The Forgotten Summer (Book 2 Newport Beach Series)

Chapter 10

Her heart pounded in her chest as she bolted for the bathroom. Every time her foot hit the ground, it sent a wave of panic through her. Abigail almost skidded around as she cornered into the bathroom and pain shot through both her knees as they hit the tile.

She had always hated throwing up; it felt like the worst kind of losing control—not only was it totally involuntary, but it was also disgusting and painful.

Soothing murmurings and a pleasant pressure along her back made tears spring to her eyes. Cleo’s hand deftly scooped the curtain of hair that had fallen forward as Abigail vomited.

“Go—away,” Abigail choked out between retches, “—disgusting.”

Cleo did not, in fact, go away. She laughed.

“Sweetheart, I am a nurse,” Cleo said, “puke is almost a daily occurrence for me.”

Her stomach was starting to calm down, the heaving feeling dying down and letting her breathe.

“Not Nurse Cleo here, remember?” Abigail said.

Cleo’s hand was still gently stroking her back; the motion should not have been so calming. The whole situation should have been mortifying, and yet somehow, she felt, ultimately, cared for. Abigail had known many nurses in her life, plenty of bad ones but far more good ones—and a few who were truly excellent. However, none of them had ever been able to make her feel so at ease, especially while bracing against a toilet seat.

“I’m always Nurse Cleo a little bit,” Cleo said, “do we think we’re done?”

Abigail nodded, and Cleo repositioned her hands to support Abigail’s weight as she stood.

“Can I brush?”

“No,” Cleo said, “the stomach acid is bad for your teeth. Rinse, rinse, and rinse again.”

Cleo didn’t step away as Abigail did as she was told, rinsing until the taste that lingered was only a memory. As they approached the door, Abigail felt dread settle into her bones—she wanted to see what was inside almost as much as she never wanted to step inside that study again.

“Come on,” Cleo said, “a weak cup of tea first.”

Had she planned that?Abigail wondered, or had Cleo sensed her trepidation?

Either way, they didn’t even pause at the study door. They continued into the kitchen, and Cleo settled her at the counter before preparing two cups of black tea with a little more sugar than usual.

“Thanks,” Abigail whispered, “I... I’m sorry...”

“No, no, sorry,” Cleo said, wagging a finger.

“You specifically came here because you didn’t want to be Nurse Cleo and the first thing I do is throw up on you...”

She couldn’t bring herself to look up at Cleo as she spoke, so instead, she stared into the depths of the swirling tea.

“Well, technically, the first thing you did was shower me in asbestos,” Cleo said, “and also, you didn’t throw up on me. You threw up near me—which is a lot more than I can say for most people who I’ve been that close to when they’ve been throwing up.”

Abigail could feel her friend trying to make her laugh, but it didn’t feel right.

“What happened, today?”

When silence was all she got back, Abigail braved a glance at Cleo and balked at what she saw. Tears rolling down Cleo’s face.

“Oh Cleo, I’m sorry, you don’t have to—I’m sorry!” Abigail leaned across the counter and placed a hand on Cleo’s.

“It’s okay,” she sniffed, “I probably should talk about it—all that bottling up, you know?”

They fell into silence again as Abigail slid the box of tissues from the end of the counter towards her friend. Sitting like this, in her childhood kitchen with Cleo, felt oddly natural regardless of how strange her day had been.

Cleo finished her cup and set about pouring another. This time, the tea was darker from having sat so long in the pot.

“Not a lot of stuff in my job really affects me, right?” she said, “like, it does—but only on a surface level. After a while, you have to get a little bit like that, or you’ll quit.”

Taking a sip of her tea, Cleo closed her eyes and Abigail saw her counting under her breath. Her stomach twinged. What could possibly have upset Cleo like this? Abigail thought, she’s usually so...

“Today, though, we had a woman come in while in labor. Well... I say a woman but she was a kid, really,” Cleo said.

“... a kid?”

“Not a child but... look, I probably shouldn’t be telling you any of this just in case but... she was sixteen. She didn’t know she was pregnant, so she hadn’t really been looking after herself, and when she did find out about two weeks ago, she was terrified and confused, so she tried to hide it. Her idiot boyfriend had told her that he knew how to—and I quote—time it right to make sure they didn’t get pregnant.”

Cleo shuddered and an expression of pure rage rippled across her face.

“Oh... wow,” Abigail said, “I swear, the state of sex ed in this country is kind of terrifying. Even we were told that was nonsense, and that was twenty-five years ago!”

“Yeah, but apparently, he believed it, too,” Cleo said, “because he was more concerned about finding out who the father was than if she was okay.”

“Wait, she found out two weeks ago? Wasn’t she showing? Her periods?”

Cleo’s smile was sad as she shook her head. “Well, you know some women barely show at all anyway—but she had some other issues. Very underweight… she told me she hadn’t had her period in a year and had been trying to lose weight for five.”

“Five years?”

