on my face, and every shove could be passed off as accidental.

Should I feel guilty that I’m being so cold about this? Maybe he would have been as emotionless about my death as I am about his. Then again, I was a good wife. And a good mom. I tried. I always tried, even if in his eyes, I consistently got it wrong.

My son’s face appears in the doorway, and he lifts a sock with a llama on it. “I can’t find my other lucky sock.”

My ten-year-old is a boy who has been offered all material things on a silver platter. But he doesn’t care about much apart from our toy poodle, Keeper, and his lucky socks. To be fair, Keeper is Theo’s best friend, and the socks won him every sprint race on sports day so far in his elementary school years. He’s had the socks since he was seven, and I fear they’re not going to fit soon.

Height is the only thing he seems to have inherited from his father and the only thing I hope he does.

“Honey, I’m sorry but I searched high and low. I found that one outside. You know if the foxes get in the yard they eat everything. It might have been someone’s dinner.”

I remember the time Nicholas left his leather shoes outside after a swim. Only one was still there in the morning, and it was almost fully devoured. I paid for that shoe. And not in money.

“Mom, they wouldn’t eat my sock.” He considers it. “Would they?”

“I can’t think of anything else. Maybe some other creature took it away, but there was only one where I found it. I searched everywhere inside, too. ”

His shoulders slump, and he stomps into the room toward me, his one remaining bit of luck swaying back and forth in his hand, half-defeated. He falls into my arms for a hug, and I wrap all the strength I have around his tiny body.

Theo has never been emotionally communicative with words. I’ve always wondered if he’s just introverted and shy, or worse, he’s been traumatized by all the yelling and physical force used in our home. Thank God, he always seeks me out for comfort and allows me to support him with cuddles.

I pour every ounce of strength from my body into his and hold him closely, hoping to read what’s on his mind.

I know if I ask I won’t get much but I do anyway. “Are you sure you’re okay with moving house?”

His melancholy is muffled against my chest. “Yeah.”

“So it’s just the sock upsetting you?”

A sigh leaves his body. “Yeah.”

“Do you feel like you need luck because we’re moving?”

I wrap my palm around his skull and know his mind is buzzing. He doesn’t answer, but that tells me something, too.

When I asked him if he’d like to move, he thought the picture I showed him online of the farmhouse in the middle of nowhere seemed like an adventure. For a child who’s more into digging for worms and building forts, our ten-bedroom show home and pristine vacations haven’t been much fun for him. I hope I can give him the childhood he deserves—one with dirt smeared across his face, showing me snakes he’s found, and mud under his fingernails. One immersed in nature.

I stroke Theo’s head and kiss it. “I’ll check again when I finish packing this last box.”

“No.” He sounds resigned. “I know it’s not in the house. I did a good job looking. I tried better than usual.”

His mind whirrs again, and I wait because I’ve learned to sense when he will talk. Finally, his piercing blue eyes stare up at me.

“You said I’ll be homeschooled, right?”

I nod and smile. “Not homeschooled. Forest schooled. The house isn’t big, but you can dig to your heart’s content. And there are mountains and trees nearby.”

The only way to pull off this move quickly is to homeschool for a semester. Mount Hamilton Elementary doesn’t have a spot open yet, but Theo hates his current private school anyway. He hates the uniform. He hasn’t made friends with the preppy boys. He’s never been into football or basketball or baseball. Or even tennis. He’s never fit in with that crowd. This infuriated his father.

“You don’t want to grow up and be a pansy, do you? What’s wrong with you? Real men play sports.”

The fact that Theo is a great runner made it even more frustrating for his father. There was no warmth between Nicholas and Theo. Nic barely spent any time with his son, and when he did, it was usually to pop in and tell him what a terrible job of being a boy he was doing.

In a different world, Theo is a perfectly typical boy. He just likes bugs and dirt, not Wimbledon. Funny enough, when Theo expressed more interest in animals, I suggested he try horse riding, thinking that should be sophisticated enough for Nic. But perhaps in a snub to me, to keep me away from anything I love, Nicholas refused to pay for lessons.

Being indifferent about my own husband’s passing is evil. I know it is. It goes against all I was taught. But in the forty days of wearing all black for a man who was nothing but a boulder on my chest, a man who made it impossible to breathe, and worse than my own suffocation treated my son like a disappointment, indifference is generous.

