Chapter Eleven—Julie
BY MONDAY EVENING, I’ve discovered the Westover house has three excellent qualities and one deeply offensive flaw. The excellent qualities are the original floors, the service staircase, and the little built-in cabinet in the dining room that somebody had the sense not to paint white.
The flaw is the kitchen faucet. I stand at the sink and push the handle all the way toward hot. The water remains lukewarm. “Unacceptable.”
I’ve been home for twenty minutes after spending most of the day pretending my personal life isn’t imploding.
Work helped. Patricia’s contractor has almost finished the island relocation, Laurent found a wallpaper sample that solved a problem in the Hollman powder room that isn’t white, and nobody asked me if I remember doing something I know I didn’t do.
A successful Monday. My phone has been mostly quiet too. Dalen sent one message at nine this morning.
I hope your day goes okay. You don’t need to answer.
I didn’t.
Meg sent three.
I’m sorry.
Two hours later:
Still sorry.
Then, shortly before four:
I’m resisting the urge to send a fruit basket because you hate fruit baskets. Please appreciate my growth.
That one almost got me.
I put my phone on the counter and inspect beneath the sink. The water heater isn’t down there obviously, but irritation has made me optimistic about plumbing. I find cleaning supplies, dishwasher tablets, and a roll of trash bags.
The doorbell rings. I straighten too quickly and hit my shoulder on the cabinet. “Ow.”
Nobody is supposed to know I’m here.
I grab my phone from the counter and open the app Mara had me install yesterday for the existing security system in the house. The porch camera shows Meg standing outside with two white takeout bags looped over one wrist and a bottle of wine tucked against her chest.
For several seconds, I stare at the screen. Then I call her.
Meg answers while I can still see her on the porch. “Before you yell at me, I brought dumplings.”
That doesn’t sway me. “How do you know where I live?”
She turns toward the camera as if she knows I’m watching. “Mara.”
I close my eyes.
“Please don’t be mad at her,” Meg says quickly. “I guessed you’d call her because you’ve used her for client relocations approximately nine thousand times. I told her you weren’t answering me, and I was worried after everything that happened.”
I scowl. “Mara gave you my address?”
“I might have sounded extremely pathetic.”
“You didn’t have to work very hard.”
Meg presses a hand to her chest on the camera. “That’s cruel. I also brought cabernet.”
I should send her home. I was furious with her yesterday. I’m still angry about Dalen, and I’m still angry that she asked whether I remembered something after helping him question me in the first place.
She’s also my sister, standing on a porch with Chinese food and apology wine because this is how we’ve repaired fights since we were old enough to buy wine legally.
I walk toward the front door with a sigh.
Meg hears the lock through the phone. “Is that forgiveness?”
“It’s dumplings.”
“I’ll take it.”
I hang up and open the door.
Meg looks tired. Her hair is pulled into a ponytail, and she has on jeans with a loose blue sweater instead of the work clothes I usually see her wearing on weekdays. I glance down automatically. “Did you go home before coming here?”
Her eyes drop to her clothes. “Yeah. I wasn’t bringing peace-offering Chinese food in office clothes.”
Reasonable. “Gotta have the stretchy waist for dumplings and honey chicken, right?”
She gives me a tired smile and holds up the bottle. “Also, this was eighteen dollars, so I need you to calibrate your expectations.”
I step aside. “The owner probably has better wine locked in the basement.”
Meg walks in and stops. “Locked?”
I shrug. “Apparently, the owners don’t trust temporary tenants.”
“Smart people.”
I shut the door and turn the deadbolt.
Meg watches me do it, and her humor disappears. “How are you?”
“I was doing better before you asked that.”
She winces. “Right. Sorry.”
I take one of the bags from her. “I’m kidding. Mostly.”
That earns a tentative smile. She follows me toward the kitchen, looking around as she goes. “This is cute.”
I arch a brow. “Cute?”
“Expensively tasteful.”
“Better.”
She points toward the archway. “You hate that sofa.”
“I don’t hate it.”
“You’re staring at it like it insulted our mother.”
I snort/laugh. “Mom bought a purple recliner from a rent-to-own place. She had no taste in furniture.”
Meg laughs.
The sound gets me more than I expect. Yesterday, I hung up on her. Today, hearing her laugh in this kitchen makes me relax a little because I don’t want another person I love on the other side of a locked door.
I set the food on the island. “What did you get?”
“Everything you like.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
Meg starts unpacking containers. “Dumplings, crab rangoon, honey chicken, beef with broccoli, fried rice, and those noodles you claim you don’t like before eating half of mine.”
I put my hands on my hips. “I don’t eat half.”
“You absolutely do.”
I open a cabinet looking for plates. “You order too much.”
“For this exact reason.”
The plates are in the second cabinet I try. I hand her two, and she starts spooning food onto them while I find wineglasses.
For a few minutes, the evening is almost normal. That’s dangerous in its own way. Normal makes me want to forgive things before I’ve actually dealt with them.
I set two glasses beside the wine. “We need to talk about yesterday.”
Meg stops with the serving spoon halfway over my plate. “I know.”
“I believe you didn’t mean anything by what you said.”
Her shoulders drop slightly. “Thank you.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m over everything else.”
“I know that too.” She puts down the spoon and looks at me. “I screwed up with Dalen.”
“Yes.”
She blinks rapidly. “I thought I was helping.”
“You told my husband things about our mother that made him wonder if I was mentally ill.”
Meg’s mouth tightens. “I was scared.”
“So was I.”
“I see that now.”
I lean against the island. “You should’ve talked to me.”
She nods contritely. “I should have.”
“You don’t get to decide I’m too fragile to be included in conversations about me.”
Meg nods. “You’re right.”
The lack of argument steals some of my momentum. I fold my arms. “I had more prepared.”
That gets a weak laugh from her. “I can disagree with something if it’ll help.”
“Give me a minute.”
Meg smiles, then reaches for the wine. “Can we eat while you think of another grievance?”
“I have plenty.”
“Great. I brought carbs.”
I get the corkscrew from the drawer after a bit of searching and hand it over. Meg peels the foil from the bottle while I carry the plates to the small breakfast table near the windows.
“Did you get anywhere with the credit thing?” she asks.
“Some. Both accounts are frozen while I dispute them.”
Meg fits the corkscrew over the bottle. “Did they tell you who opened them?”
“No. Northstar is sending the application documents.”
“When?”
“Hopefully tomorrow.”
The cork starts upward with a soft squeak. Meg looks toward me. “Are you still going to the police?”
“Yes.”
Her hand stops on the corkscrew for a second before she resumes twisting. “That’s the sensible option.”
I pull out a chair. “I’m also going to call an attorney.”
“Dalen’s?”
“No.”
Meg glances up.
“I have my own attorney.”
“I know. I just thought Dalen would have somebody who handles fraud.”
I shrug. “He probably has six somebodies who handle fraud.”
Meg smiles faintly. “Probably.”
“I don’t want him fixing this for me.”
“I understand.” She pulls the cork free.
My phone vibrates on the table. I reach for it while Meg turns toward the counter for the glasses.
It’s Dalen. For one instant, I think he’s broken his promise about giving me space. Then I read the message:
Julie, call me now. Don’t trust Meg. Do NOT let her into the house.
My fingers tighten around the phone as Meg turns back toward me with the open bottle of wine in her hand.