Chapter Ten—Julie #2
“I assumed something happened.” Meg sounds impatient now. “You texted me Friday morning saying you might be hard to reach. You don’t vanish for three days because you’re annoyed.”
It’s plausible. She knows me well enough to make that guess, and three days ago, I was furious with Dalen for treating ordinary things like evidence because Meg gave him a reason to question me. I’m not doing the same thing to her.
I sit on the edge of the desk. “Sorry. I’m having a bad morning.”
Meg’s irritation disappears. “What happened?”
I look at the credit report again. Whatever happened between us this week, she’s still my sister. She’s still the person I’ve called when something goes wrong for most of my life. “I found an account in my name that I didn’t open.”
Meg takes a few seconds to respond. “How much?”
“Twenty-three thousand.”
“Holy shit.”
“There’s another one for nine.”
“Julie.” Meg sounds horrified now. “Did you tell Dalen?”
“No.”
“Why not?” She sounds shocked.
I look around the hotel room. “Because I’m handling it.”
Meg doesn’t argue. “Okay.”
I expected her to. “Okay?”
“You told me to stop going around you.” Her voice softens. “I’m trying.”
Some of the tension leaves my shoulders. “Thank you.”
“Do you know who did it?”
“No. The first one was opened online four months ago. They used our address and listed Dorsey Capital as my employer.”
“That could be anybody who knows you. Everybody knows Dalen owns Dorsey Capital.” Meg pauses. “Your address probably isn’t difficult to find either.”
She’s right. I sit back down and look at the report. “I’m going to freeze my credit and file a police report once I have the account information.”
“That sounds smart.” Meg laughs softly. “You sound a little like Dalen.”
“Rude.”
“Accurate.” For a few seconds, she sounds like my sister again. Then she asks, “Do you want me to come over?”
“No. I’m checking out today.”
“Oh.” She draws the word out slightly. “I didn’t know.”
“I found a furnished place.”
“Where?”
The question is automatic, but I remember I haven’t told Dalen either. “Westover.”
“Nice.”
“Temporary.”
“Still nice.” I hear something rustle on her end before she asks if I need help moving.
“I have one suitcase.”
Meg snorts. “You have at least two suitcases. I’ve seen you pack for a weekend.”
I look at the second bag beside the closet and laugh despite myself. “Fine. Two.”
“What’s the address?”
I hesitate.
Meg catches it immediately. “Wow.”
“Don’t.”
She sounds hurt. “I’m not doing anything.”
“I know.” I stare at the pattern in the carpet. “I just need some space from everybody.”
“I’m everybody now?”
The pain in her voice hurts me too. I almost give her the address just to stop this conversation, but Mara’s question comes back to me.
I just need to know if you’re safe.
I don’t know why keeping the address private makes me feel safer, but it does. “I’ll call you later.”
Meg takes a moment before answering. “Okay.”
“Love you.”
“Love you too.”
I end the call and finish my coffee while I pull up the credit-freeze pages. I have two fraudulent accounts to deal with before meeting Mara. That’s enough for one morning.
MARA IS WAITING OUTSIDE the Westover house when I arrive at eleven. It’s brick with white trim, two stories, and a front porch deep enough for actual furniture instead of two decorative chairs nobody ever sits in.
I like it before I get out of the car.
Mara hugs me without asking questions, then unlocks the front door. “Alarm code is temporary. Change it. Owners said you can use everything except the locked cabinet in the basement.”
“What’s in it?”
“Wine.”
I stop in the foyer. “That’s hostile.”
“Agreed.”
The house has original hardwood, wide baseboards, and a narrow arch between the living and dining rooms. Claudia kept the furnishings simple. The sofa is cream, which I would object to if I had children or pets, but it’s pretty against the dark floor.
I walk through the first floor while Mara explains the practical things. The kitchen was renovated sometime in the last ten years. A pantry door near the refrigerator opens into a narrow passage that connects to the back hall and a small service stair.
I grin when I see it. “I love this.”
“You would.” Mara opens a shallow closet near the stairs. “People also enjoy closets larger than coffins.”
I inspect it. “This is offensive.”
“I’ll alert the owners.”
