4. Cassidy
Tuesday morning sees me pushing open the door of Parker Realty, anticipation fizzing in my stomach. I shouldn’t be here—I should work another double shift for the money I desperately need to pay my rent. But ever since I left the police station Sunday morning, I’ve barely slept, hardly eaten, and consumed enough coffee to caffeinate an entire class of college students studying for their midterms.
I left a message for Detective Lewis on Monday afternoon. When I hadn’t heard from him later that day, I called again. Turns out, he was off sick. Which is fucking weird, because he looked just dandy when I went to go see him on Sunday. I called Parker Realties myself, but they were already closed for the day and all I got was their voicemail.
If all he was going to do was ask some questions, then I’ll save him the obvious hassle and just do it myself. In fact, I’ll do one better. I’ll ask those questions in person.
I’m not waiting around any longer. I need answers, and I need them now.
It’s a small office, neatly furnished with a sleek, boxy sofa and a chrome reception counter. Two doors lead off the foyer—one unmarked, the other with a bronze restroom sign. Framed posters of real estate listings and advertisements for insurance companies and mortgage lenders stud the white walls.
The receptionist behind the counter is on a phone call and holds up a finger, asking me to wait. I tug impatiently at the lapels of my thrifted brown corduroy jacket.
I didn’t want to interrogate anyone in dirty jeans and a stretched out tee, so I wore my knee-length wrap dress and tan Walmart leggings. I almost wore my heels, but decided on ankle-length suede boots with a short one-inch heel instead. My makeup is minimal—no lipstick, just a touch of brown eyeshadow and some mascara.
The real secret to my confidence, however, is the plum-colored negligee I’m wearing under my dress. A gift from my one and only boyfriend a few years ago. Mom said he was trouble, so we broke up after only a few months together.
Every time I move, the silky fabric brushes against my skin. I don’t understand the psychology behind it, but it makes me feel like I can conquer anything.
Then there’s the necklace. An elaborate gold and diamond chain with a colorful pendant. That I keep tucked away behind the bodice of the dress. I’ve been wearing it almost every day since Mom disappeared.
When it’s obvious her phone call is going to be longer than a few seconds, I wander around the front area, glancing at the for sale posters. Most of them are massive, sprawling estates or luxury penthouse suites. My eyes want to fall out of my skull at some of the asking prices.
What was my mother doing meeting with these realtors? Our modest little three bedroom in white picket fence suburbia would stick out like a sore thumb between all these mansions.
But in my incredibly limited—or should I say, non-existent—real estate experience, I’m guessing it takes several months to close a deal on a house. I can imagine pricey lots like some of these would take just as long, if not longer. That’s a long time to wait for a payout. Maybe this company brokers smaller deals to span those gaps.
To her credit, it sounds like the receptionist is trying to rush the conversation so she can speak to me, but she’s far too polite, or the person on the other end of the line is a dick. I grow bored with looking at the posters, and turn away to see if there’s a place I can sit and wait. Being on my feet all day at the diner, I’ve learned to take a weight off every opportunity I get.
GLENMONT
The word jumps out at me like a ninja assassin. I spin back to the framed poster, eyes wide.
It’s a listing for an enormous gray manor set against a backdrop of tall oaks. It’s a gorgeous, broody building, but that’s not what caught my eye.
It can’t be a coincidence.
7pm 4/11
E Remington
@ Glenmont
My mouth goes dry.
Mom wasn’t trying to sell her measly, over-mortgaged house. She was planning to buy a new one.
There’s a brochure holder under the framed poster with a bunch of folded pamphlets inside.
An interior door opens, and a man enters the reception area as I pluck a pamphlet from the holder. He detours like a vulture who’s caught a whiff of roadkill.
“Morning.” He gives me a quick scan, as if he’s calculating my net worth to the nearest dollar. No wonder he frowns at me like he’s wondering what the hell I’m doing here. Maybe he thinks I’ve come looking for work.
