Chapter Eleven. Cat
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CAT
I have a showing scheduled. So I twist open all the blinds, letting warm afternoon light illuminate every architectural detail of the model home.
Then I erase any hint that an actual human being lives here.
No stray hairs, no water droplets by the sink, no sandwich crumbs on the counter.
There needs to be only the impression of a perfect family that could be, a little girl who loves pink flamingos, a boy into baseball, blemish-free apples in a bowl.
I pull the chocolate chip cookies out of the oven—my mother’s recipe, a sprinkle of salt on top—and the house smells like someone’s perfect future.
The high-pitched door chime alerts me to the opening front door. I pull the wrinkles from my blouse before pasting on my most professional smile.
But when I turn the corner, I stop dead in my tracks.
Abel Sherman stands in the entryway, half turned from me, studying the enormous painting of a massive longhorn steer, horns stretching nearly wall to wall.
He rakes his fingers deep into the underside of his beard, scratching the skin beneath.
Swimming in his oversized camouflage jacket, he looks like a husk of the man he used to be.
Like maybe when he closed up the river, he severed an artery to his own beating heart, then spent the last two decades drying up into dust.
Mark told me they had to drag Abel away when construction began, call the cops to haul him off in handcuffs, that he spit in Sheriff Ryan’s face.
Now he’s living out in the trailer park on the edge of town with his son.
He’s been a recluse since what happened to Izzy, since his wife left him and took their daughter with her.
But losing his land has him rutted out like a feral hog.
“Sherman Ranch, huh?” he says, his words coming out like he has a handful of marbles in his mouth. He turns his deep-set hazel eyes on me. I watch his lip curl. “That’s mighty respectful of y’all to keep the name. Truly do ’ppreciate it.”
I maintain eye contact. The muscles of my face hold my smile. So much of being a woman is composing yourself. Presenting opposite from how you feel deep down inside. “Mr. Sherman—” I start, but he cuts me off.
He takes a step forward. “Didn’t keep the house though, did you?” His boot leaves a muddy imprint on the spotless white tile. “Cleared it away.” He swats a hand out aggressively. “Trees too. Some of them were hundreds of years old. You ever think about that?” He jabs a finger hard to his temple.
I can remember Abel the way he was. Gruff and stoop shouldered, sure, like he was hunkered down to the earth, like it would be no easier to knock him over than it would be to knock over a tree stump.
But as grumpy as he liked to pretend to be, every time I served him at the Coffee Haus, he offered me a soft Thank you, darling, and left a generous tip, folded neatly and hidden beneath the empty plate where his bear claw had been.
Now, I can smell the whiskey sweating through his skin. And I know, better than most, the way alcohol can make a person mean. Make him dangerous.
He must have seen my eyes flick down to the mud. He looks at his feet, lifting the toe of his boot, turning it on his heel to inspect the mud underneath. He snuffs a breath like a laugh through his nose and continues walking toward me, and more clumps of dirt fall like jagged puzzle pieces.
I feel a shiver of something up my spine.
I am alone in this house. With this man.
My cell phone is tucked away in my purse inside my suitcase.
Hidden beneath the bed. All the way upstairs.
The security pad is by the front door, currently disarmed.
There is a landline in the office, but he is between that door and me now, and he’s closing the distance between us.
I want to tell him that I am not the developer, that I am not the person who took his land away from him, but my throat refuses to form the words.
I think of the movie Body Double, an erotic thriller from the ’80s.
How Craig Wasson watches helplessly while Deborah Shelton has a curly telephone cord wrapped around her neck—the leathery-skinned intruder pulling the cord tightly, so it digs into her soft skin, her fingers clawing at her throat.
I think of her beautiful eyes lighting bright with fear, before the scene cuts to her high heels lifting off the floor.
“Well, why don’t you show me around?” He says it while shaking his hands in his pockets, making the loose coins jingle with a nervous clatter, like a kettle rattling just before it starts screeching.
He walks past me, tracking his dirt through the great room, head on a slow swivel, as he takes in the space.
He stops at the plate of cookies, fishes a hand from his pocket to pick one up.
There are fine lines of dirt beneath his fingernails.
He takes a bite of the cookie. I watch his tongue lift the broken chunks like he’s tasting it with the roof of his mouth. Then he makes an ugly face and acts like it’s difficult to swallow. “Delicious,” he says flatly.
The entryway door chimes and a spill of relief floods me.
“Hello?” a voice calls from the foyer.
“Enjoy the refreshments,” I say and hurry away from him.
As I head toward the front door, I try to compose myself, and somehow I’m smiling again by the time I reach the couple.
They look to be in their early thirties.
He is wearing slim-cut khakis and suspenders over a polka-dotted button-up.
She has on a floral dress, a wide-brimmed hat, and big sunglasses.
She holds her husband’s hand while cupping the underside of her belly, as they gape at the skylight.
“This is gorgeous,” she says.
“John Delaney,” the man says, stepping up from the sunken foyer to shake my hand. “This is my wife, Faith.”
The couple is from Austin, they tell me.
“But who can afford to live there anymore?” Faith says.
“It’s so serene out here. The views. Wasn’t I saying that John?
The views. And so quaint. We drove through your town square.
That old-fashioned ice cream shop? That banner for Lone Star Princess over the main street?
I can’t believe they still have those little pageants out here. ”
“It’s a great place to start a family,” I agree.
They both look down to Faith’s belly.
“Can I offer you tea? Lemonade? A cookie?” I lead them toward the kitchen.
“Faith’s current craving,” John says.
Faith laughs. “Guilty.”
As we round the corner, I see that the kitchen is empty. My eyes dart around the expansive room, and I notice the back door wide open. Abel must have let himself out. Thank God. I go to close it and lock it behind me.
“The crime rate out here is low, isn’t it?” John is saying. “That’s another concern we have in Austin.”
“Anhalt is a very safe community,” I say, walking back from the door. “Nothing bad ever happens here.”
Faith looks up at her husband, smiling like she’s already made up her mind.
“Now about that cookie,” I say. “I hope you like chocolate chip, it’s an old family recipe.”
John puts a protective arm around Faith’s shoulder, squeezes her in tight.
Then I see the tray of cookies and can’t help the small gasp that escapes my lips.
They’ve all been smashed, as though fists have been pressed down purposefully into each one. Nothing but crumbs scattered across the platter, spilling over onto the once-gleaming countertop.