I fulfilled my Greek Orthodox duty, our religion is an absolute veneer to cover the immorality beneath the surface. I had premarital sex (and not just once), got pregnant out of wedlock, then married a man I never loved because the shame was unbearable.

I might have survived the Nicholas scandal and even made other decisions if my mother was still around then. Maybe with her in my life, even though she is an eccentric narcissist, maybe I would have had the guts to be a single mom or otherwise.

I was twenty-one when Nic and I had our one-night stand; she’d been gone for nine years. My mom was a cliché, a poorly treated, neglected housewife who ran away with a younger lover. I still talk to her from time to time, mostly so we don’t become estranged. I should hate her but I don’t. I understand why she ran away, my dad isn’t a kind man, but that understanding doesn’t ever heal my abandonment issues.

Anyway, the last thing I want to do is reflect on the past. Mourning is over now. With the end of Nicholas comes a new beginning.

I tried to leave before. The first time, Nic scared me into staying. The second time, he pulled an act of cruelty that changed me forever by having me committed to a mental hospital. I never tried a third time. Leaving Theo alone with that man was worse than us surviving him together.

Now, I’m going to give my son the childhood I never had. Love. Support. And endless possibilities.

In my arms, my son’s body grows heavier as the stress drains out of him .

He peels away from our embrace. “I only have one sock. But maybe I only need half the luck where we’re going.”

In all that silence, in all that time where Theo keeps to himself, he’s growing wiser by the day.

I boop his nose. “I think you’re right.”

Just then, we both jerk when the front door slams shut.

“ Katinkaaaaaa !”

My father’s voice echoes through the cavernous space of our home.

Theo and I glance at each other; the fear in my son’s gaze pierces my heart. He thinks Papou is here to stop us from leaving.

Sadly, this is just another one of my ten-year-old’s mature observations. The ones only a boy who has to grow up way too fast would make. Nicholas might have thought he’d hidden the way he’d treated me, or that his barbed words against Theo didn’t cut that deep, but without any soft furnishings in this house, the hard truths are impossible to hide.

My son knows I was pushed around. And he knows somehow, his grandfather was the one who pushed me before. He pushed me into and out of everything I ever did including marriage. Paul Castellanos is just an older, more refined version of Nicholas.

I pat the sides of Theo’s arms. “Why don’t you rip up bits of salami into a Ziplock so we can get Keeper in his crate? You know how hard it is to get him in there.”

Theo nods quickly, more than happy to be given a task that gets him out of being around my father.

Just as Theo is leaving, my dad nearly bumps into him. Rather than greeting him, Dad grabs him by the shoulders and moves him out of his way like someone put a parking cone in the middle of the doorway. My dad is flushed, and beads of sweat glisten on his forehead.

Who told him we were leaving? I was hoping to talk to him after we’d left. My dad believed Nicholas that I was crazy, after all. This is bad. Really bad.

I brace myself for impact. “Dad.”

He storms in, shifting the air in the room.

“What the hell is going on here? You’re leaving?” he bites.

The brown boxes answer for me.

“Why? Why would you leave your family home? Theo needs stability in this troubling time.”

“Theo needs a fresh start. And so do I. There’s nothing left here but memories.”

Painful, shameful memories.

Facing my father right now isn’t easy. He’s let me down as many times as Nicholas had. I turn my back on him to go into the en suite and finish packing the last of things. Dad chases behind me, much more closely than I’m comfortable with. Maybe if he ever hugged me as a child, I wouldn’t mind him in my personal space.

I place my toothbrush in my toiletry bag.

“Katinka Helen Castellanos, I will not have you turn your back on me. Face your father when he’s speaking to you!”

Spit lands on my neck. When I twist, he’s gone from pink to full-on crimson. I pissed him off.

He speaks through gritted teeth. “Tell me the real reason you’re leaving.”

I never thought in a million years my moving out of this house would cause such anger.

“I told you. We want a fresh start. I’m pretty sure that’s not unusual for a widow. ”

There’s an accusation in his tone that tells me this is about more than moving house. “Not when the dirt is still fresh on her husband’s grave, it isn’t.”

My father is standing closer than I like. Unlike Nic, Dad has never put his hands on me, but never once in my thirty-one years have I stopped thinking it could happen.

When my father gets angry, it’s like a strained balloon that’s one blow from popping.

I brush past him to get some air. “I’ve already sorted our new place and a spot in a school in Mount Hamilton for Theo next semester.”

“Mount Hamilton! What on earth would you do in a scrubby place like that?”