“Hi. Uh...this property—” I hold up the pamphlet. “Has it been on the market long?”
He cocks his head, then glances at the receptionist. Seeing her still engaged in her call, he comes closer.
He’s a beanpole of a man, the fact emphasized by his navy button-down shirt and dark jeans, both slim-fit. His leather suspenders match his worn-in boots, and his perfectly trimmed mustache and jet black hair make me believe that’s no accident.
Adjusting horn-rim spectacles that may, or may not, be actual prescription glasses, he clears his throat. “Actually, those brochures are hot off the press. The listing went live yesterday.”
My shoulders slump. Shit. Is it possible this is all just a coincidence? Maybe Detective Lewis is right. There’s no way of knowing whether that appointment took place this year.
I turn the pamphlet over in my hands.
Come on, think. There has to be a reason I saw this listing.
“Is this the first time it’s been listed?”
“Yes. This year.”
My heart does a happy little hop inside my chest, but then drops into my stomach. “Wait, this year? So you’ve listed it for sale before?”
The man studies me for a moment. “Donald Parker,” he says, holding out his hand. I shake it as firmly as I can manage, hoping the extra pressure will cancel out the tremors in my hand.
“Cassidy. Nice to meet you.”
I’m so done with these pleasantries. This guy obviously isn’t a kidnapper, but I have to figure out what his connection with my mother is. This was, after all, the address under E. Remington’s contact in her organizer.
“Did you or one of your staff have an appointment with Rebecca Monroe in April?”
He smiles like he’s wondering if I took my meds this morning. “In connection with…?”
I hastily abandon that line of inquiry. “Sorry, I must have my wires crossed. Um…can I speak to Remington? E. Remington?”
His head darts back a little, eyes narrowing. “The owner prefers my office deals with all enquiries,” he says, speaking carefully, like he’s still trying to puzzle me out.
The owner?
I look at the listing behind its glass shield. My mother had an appointment with the owner of Glenmont Manor?
Fuck.
Maybe she made that appointment after all.
She’s eloped once before…what’s to stop her doing it again? With the owner of Glenmont Manor.
I need to find out where this place is. I need to know if my mother abandoned me like she abandoned the Calloways all those years ago when she fell in love with Thomas Monroe, my father.
If I can just get the address, I can go over there and?—
The realtor interrupts my sleuthing strategy with an impatient-sounding, “Are you looking to buy?”
I can’t blame him. I’m staring at the listing like it’s the holy fucking grail.
“Not me,” I say through a laugh, and then realize that I’m literally looking a gift horse wearing suspenders in the mouth. “It’s…uh…my boss.”
Donald says nothing, obviously waiting for the name of said boss. Problem is, my boss is a middle-aged woman named Edith Brown, and I don’t think she’ll appreciate being dragged into this.
“Lewis,” I say reluctantly, since my mind has gone blank, and it’s the only name I can think of. “Mr. Lewis.”
“He’s seen the online listing?” It’s not really a question, but I nod anyway.
“Yeah, said he loves the—” I wave a hand “—architecture, or whatever.” I give an abashed little chuckle. “I know nothing about that kind of stuff. But he’s really interested.”
Donald inclines his head. “If Mr. Lewis is indeed interested in Glenmont, we have an open house on Friday. I’m afraid it’s only for qualified buyers, though.” Parker adjusts the lapels on his slim-cut shirt. He’s obviously regretting having mistaken me for a qualified buyer.
Jerk.
“There’s a link in the contact section of the brochure. If he can send through his documents for us to verify before Thursday, we’ll be more than happy to send him an invitation.”
Parker doesn’t even wait for my response. He turns, gestures something to the receptionist, and leaves. I passed a silver Porsche on the way in, and I’m not even half-surprised when he gets into it and tears off down the street.
