34. Cassie #2
I don’t recall a Paula Walters, but I wait until we’re out of earshot to ask. “Another relative?”
“The private chef.”
“Ah, of course. Mine is Helga. She’s shy. That’s why you haven’t met her.”
Tor smiles at my joke, but he’s too busy navigating the labyrinth of this fucking house to respond.
This time, we go around the other side of the stairs. We pass a room full of books on the right, and I stop, letting Tor tug my wrist. “Wait, I like that one,” I tell him. “Is that a library? Do you have a library?”
“It’s my dad’s study.”
“Oh.”
Of course Carson Walters gets the room with all the pretty books.
“He doesn’t like guests in there without him, but maybe I’ll show it to you later,” Tor says. “He has some first editions you’d probably enjoy perusing.”
My eyes widen. “I could never touch a first edition, but I’d like to look. What’s his favorite one?”
“Probably one of the Hemingways.”
“One of?” I demand. “As in, he has multiple?”
Tor shrugs. “Personally, I think the guy’s overrated.”
I think Carson Walters is overrated and he should give me his first editions so they have a loving home, but I don’t say that because it’s not nice.
I’m distracted by the room full of books, so I don’t realize the mouth to hell has opened up in front of us until Tor leads me through an archway and into a room unlike all the others—a room with people in it.
My heart skids to a forceful stop, the sight of Tessa coming into view first. She’s sitting on the end of a brown leather couch, her gaze on her phone.
Like me, she’s wearing a pretty dress, but hers is turquoise and fitted with a slim black belt, and her heels are much taller.
Her long dark hair is glossy and falls in a waterfall over her shoulder.
The rest of the couch is empty, so I follow Tor’s gaze to the brown leather chair in front of him.
A lady is sitting on the arm. Her dress is maroon, her heels shiny patent-leather black with red soles like my sandals have, and her dark hair falls just above her shoulders.
She’s wearing pearls and red lipstick, her fingernails painted to match her dress.
Myra Walters.
Behind her, a man stands looking out the window, his back to us. I realize he has a view of the driveway from here and probably watched us arrive.
My heart sinks as he turns, and the cool blue eyes of Carson Walters meet mine.
Immediately, I have a flashback to the last time I faced them in court. Those same blue eyes, that same austere face. He’s not smiling now, but on that day, Carson’s mouth tugged up as Myra hugged her son. They were celebrating their victory—and my defeat.
That was one of the most humiliating days of my life, and the only good thing about it was knowing I would never have to be in a room with all these people ever again.
Yet here I am.
Well, minus one of them.
My legs feel so wobbly that I think they might give out on me.
This feels terrible.
I feel like chum in a den of sharks.
I can’t believe I let Tor talk me into this.
And then Myra speaks. “Oh, your dress is so lovely.”
My breath catches as Myra stands, a warm smile on her pretty face as she looks me over.
“Oh, the lace. I love this.”
I’m startled when she walks over and pets the material along my bodice, but I stay frozen like a bear is approaching me and I don’t want to be eaten by it.
“Mom, don’t pet her,” Tor says.
“That’s his job,” Tessa says dryly from her spot on the couch.
My cheeks flush. I feel like an exhibit in a museum—if exhibits could be nauseous—but once my mind catches up, I realize Myra is being very welcoming. I should smile.
I try, but it feels like a grimace. I might have missed my target.
Tor’s hand finds my waist, and he tugs me away from his mom toward a loveseat opposite the couch where no one is sitting. On the way there, I look back at Tor’s father and find his gaze raking over me, inventorying my dress, my shoes, every aspect of my appearance.
The glance feels like an evaluation, but I must pass muster because he looks away without commenting.
Tor drops onto the loveseat and spreads out, draping an arm over the back so that when I take my seat next to him, his arm is already around me.
Myra smiles back at her husband. The glint in her eye makes me think she must really love him. “Honey, isn’t her dress pretty?”
“Yes,” he murmurs, though he manages to sound unimpressed while agreeing with his wife’s compliment. His gaze finds me again, and he says with a certain flatness, “Lovely.”
Myra ignores the trace of sarcasm if she hears it, nodding and looking over at us as if he gave a rave review.
I realize immediately that she’s trying too hard. Tor must have told her to be nice to me. He said he would, but from my own experience with my mother, I never expected she’d listen so well.
“I hope you’re hungry,” Myra says. “We have a delicious meal being prepared. We’ll head to the dining room in just a minute. Would anyone like a pre-dinner drink?”
My eyebrows rise as she goes to a sideboard and fetches a crystal glass like the one her husband is already holding, then fills it with ice.
Apparently, Stepford night is tonight in the Walters household.
Clearing my throat, I finally say, “I’m okay, thank you.”
As soon as the words are out, I realize I’m parched, but surely, there will be water at the dinner table. Myra fixes a drink anyway, then brings it over to Tor. He didn’t say he wanted anything, but I guess she knows what he likes. He is her son, after all.
“Thanks,” Tor says, then takes a sip.
Maybe he can feel my thirst—or the heat from my body—because as soon as he takes a sip, he passes the glass to me.
“Thank you,” I whisper, then take a tiny sip.
I’m unprepared for the bite of alcohol and nearly choke as it burns down my throat, then I regret everything because now they’re all looking at me.
“Sorry,” I say awkwardly, passing the cup back to Tor. “I thought it was water.”
“I can’t handle that stuff either,” Myra says congenially. “It’s much too strong.”
I never thought so when we were in court together, but looking at her in this setting, in that dress, with that lipstick and that hairstyle, I realize Myra reminds me of Snow White.
As soon as that clicks, her happy hostess act feels a little less forced.
She might be a Disney princess, but she must have been drugged and kidnapped by the crafty villain of her story, because Carson Walters is most assuredly not a prince.
She looks at him like he is one, though.
Tor’s words about his dad being her full-time job resurface, and even though I’ve only seen them in this setting for a few minutes, I think I finally get what he meant.
I had no frame of reference for it. I’ve never seen real people living in roles like these, but I do feel a little like this house exists in a different world from the one that starts at the other end of Evergreen Lane.