Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
brEE
Carol Hanson’s home is gorgeous.
Bree supposes at one time it could have been called hers as well, but it never exactly felt like a home, just a fancy house purchased with a generous life insurance policy.
The stone walkway leads up to white double doors bordered by cream French windows. Potted bright flowers line either side of Bree, with bumblebees swirling around the petals cheerfully. There are no clouds in the sky today, so the sunset makes the red brick colonial house a photographer’s dream.
Despite how impressive the residence is, there’s nothing but dread in her chest as she rings the doorbell.
She waits one minute. Then two.
But Carol is almost always home, and unless she’s decided to spend an extra evening with her book club, she’s simply taking her time answering the door .
Bree doesn’t want to be here. She’s twenty-six years old and doesn’t need to tell her mother where she’ll be for the next week.
But she supposes a good daughter would.
The door finally swings open, and Bree is greeted by a striking woman with high cheekbones and dyed blonde hair. Even as a child, Bree was struck by her mother’s beauty, hoping to one day look like her. Despite the obvious hair color difference, she inherited her mother’s grey eyes, upturned nose, and full lips.
Carol’s smile is wide, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Hi, honey,” she says, and before Bree can protest, she’s pulling her into a hug. Bree immediately recognizes her mother’s perfume, sharp red roses and a strong powdery note.
It was her father’s favorite, and her mother has never stopped wearing it.
With one last awkward squeeze, Carol steps aside as Bree walks through the doorway of her childhood home.
Not much has changed since she moved out six years ago. The armoire still stands to the left, full of glass and crystal knick-knacks that Carol has collected throughout the years, while the staircase is to the right of her, large and sprawling up to the second floor.
She’s sure if she checked the kitchen the bowl of plastic fruit would still be in the middle of the white marble island, and the countertops and double sink would be polished. She’s sure the wine fridge is still full of fancy bottles, and the pantry is stocked to the brim with perfectly organized snacks.
“That’s a cute sweater,” her mother remarks, reaching out to touch the fabric of the sleeve. “Is it new?”
“Mmhmm.” She doesn’t want to talk about sweaters with her mother. She doesn’t really want to talk about anything. The only reason for her being here is to let Carol know she’ll be out of town for a week .
“You know, you should start wearing some cute sundresses. I was shopping the other day and almost bought you one. It’s light blue—you would like it.”
“I thought you said I should always wear sweaters.”
Carol blinks.
Bree doesn’t mean to snap. It’s a kind gesture from her mother after hearing so many years of “ you should cover those up, we have guests coming over .”
“I never said that,” Carol says, defensive. “Not always. ”
Bree blows out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “Okay, well, maybe I’ll look into it. Sundresses are cute,” she adds awkwardly.
“Do you want anything to drink?” Carol is already heading down the hallway and towards the kitchen. “I have sugar-free lemonade. It’s delicious, Bree, you’d really like it. No sugar. At all. I could send you home with some.”
“Mom, you don’t need to do that?—”
But Bree sighs as she hears the fridge opening and begrudgingly follows her mother.
Carol was right.
The lemonade is really good.
Bree’s nursing her glass on the reclining chair when her mother takes a seat near her on the couch. “If I had known you were coming, I would have made you dinner,” she frets, furrowing her brow. “Are you still a vegetarian?”
“Yup.” Just like last month, and the six years before that .
“So, if I cook salmon, you can eat that?”
“That’s a fish, Mom.”
“So yes?”
There’s a long moment of silence. “…yes,” Bree sighs, because at least her mother is trying .
“Ugh. I don’t like salmon, though.”
Bree closes her eyes and exhales slowly. “Then we don’t need to eat salmon. We can eat something else?—”
“I wish you liked steak.”
“Oh my god, Mom please ?—”
“We could do salmon and steak. How about that?”
“Yes, that’s fine. That’s fine .”
“Great. I’m sure Hank could fire up the grill.” Then her mother is back to smiling, pleased that she’s secured a dinner with her daughter.