“Actually, we’re moving into a farmhouse in Mission.”

“Mission!” He says it like it’s even worse than Mount Hamilton. “There is absolutely nothing in the middle of nowhere for a young man like Theo. He needs to be around opportunity and schools where he can build lifelong connections.”

Because my father thinks your network is your net worth and you can never start building it too young.

“Theo will like something more rural,” I insist. “Being outside is his thing.”

The farmhouse I found was near my old stables from when I had Ares. I always loved the area; it’s peaceful and serene. It’s only just over an hour from here… plus, and most importantly, it’s affordable. Northern California isn’t cheap, but small towns with not much going for them still have reasonable rents.

My dad throws his hands on his hips. “What are you doing between now and him starting school?”

“I’ll homeschool for the rest of this semester.”

The belittling scoff that escapes him stabs at my heart. A sarcastic laugh follows, and his words are even worse than the dark humor he finds in me being a teacher.

“You were never any good at school.”

And just like that, I’m thirteen again. My throat constricts, and my voice box drops heavily into my stomach. This is the point where I usually become speechless in his presence. But not today.

“We’re moving. I won’t change my mind. Theo is mine now to guide, and I know what’s best for him.”

“Do you?” my father ridicules. “Without Nicholas here, Theo will probably have dreadlocks and be smoking marijuana before he’s eleven.”

I push away the hatred that begs to consume me with rage. When my father speaks like this, I have to fight the total disdain.

“And tell me,” he smiles like an assassin, “with this probate malarkey, how do you intend to pay your bills? Hm?”

Most husbands and wives share a deed. Share bank accounts and assets. Not me and Nicholas. Everything was in his name. And in the final twist of a knife, some lawyer had instructions to apply for probate in the event of his death. It’s a nightmare.

Technically, I still don’t own this house, and none of his money has been transferred to me. This could take months. Years.

Even for Nicholas this is insane. Did he not care one bit about Theo? Or did he and my dad plan this together? Not settling the will certainly handed the baton back to my father.

Since Nic’s death, I’ve been receiving an allowance like I’m a child again.

When we leave, I plan on selling my wedding ring, which unfortunately, as is Greek tradition, is only a simple band and it’s not worth more than a few grand. I have some other jewelry to sell as well if need be. If we’re careful, it will fund our lives until probate goes through, and I’ve been stuffing small amounts of my allowance in a piggy bank for a rainy day.

I don’t want my father to know this wedding ring and other gifts will end up in a pawnshop somewhere. His daughter stooping so low would humiliate him to no end.

Dad’s words are a constant affront. “If you think I’m going to continue to support you financially while you wait for your inheritance, while you make some harebrained move like taking my only grandchild to some Podunk town, you better think again.”

Thankfully, I don’t have to explain I don’t want another cent from this man because our conversation is interrupted by the front gate ringing to my cell phone. I take the phone to the bathroom. The moving van should be here, and I still need to throw my creams and hair products into a suitcase. I put the phone on speaker and set to task.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Petras?”

“Yes… Coastline Transport?”

“No, ma’am. It’s the FBI.”

What? I glance up in the mirror and catch sight of my father. Our gazes connect. My eyes are wide open with surprise.

His aren’t.

I spin. Why isn’t he surprised the FBI is here?

I take the phone off speaker and put it to my ear. “How can I help you?”

“We’re here because of an investigation involving your late husband, Nicholas Petras. We’d like to come in and speak to you face-to-face.”

“Sure. Of course.”

I hang up and buzz the gate open.

My father and I have about three minutes before they’re up the drive and at the door.

“You have one last chance to be honest with me, Katinka.” My dad is calmer now but still more serious than I’ve ever seen him. “Are you leaving because you blew the whistle? Tell me the truth. I need to know what you told them about Nicholas.”

“What do you mean?”

He annunciates and repeats himself slowly as if I don’t speak English. “Did. You. Blow. The. Whistle?”

I’m so confused.

He tries a different question as if it will make more sense. “Are you moving house? Or are you fleeing, Kat? I know you were always trying to undermine your husband. Telling stories about him… did you tell another story? To the FBI?”

I shake my head wildly, not believing what I’m hearing.

The FBI is here to investigate Nic? And my father thinks I set it up?

In the moments that follow, my dreams are slashed into twenty thousand pieces. My late husband is being investigated for fraud at Pacific Dreams Developments. My father thinks I brought this trouble upon his company. Nic’s assets are being frozen. Those of Dad’s company, too.

