Chapter Eight—Julie #2
“No.” Meg shakes her head quickly. “I didn’t know he actually went.”
“Actually?”
She freezes and closes her eyes. “I suggested he talk to somebody.”
The anger comes back so fast I grip the edge of the table. “You what?”
“I didn’t tell him to have you committed.” Her voice rises, and the couple at the next table looks over.
I lower mine. “Neither did I.”
Meg leans toward me. “I told him to ask someone whether sleep deprivation could cause this stuff. That’s it.”
“You told my husband to talk to a doctor about me without telling me?” My voice shakes with anger.
“I was scared,” she says sharply.
“So was I.”
“I know.”
“You keep saying that.” I push my soup away. “You don’t get to decide what happens to me because you’re scared.”
Meg’s chin trembles, but I don’t stop. “You don’t get to call my husband and tell him things about Mom because you think you understand what they mean. You were a kid. I was there.”
“So was I.”
“You were little.”
Her lower lip trembles. “I remember enough.”
“Then you should remember who took care of you.” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, and I instantly regret them.
She physically recoils and looks down at her plate. “Yeah, I remember.”
“Meg.”
“You always make sure I remember.”
I stare at her. “What does that mean?”
She shakes her head and reaches for her tea. “Nothing.”
“No. You said it.”
“I shouldn’t have.” She drinks and puts the glass down too hard. “Forget it.”
I lean back, studying her. Meg looks tired. There are faint shadows beneath her eyes, and her blouse is wrinkled near one cuff. Her work badge has twisted backward on the clip. “Are you okay?”
She laughs without humor. “You’re asking me that now?”
“Yes.”
She picks at the edge of her sandwich. “Work sucks. My rent went up, and my ex is engaged to someone who looks like she was manufactured in a yoga studio. I’m fine.”
I reach across the table and turn her badge around so the photograph faces out.
She looks at my hand.
“You could’ve called me,” I say.
“I did call you.”
“About you.”
Meg’s eyes fill again.
I squeeze her wrist before letting go. “You can worry about me. You can tell me you’re worried. You can’t go around me.”
She sniffles. “I thought you’d get mad. Angry,” she hastily corrects.
“I am.”
“That really supports my decision.”
A reluctant laugh escapes me.
Meg smiles weakly.
I hate that she can still make me laugh when I want to throttle her.
She reaches across the table and takes my hand. “I’m sorry.”
I look at our joined hands.
“I’m serious,” she says. “I should’ve talked to you. I shouldn’t have brought Mom into it with Dalen.”
“What about the call?”
Her fingers tighten around mine. “I don’t know. It came from your number. I answered, and you were there.”
“What did I say?”
Meg repeats what she told Dalen. I asked about the picture. She said she hadn’t found it. I said I knew because we’d already talked. Then I asked why she’d called me.
I listen carefully. “What did I sound like?”
“Tired or spacy.” She rubs her thumb over my knuckles. “I thought maybe you’d taken something to sleep.”
“I didn’t.”
“I know that now.”
I pull my hand back. “Do you still think something’s wrong with me?”
Meg’s face pinches. “I think you’re scared and exhausted. A bunch of weird things have happened, and nobody knows why.”
That’s a careful answer.
I would probably give the same one. I pick up my spoon again. “No more Dalen.”
“What?”
“You don’t discuss me with him behind my back.”
Meg nods immediately. “Okay.”
“If you’re worried, you call me.”
“I will.” She picks up half her sandwich.
I point my spoon at her. “I’m serious.”
“I know.” She takes a bite, then talks around it. “You’re terrifying.”
“Good.”
Meg swallows and gives me a small smile. “You enjoy it.”
I roll my eyes, but some of the knot in my stomach loosens. By the time we leave, I still don’t have an explanation for the call, but I have my sister back where she belongs.
She no longer seems to think I’m losing it. If she does, she’s hiding it well. I’d rather she have no doubts, but keeping them to herself is the best scenario right now.
DALEN DOESN’T ASK ABOUT lunch. I come home a little after six and find him in his office on a call. He sees me pass the doorway and lifts one finger.
I keep walking.
Two minutes later, he comes into the kitchen while I’m taking leftover pasta from the refrigerator.
“How was your day?” he asks.
I look at him over the refrigerator door.
Dalen raises both hands. “That’s all I’m asking.”
“Long.” I close the door with my hip and set the container on the counter. “Yours?”
“Also long.” He takes two plates from the cabinet.
We move around each other carefully. He doesn’t ask about Meg, and I don’t volunteer anything. It’s strange how much effort silence can take.