A twinge of guilt gnaws at Bree. She should visit her mother more; she’s less than an hour away. But then Carol will say something, or Bree will snap at her, and then a fight will ensue.
They go around in circles, and nothing gets resolved.
Which is why she’s trying to limit this visit to less than an hour.
“That sounds good,” Bree manages to say, running a finger over the rim of her glass. “But I actually wanted to let you know I’m going to be out of town, in case you needed something. It’s for work.”
“Oh. Is it for that newspaper?”
“Yeah.”
Carol frowns. “Are they still underpaying you? They better not be paying you minimum wage, there’s no way you can live off that?—”
“No, it’s fine.” She doesn’t bother to tell her mother that she’s had to dip into her portion of the life insurance along with the trust fund her father was kind enough to set up for her.
“Rent is really high right now, Bree; I saw it on the news. You could live back here with me for free and save up for your own place. ”
Absolutely not. “Holden is about an hour away, so it makes more sense to stay there for work,” Bree says gently, careful not to make it sound like she would rather chew on barbed wire than live with her mother again.
“I don’t like you living alone. You don’t have anyone.”
Ah. There it is.
Bree swallows down her hurt and attempts to steer the conversation back to neutral territory. “I’m going to be gone for a week. I’m conducting an interview.”
“Where?”
“Green Woods.”
She holds her breath. Maybe Carol doesn’t know…
“Green Woods? Green Woods ?” her mother parrots, looking at Bree as if she’s lost her mind. “The place where that prisoner killed the Omega?”
Bree groans and places her glass on a stone coaster on the end table. “They don’t know if he killed her. The police said they’re both missing. I’m interviewing his doctor. It’s a big deal; he hasn’t done any interviews except with me.”
“He killed her, Breana. There’s no way he didn’t. He’s a murderer .” Carol’s eyes widen. “He’s crazy! He killed a guard?—”
“Mom, he’s not there. He’s gone . I’m going to interview his doctor. ”
“By yourself. You, an unmated Omega.”
Bree narrows her eyes. “Yes, by myself ,” she hisses. “I’m perfectly capable of doing things without an Alpha.”
Fury flashes in her mother’s eyes. “I’m sure that’s what that social worker said, too.”
“Her name is Ellie Winters.”
“ Was . You’re not going.”
Bree raises her eyebrows. “I’m sorry ?” she chokes out, half amused, half shocked .
“You heard me. You can’t go.” Carol’s eyes have turned icy, fear replaced with cold determination. “That’s a death sentence. Unless that’s why you want to go?”
The silence is heavy in the room. Bree stares at her mother in shock, tears welling at the corners of her eyes at her accusation.
“If that’s what you think, then you don’t know me at all.”
Bree’s proud that her voice barely wavers, but it’s time to leave.
“How can I know you when you never visit?” Carol snaps, as Bree stands from the chair. “I didn’t even know you were working at the newspaper until six months ago. I didn’t even know if you were alive .”
Bree rubs at her eyes, feeling a migraine forming. “I’m leaving in two days,” she sighs, not wanting to delve further into an argument or hear her mother’s dramatics.
To hell with sundresses and sugar-free lemonade.
And fuck whatever this broken, hopeless dynamic is that she has with her mother.
“Breana, please ,” Carol says, following her daughter down the hallway. “I didn’t mean to tell you what to do; I meant you can’t go because it’s too dangerous.”
Bree ignores her and pulls the door open leading to Carol’s sprawling driveway.
“What would your father think?”
Her mother’s words make her falter, but she doesn’t take the bait.
“Just stop, Mom,” she sighs. “I’ll text you when I get there.”
Carol doesn’t follow her out the door. Bree makes it to her car before she allows any tears to fall.
What would her father think of her going?
Better yet, what would he think of the twenty-six-year-old woman sniffling in her car because she’s too stubborn and afraid to mend the relationship with her remaining parent?
She groans and wipes at her face.
He wouldn’t be proud, that’s for sure.
She pulls out of the driveway harder than necessary, the rubber of her tires squealing.