As the FBI unfolds the story of my fate, making it clear this investigation will go on for months, I twist the circle of gold on my finger until the skin is sore. This ring is no longer our ‘getting by’ money. It’s our life insurance .

Hours later, movers hanging back out of the kindness of their hearts, we finally load up the van.

After midnight, the last box is in our dusty but furnished Mission farmhouse. I paid for a deposit and one month in advance out of money I’d been holing away from cash Dad has given me since Nic died. Thankfully, Podunk is cheap. But it isn’t free.

I find the sheets in a box and hastily make up the queen-sized bed in my room; I’m far too tired to do a separate one for Theo. He’d only end up in here anyway. I want him here, too. Thankfully, my little boy falls asleep out of pure exhaustion.

But I’m running on fumes and swiping frantically, thinking up ways I can find even just a small job to keep us going until the investigation is over. God willing we actually get any money when it’s over.

I have no transferable skills. The only things I know are art and horses; both are poorly paid. Nicholas worked hard to isolate me over the years from anyone I had a real relationship with, so favors would be nearly impossible. I have no extended family.

Am I really going to sell off jewelry bit by bit until we’re broke? How long can that possibly last with my next rent due in thirty days?

I need work. But I also have Theo to think about. I can’t leave him alone eight hours a day. And when would I homeschool him?

At two o’clock in the morning, with my phone battery on red, I’ve only listed three people I could even reach out to. All long shots. All unlikely.

There’s Gisele Neruda, my closest friend at college. She might have helped, but her socials say she lives in France now .

Rachel Stone, my yoga instructor back in Los Pinos, often gave me sympathetic smiles like she knew empathically I might need a friend. But what could she do for me? I write her anyway. Beggars can’t be choosers. My pride is nothing compared to not turning back to my father.

Lastly, there’s the most unsavory person on my list. Santiago Mendez. Once upon a time, he gave me his phone number and told me he’d never change it. That if I ever needed anything, just call.

But then, when I needed him the most, when my bags were packed to run away with the man of my dreams and give up everything I’ve ever known, he didn’t show up. He shattered my heart. I never forgave him for it.

But that was thirteen years ago.

In my weaker moments, sad, sad, midnight moments when I would reflect on my past what-ifs and think about the sliding doors and the ones I walked through to my manipulative life partner, I’d wonder what would’ve happened if Santi had showed up.

I’d search his name in incognito windows and read about his dramatic rags-to-riches success with his stud farm and his training facilities, and hidden memories would clog my throat. Then I’d remind myself it wasn’t a sliding door. It was a locked one. Santi threw away the key.

My phone alerts me there’s only five percent battery left. I’m tired and I need to sleep. I don’t want to find my charger and stay up another hour, being useless to my son in the morning when really what he needs is me to energize this new life of ours.

I stare at the Contact Us page for Santi’s business, Monarch Hills. Can I really ask him for a job? Do I need to be this desperate now when I still have things to pawn? Selling off bits of ourselves just to survive is… lazy. It’s uncertain.

Theo needs more from me. He needs security and food on the table.

But Santi? Maybe he won’t even remember me. I can’t find an email directly for him so I have to send one to the contact address. It will probably be picked up by somebody else, but I’ll have to name-drop to get my foot through the door. I. Need. A. Job.

My battery bar reads two percent.

Fuck it. This is the low-hanging fruit. Our farmhouse is only twenty minutes from Echo Valley where Monarch Hills is. Strange how all these years, even in my Los Pinos mansion, I’ve only ever been a couple of hours from Santi’s ranch. I always wondered what would happen if we ran into each other.

A ranch job is where I could put my skills to use. And maybe I could bring Theo to work. He’d love that.

In the delirium of a long day, swallowing my pride is easier than it would normally be. If I have to face painful memories to take care of me and my son, well, I’ve just been through eleven years of worse.

I type out the contact email address for Monarch Hills, hardly keeping my eyes open. I lie down on my side, blue light on my bloodshot eyeballs, head nodding downward with every letter I tap out, and doubts creeping in.

Santi was such a liar.

Maybe I should give myself just a few days to think about this. I have the jewelry after all…

The last thing I remember was deciding to sleep on it.

But when I charge my phone up in the morning, there’s an email from Rachel saying she wishes she could help but can’t. There’s also an automatic reply from Monarch Hills …

Thank you for your query. We aim to respond to all messages within 3-5 business days.