Chapter Three - Ryder #2
“Just come back soon, okay? Joshua might be mad now, but it won’t take long for him to realize how badly he needs you. When the chance comes, tell me you’ll take it and come back.”
I look to the same door I just watched my friends go through. The door that leads to the life of luxury and power that I’ve lived for years. The door that leads to everything I’ve lost.
This is my home.
This is where I belong.
And I’ll do whatever it takes to get it back.
I pull Elli into a hug that she returns.
“Don’t worry, Elli. I’ll be back before you know it.”
The drive takes me over six hours, thanks to the traffic outside of LA and a pit stop.
It’s after five when I finally pull up to the light-wood and gray-stone house.
It’s a modest, two-story home with tall windows, some of which are missing the white curtains that would hide the piles of unpacked boxes from the street view.
Rachel and Lyla have been back for over a week, and it quickly became clear that their old home no longer felt safe after being kidnapped from there. So, the girls stayed in a nearby hotel while Rachel looked for a new house.
She found this twenty-five hundred square foot house with a large yard and a few neighbors within walking distance. The last house had been isolated—a factor that no longer appealed to the girls.
Rachel wanted to pack up the entire place by herself, but I convinced her to hire a moving company with the reminder that it would give her more time to spend with Lyla, and she relented.
Within the week, Rachel and Lyla left the hotel and moved into the new house, which I happily paid for.
Normally, Rachel fights me tooth and nail before accepting that kind of money, but even she had to admit that giving Lyla a home she feels safe in was worth it.
A few cars are parked along the street, but none are in the driveway, so I assume Rachel’s is tucked away in the garage.
I park my car, tossing the duffle of essentials over my shoulder, and grab the bouquet of flowers for Rachel and sour gummy worms for Lyla that I picked up on my way here.
I knock on the door, not wanting to put the flowers down to fish the key Rachel sent me out of my pocket.
After a few seconds of silence, I knock again, this time leaning in to listen for any signs of life from the other side.
I think I hear something resembling the padding of footsteps, but it’s too soft to be sure.
When we discussed my plans to move a few days ago, Rachel said she’d be home by five. So, why wouldn’t she answer the door?
My instincts kick in as I slide the flowers to the ground and take the key from my jeans. I also grab the handgun from the side pocket of my duffle and conceal it at my side in case Lyla is inside.
The eucalyptus and mint mixture of Rachel’s favorite candle hits my nostrils as soon as I push the door open and gingerly step inside. I pause at the door when muffled, overly expressive voices echo from somewhere in the house.
I leave my bag, the flowers, and the candy on the front porch and take slow steps down the hall.
I cast a glance to the right, where the dining room is full to the brim with boxes, then to the left, past the staircase, where a mudroom shows the first signs of personalization with Lyla’s purple raincoat hanging from the hooks against the wall.
I walk deeper into the house, and my shoulders relax when I realize the voices are undoubtedly a kid’s show. I turn the corner and peek into the living room, but the small child in front of the screen is not my daughter.
It’s a boy.
I’m about to call out to him when I notice movement to my left. My hand twitches to pull the gun out, but I refrain for the boy’s sake.
A woman—likely in her late twenties, like me—bustles around the master suite.
There’s classical music playing on a speaker in the room, blocking her ability to hear me as she unpacks a cardboard box, laying several sweaters in a neat pile on the bed.
She lifts the now-empty box and turns on her heels, finally putting me in her line of sight.
If she’d been the one with a gun, I’d be dead.
The woman nearly jumps out of her own skin. Racing to turn off the music like it’s personally wronged her, she places one hand over her heart and the other on her forehead.
“Oh my goodness, you scared the bejeezus out of me!” she says, her voice chipper and light like a bird. “You must be Ryder. Gosh, I completely lost track of time.”
She’s small, barely five feet tall, with short, coal-black hair shaved on the sides, leaving a flow of locks on top that curl over, falling to her ear.
She wears leggings and a thick crewneck stained with paint, the sleeves bunched at her elbow.
She has hazel eyes that are more green than brown, and the contrast against her dark hair is jarring in a way that, somehow, is both bland and intriguing.
She gets a hold of herself only a moment later, putting the box down and approaching me with an outstretched hand and a friendly smile. “I’m Meredith.” She points past us in the general direction of the child. “And that’s my son, Dominic.”
The name clicks, and I subtly tuck the gun into my waistband. Rachel and Lyla talk about Meredith and Dominic so often that I’m surprised I didn’t put the pieces together myself.
Soon after Lyla was born, Rachel took her to a daycare that Meredith worked at, and they’ve been friends ever since.
As far as I know, she’s also a single mother and now works at a local nursing home.
Since their work schedules often conflict, she and Rachel help each other with babysitting and housework—which is why I assume she’s here now.
I take her hand, which is so small it might as well be a child’s. “It’s nice to meet you,” I tell her, casting a look around the house. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I was expecting Rachel and Lyla to be here.”
She nods, brushing some of the dust from her leggings. “They’ll be home in a bit. I believe Lyla’s appointment went over, and then Rachel was going to grab dinner.”
“Appointment?”
“With the child psychologist?” Meredith eyes me curiously like this is common knowledge.
It isn’t to me.
We’ve known since the factory night that Lyla would need to talk to a professional, but considering the nature of the events and the fact that no one involved was on the right side of the law, she can’t talk to just anyone.
I’d planned to take on the job of finding a suitable candidate myself, but Elli was determined to do it.
She said it was the least she could do to help as if she was the cause of everything that happened and not a victim herself.
She vetted and personally interviewed several specialists before giving Rachel and me Dr. Danver’s number, an older woman willing to see our daughter off the books.
Why the hell didn’t Rachel tell me the appointment was today?
“Right,” I say like I’d only forgotten. “Would you happen to know which room is mine?”
“Of course! Let me throw my shoes on,” she says, disappearing to the mudroom.
I decide not to ask why she feels the need to wear shoes around the house and go get my stuff from where I left it at the door. I place the flowers and gummy worms on the kitchen counter at the same moment Meredith returns.
I’m about to head to the stairs when she strides right past me toward the living room and slides the back door open, revealing the spacious deck and pool.
A few yards out is a pool house, small by house standards but plenty of space for one room, which I’m sure is all it is.
It matches the house down to its wood and stony exterior, even having four pillars with an overhead cover across the front, creating a porch-like effect complete with a swing.
It’s an impressive building, no doubt the most luxurious pool house available, but the realization of its purpose is like a slap to the face.
Rachel is kicking me out without kicking me out.
This is a three-bedroom house, so there’s plenty of room for me inside, and yet, Rachel has me out here.
This is her loophole in our agreement.
Meredith hands me a key when we get to the door.
“I’ll be inside finishing up Rachel’s room. Let me know if you need anything!” she says with the enthusiasm of one of the cartoon characters her son watches inside.
I thank her and unlock the door as she returns to the house.
I first notice a kitchenette to my immediate right and a white couch with two matching chairs around a flat-screen TV to my left. Past what I suppose could be considered a living room is a white barn door that’s slid open, revealing the bedroom and the attached bathroom.
It’s not a bad setup by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s not under the same roof as my daughter.
I spend the next twenty minutes making trips from the pool house to the driveway using a brick path around the yard to give myself something to do until the girls get home.
When all my belongings lie around the pool house, I drop into one of the chairs across from the TV and check my phone.
No messages.
Rachel could’ve told me she’d be late, but she only told Meredith—and I already know why. Rachel isn’t a spiteful or manipulative person. This isn’t a mind game or a metaphorical middle finger.
It’s a simple message, given with pure intentions and unmovable certainty.
My house, my rules.