Damn it. I didn’t have time to ask for the address. I’m about to reunite the pamphlet with its friends when the receptionist bangs down her receiver and lets out a long sigh.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry, ma’am,” she says, smoothing a hand down her sleek blond hair and absently adjusting her already straight name badge. Vanessa’s immaculately lined brown eyes peer over at me. “Was Mr. Parker able to help you with the Glenmont listing?”
I give her a wan smile, flapping the brochure. “Kinda.”
She smiles gratefully and starts tapping keys on her laptop.
“Actually…” I slide over to her, pasting as warm a smile on my face as I can muster. “Mr. Parker seemed a little busy. My boss, Mr. Lewis, he wanted to know what area the listing was in. So he can schedule out his Friday.” I give an uneasy laugh. “You know, golf and all that.” Another laugh. “And when I say he, I mean me. I handle his schedule, obviously.”
God, I’m messing this up so badly. In the greater scheme of things, it’s great that I have such a tough time lying…but having a clear conscience is really not working to my advantage.
Vanessa shakes her head. “I’m sorry, ma’am, we only provide the address to qualified buyers.”
I take a chance. Like a big, fat, Glenmont-Manor-sized chance.
“Oh, Mr. Lewis already sent through all his documents yesterday.” I laugh again. “I mean me, of course.” I widen my eyes at her. “Oh, God, please tell me you got them?”
“Mr. Parker’s secretary handles the verifications, but she’s just stepped out quick.” Vanessa slides over a notepad and clicks her pen. “I’ll ask her to call you as soon?—”
“Is there any way you can check? It’s just, he’s been bugging me about this all morning.” I lean in, putting a hand by my mouth to shield a whispered, “He’s very motivated to buy.”
Vanessa purses her lips, and I’m not sure if she’s annoyed at my insistence, or considering whether to break some rule I’m not aware of by helping me.
My cellphone rings. I’m so invested in this charade of mine that I jerk in surprise at the unexpected sound. Vanessa jumps too, and we both give each other a nervous little chuckle.
“Sorry.” I fish my phone out of my purse and stare at the screen.
I inherited a lot of traits from my mother. Her chestnut hair, her green eyes, and her purse fixation. But record keeping is obviously not a hereditary trait. Her Filofax was full of neat entries. I can barely enter someone’s full name in my contacts.
And thank God for that, because what’s showing on the screen right now is one word, all lowercase.
lewis
I wince and turn the phone to Vanessa.
“It’s him. Again.” I roll my eyes, letting the phone keep ringing as I slip it back into my purse. I lean forward, resting my elbows on the top of the sleek white reception counter. “He’s been busting my ass all morning. I’m begging you, please just check? If you guys don’t have those docs…”
“Um…” Vanessa glances down at her laptop, and then shrugs. “Okay, let me see if I can find them and see how far they are in the queue.”
“Thank you, Vanessa.” I drum my fingertips lightly on the countertop, trying not to bore a hole in the receptionist’s head as she taps away on her laptop.
She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t have any applications for Mr. Lewis. When did you send the documents?”
She jumps when I thump my fist into the countertop. I immediately hold out my hand, waving it emphatically. “Sorry. It’s just…I know I sent them. You’ve gotta have them. Did your system glitch or something?”
“Glitch?” She stares at me like I’m the one glitching. “No, ma’am, not possible.”
“But I emailed everything!”
“Emailed?” Her face turns a little frosty. “We don’t accept the documents via email. There’s a special link where you upload directly?—”
“No.” I press my fingers to my lips. “Please don’t tell me that. Please.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am?—”
I cut in with a frantic, “I told him I sent it!”
My phone rings again. I have a thing for older men—the more distinguished, the better—but Detective Lewis has done nothing for me. His poetic timing, however, is turning me on like nobody’s business.