Upstairs are two bedrooms, a small office, and a bathroom with an old claw-foot tub. The place isn’t perfect. The floors slope slightly near the back stairs, and one window sticks when I try it.
It’s also mine for the next six weeks if I want it.
“I want it.”
Mara studies me. “You haven’t asked the price.”
“I can afford it.”
“That’s very Dalen of you.”
I look at her.
She winces. “Sorry again.”
“You’re terrible at this.”
“I know.” She takes my hand and squeezes once. “I can have the agreement emailed within an hour.”
“Do it.”
By one, I’ve checked out of the hotel and moved two suitcases, my laptop, three project folders, and an embarrassing quantity of toiletries into the house. I change the alarm code before I unpack.
I also freeze my credit. The process takes longer than it should because every company wants me to prove I’m me while I’m trying to explain that someone else has apparently been doing a convincing impression.
At two-thirty, I finally eat half a sandwich standing at the kitchen counter.
My phone rings while I’m putting the other half in the refrigerator. It’s Meg again. I consider letting it go to voicemail, then answer. “Hey.”
“Did you move?”
“Yes.”
She sounds relieved for me. “I know a hotel room must have been killing your sensibilities. Do you like it?”
I look around the kitchen. “I do.”
“Good. I was worried you’d end up in one of those corporate apartments with gray laminate floors.”
I shudder. “That would’ve been the final trauma.”
Meg laughs, and I close the refrigerator.
“You don’t have to keep checking on me.”
“I know.”
“You’re doing it anyway.”
“Yes.” She’s unapologetic, and I smile despite myself.
Meg waits a beat before asking about the credit problem. “Did you ever figure out the first notice?”
“What first notice?”
“The one you got before all this started.” She continues before I can answer. “You mentioned some weird credit thing a few weeks ago. I told you it was probably spam.”
I straighten.
I remember the email from Northstar, opening it at my desk while Meg was sitting across from me eating the lunch she’d brought from work. I remember saying something about not recognizing the company.
I don’t remember much beyond that. “What did I tell you?”
“About the notice?” Meg takes a second before answering. “You said you got some email about money you owed and didn’t recognize it.”
“Did I tell you the company name?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Did I tell you how much?”
“No.” Her answer comes quickly. “Not until earlier this morning.” Her voice changes. “Don’t you remember?”
Heat rushes into my face. I don’t care about the email anymore. “Seriously?”
“What?”
“You’re asking me if I remember?”
Meg immediately starts to backpedal. “Julie, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“How did you mean it?” I push away from the counter and start across the kitchen. “Because I’ve had two weeks of people asking me whether I’m sure I locked a door, saw a text, heard something, and if I remember making phone calls I didn’t make.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
My eyes burn. “You helped Dalen get there.”
Meg takes a breath. “I said I’m sorry for that.”
“And now you’re doing it again.”
She sounds defensive. “I asked one question.”
“One question is enough today.”
“Julie, please.” She sounds miserable again. “I wasn’t questioning your memory. I was trying to remember what you told me.”
Maybe I’m overreacting, but I’m one exposed nerve today. “Then ask what I told you. Don’t ask me whether I remember.”
“I shouldn’t have said it that way.”
I close my eyes and rub my forehead. My anger is bigger than this conversation, and I know that. Dalen owns most of it. Meg owns some. The rest belongs to every impossible thing that’s happened in my life since I woke up screaming beside my husband.
I still don’t want to hear the question again. “I need to go.”
Meg starts to say my name, but I end the call.
For a few seconds, I stand in the rental’s kitchen staring at my phone.
Meg calls back, but I decline it.
A text follows: I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean it that way.
I read it and set my phone on the counter without answering. I don’t think Meg was trying to hurt me. That’s almost worse because apparently the people who love me can question what I remember now without realizing they’re doing it.
The phone vibrates again.
Can I bring you dinner later? Peace offering.
I don’t answer that one either.
I return to my sandwich, take one bite, and discover I’ve lost my appetite. There are still fraud reports to file, documents to request, and two suitcases waiting upstairs.
I can deal with Meg tomorrow. Tonight, I want one locked door between me and everybody else. She doesn’t know the address, and for now, I’m keeping it that way.