“Yep,” Cleo said, tears welling up in her eyes again, “she was petite, tiny, and you’d think that would make a bump more obvious but... the baby was tiny, too, and she was only twenty-five weeks along.”

“Like, today she was at twenty-five weeks?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

The women sat in silence for a few moments as Abigail turned over the story in her head, anger at the situation bubbling up in her.

“Is she...?” Abigail asked.

Cleo shrugged. “Physically, sure, but emotionally—absolutely not. Her boyfriend was screaming and shouting that she was cheating on him, asking if ... if the baby will live long enough to do a paternity test.”

“Jeez...” Abigail leaned back in her seat, equal parts anger and compassion for her friend, “That’s... I’m so sorry, Cleo, that’s the worst day.”

The tears sliding down Cleo’s face fell freely now, and Abigail moved around the counter to envelop her friend in a hug.

“He was just so angry...” Cleo said, wiping her face, “sorry, I shouldn’t be blubbing at you—you’ve got enough to worry about.”

“Well...” Abigail said, “That’s not untrue, but you don’t stop being human just because my life is ridiculous. Actually, your story is kind of on theme for my day.”

Cleo looked at her quizzically, so Abigail recounted her conversation with Mrs. Foggarty. By the time she had finished, Cleo had stopped crying, and they’d both finished their tea.

“At least your mood about the wires and the ceiling and the mess makes total sense now,” Cleo said with a smile, “I’d have been at the end of my rope, too.”

“Yeah...” Abigail said, glancing over her shoulder.

She had almost forgotten about their discovery.

“Do you wanna...?”

Abigail nodded, and together, the two women made their way tentatively out of the kitchen and back into the study, which was covered in a fine dusting of white. Now that her mind was clearer than the last time, she saw that these shelves were not the same ones as in her memory... not quite. The fallen sheathing cracked under her feet as she moved to inspect the setup closer. The shelves were narrower than they should be... like they’d been cut in half. Her gaze traveled along the wall to where it met the door—except it didn’t meet the door. It spanned just a little further than it should, and the door had damaged the plaster where it had hit against it over the years.

The door to the gun safe was slightly ajar, but as she reached for it, fear bubbled up in her chest, and she froze.

“This is the worst build job ever,” she said lamely, “and there’s something weird with the door. The frame isn’t the same, and none of it lines up—it’s too wide. The wall, I mean.”

“We don’t have to do this now,” Cleo said, “we can come back to it...”

“Cleo—I can already barely sleep in this house. What makes you think knowing this is here and not knowing what’s inside is even an option?”

She tried to smile at Cleo as she said it but knew her face was far closer to a grimace as she turned to look at her. Cleo was standing pretty much where she had been before, but now she had something in her hands—a thin piece of... plastic?

“Sure... You’re right about the door, look.”

Taking the plastic from Cleo, Abigail saw that it wasn’t even wood—just printed to look like it. It was injection mold plastic, and it had a set of three pegs that were clearly supposed to click into place. Between each of these pegs was a rectangle cutout, strategically placed in dark knots of the woodgrain

“Huh, that explains why it came down so easily,” Abigail said, moving to look at the door frame.

Across the top of the door frame were three matching brackets for the pegs to slide into. The brackets sat in a thick metal plate that spanned the whole space between the two plaster sheets of the wall. Along the center was a series of three rectangular cuts for something to pass through. Cleo dragged the chair over to her, and Abigail climbed up, running her hands across the top of the door. Sure enough, there were three slight protrusions that would line up perfectly.

“Deadbolts...” Abigail said, “It’s a reinforced door...”

Her heart racing and emotions growing, Abigail jumped from the chair and decisively swung the gun safe open.

She had no idea what she had expected to find, but a stack of papers with a handgun placed on top like a lethal paperweight had not been on her list.

Ammunition scattered the bottom of the safe like confetti and she felt the panic creeping in. Abigail grabbed the top sheets of paper, sending the gun sliding off the back, behind the stack of paper and making a loud metallic clang as it hit the back of the safe.

Out of sight, out of mind,she thought.

“Look, ‘Do Not Print—Confidential’,” she read from the watermark across the document.

“Is that a photo?” Cleo asked, reaching for the second sheet of paper.

“Yes,” Abigail replied, flipping to it, “of... here?”

She held it up, and though in the photograph the couch had two people seated and deep in conversation—it was without a doubt the room she was currently in. In fact...

Abigail grabbed the chair and dragged it over to the spot on the bookshelf that held the Pride and Prejudice copy glued to the shelf, and then climbed up. Holding it out in front of her, she realized two things.

This was a printout from a camera positioned exactly here, and the photographs on the holiday rental listing were also taken from this exact angle—that had been why she had thought the room weirdly familiar.

“Cleo—” she turned to tell her friend but stopped.

Cleo was holding a stack of photographs, flipping through them rapidly.

“Abby… these are of Jacob’s dad...”