“That’s him,” I stage whisper. “Vanessa, please…”
She must share some shred of boss-induced PTSD, because there’s a flash of sympathy in her eyes before she gives me a quick nod. “Okay. Hold on a sec, I’m going to check Belinda’s computer. If I can find your email, then I’ll ask her to upload them manually for approval soon as she’s back.”
“You’re a lifesaver!”
She gives me a warm smile and pushes away from her desk, hurrying off to the same door Mr. Parker exited a few moments ago. She’s barely out of sight before I rush around the reception desk and bend over her laptop.
Finally!
There’s some kind of software open on the screen. I scan every line of text and spot the name of the listing a second later.
And, right beneath it, the address.
But what’s even more important are the owner’s contact details just to the side.
Mr. Ethan Remington
A pleasant jolt pulses through me.
There it is! Definitive proof.
I haven’t felt this alive in months. I quickly scrawl Remington’s address and phone number on Vanessa’s notepad and tear off the paper.
Guilt stabs through me when I race out of the real estate office.
That’s the price you pay for being nice.
I duck into the first alleyway I find, my phone already out. Two missed calls from Lewis. The least I owe him is a return call.
“Miss Monroe,” Lewis says, and I wince at how congested he sounds. Guess he is sick, after all. “Thanks for calling back. Sorry I’m only getting back to you now. I was off yesterday.”
“That’s okay. I actually have news?—”
A hacking cough cuts me off. Lewis wheezes, and then rambles like he can’t wait to end the phone call so he can curl up and die.
“Just wanted to give you an update. I’ve made some progress on the lead you found.”
“Oh. That was quick.”
“I have good news, and bad news.”
Ugh. I hate it when people say that. “The suspense is killing me.”
He chuckles and then coughs violently. “Good news is, I got hold of Remington’s office.”
“Okay. And the bad news?”
“He hasn’t been near Glenmont Manor for close to eight months. According to his office, he’s been living in the city, confined to his apartment for most of April. Never even set foot outside.”
“Why? Was he sick?”
Lewis violently clears his throat, as if I’m making some kind of accusation against him. “Unclear.”
“What if he’s lying?”
Lewis sighs like he’d been waiting for this. “His office also confirmed there was no meeting scheduled between him and a Rebecca Monroe in April. In fact, he didn’t have any appointments that month.”
“They could be lying about that too! Can’t you go to Glenmont and demand to see his calendar or something? Search his house? I mean, there’s got to be some kind of evidence that he?—”
“I’d need a hell of a lot more than an ambiguous date on a piece of paper you claimed to find in your mother’s things to get a warrant to search someone’s house. Especially someone as?—”
He cuts off, but I know what he’d been about to say.
“Someone as wealthy and influential as Remington?”
“I’m sorry, Cassidy. I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear. But right now, there’s nothing linking Remington with your mother except that piece of paper.”
“The one I claimed to find,” I say bitterly.
I feel like a balloon animal the day after a kid’s birthday party, bobbing along with barely enough helium left inside me to clear the ground.
“I still have a few calls to make. I want to confirm his story.” The detective sounds as despondent as I feel.
“I’ll give you an update in a week or two. Try to be patient. If there’s something here, I’ll find it.” He hacks up a lung, and ends the phone with a mangled, “I gotta go.”
I stare at the phone’s screen for a moment after he ends the call, my thumb tapping against the side.
A week?
Or two?
My cheeks feel hot. There’s a slow, thumping anger building inside me.
Is he honestly expecting me to hang around twiddling my thumbs for two weeks?
Every neuron in my brain—at least, those not currently engaged in motor function—are screaming at me to stop when I tap on the Google Map icon. I type in the address for Glenmont Manor and stare at the result.
Forty-five minutes. That’s how long it will take me to reach Remington’s mansion.
Or I could wait until next week for Detective Lewis to call me back.
There’s a reason I saw that listing at the realtors.
Shaking my head, I step out of the alleyway and glance at the row of shops across the street. There’s a rental car company right across the road from where I’m standing.
It must be fate.