Dalen opens the silverware drawer. “Do you want wine?”
“Water.” I peel the lid from the pasta.
He fills two glasses.
I put the container in the microwave and watch it rotate while Dalen gets napkins. The kitchen still looks the same as it did yesterday. Same marble. Same stools. Same knife block. The chef’s knife is in it.
I look away.
Dalen notices and winces, but doesn’t say anything. I appreciate that almost as much as I resent needing him to understand.
We eat at the island. He tells me Calla threatened to resign because he scheduled three meetings over lunch. I tell him Laurent wants hazard pay for dealing with the Hollman chairs.
Dalen glances at my plate. “Are they still white?”
“Brilliantly so. They arrive Thursday.”
“With three children?” He sounds skeptical.
I nod. “I’m documenting my objections for the inevitable lawsuit.”
His mouth curves. “Smart.”
The conversation gets easier after that, but we don’t touch. That’s what I notice most.
Usually, Dalen’s hand ends up on my knee when we sit beside each other. I lean into his shoulder while we watch something after dinner. He kisses the back of my neck when I’m standing at the sink.
Tonight, we orbit.
At eight-thirty, Dalen takes a call in his office, and I go upstairs. I spend twenty minutes answering emails from bed before remembering I left the Hollman fabric folder in my bag downstairs. I need it for a morning meeting, and if I don’t put it beside my laptop now, I’ll forget it.
I leave my phone charging on the nightstand and head downstairs.
Dalen’s office door is closed. His voice carries faintly through it.
The kitchen is dark except for the light over the stove. I cross to the mudroom and find my bag on the bench.
The folder isn’t inside.
I remember taking it out in the kitchen when I got home because Laurent had shoved two additional samples into it.
I turn back as something bumps downstairs. I stop. The sound came from somewhere beyond the kitchen.
I listen but hear nothing. “Dalen?”
His office is on the other side of the house. The door is still closed.
I walk toward the kitchen, and a faint scrape comes from the family room.
My skin prickles. “Dalen?”
No answer.
I take another step and look through the wide opening into the family room, which is dark. The lamp beside the sofa is off. Moonlight reaches through the patio doors, enough to outline the furniture.
Something moves near the hallway. I jerk backward.
My pulse accelerates hard enough to hurt. “Dalen!”
His office door opens somewhere behind me.
At the same instant, the shape near the hallway disappears.
Dalen comes running into the kitchen. “What happened?”
“Someone’s here.” I point toward the family room. “I saw someone.”
He moves in front of me immediately. “Go upstairs.”
“I saw them by the hall.”
Dalen pulls out his phone. “Upstairs, Julie.”
I’m already backing toward the stairs when he turns on every light between the kitchen and family room.
I run.
The bedroom door locks behind me with a click that sounds too small. I grab my phone from the nightstand and call Dalen.
He answers immediately. “I’m checking downstairs.”
“Don’t.” My hand shakes so badly I almost drop the phone. “Call the police.”
“I already did.” His breathing is heavy through the speaker. “Stay in the bedroom. Lock the bathroom door too if you hear anything upstairs.”
I move toward the bathroom, then stop because I don’t want to trap myself in a room with one exit. “Dalen, come upstairs.”
“I will.”
Something crashes downstairs, and I scream. Dalen swears, and the call goes dead.
I stare at the phone. “Dalen?”
Nothing.
I call back, but he doesn’t answer. I call again, and it goes straight to voicemail.
My legs start shaking as I move to the bedroom door and press my ear against it.
Silence, followed by footsteps on the stairs. I back away, remember the gun.
My gaze snaps toward Dalen’s nightstand. The secured drawer requires his fingerprint. I almost laugh because this is the worst possible moment to learn our home security has a flaw.
The footsteps continue, so I grab the heavy ceramic lamp from my nightstand with both hands. It feels inadequate.
“Julie?” It’s Dalen.
My knees nearly buckle as I set the lamp down badly enough that it knocks against the nightstand.
“It’s me,” he calls through the door.
I unlock it.
Dalen comes inside and closes it behind him. “Police are two minutes out.”
“What crashed?”
“A lamp in the family room.”
I stare at him. “How?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t knock it over?”
“No.” He reaches for me and stops before touching me. “Did you see the person?”
“A shape.”
“Where?”
“By the hallway.” I point uselessly toward the floor. “Someone moved.”
Dalen looks toward the bedroom door.
I know that look now. My fear turns instantly into anger. “Don’t.”
His gaze comes back to me. “I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re thinking.”
“I’m trying to figure out where they could’ve gone.”
“Out.”
“The alarm didn’t go off.”
I flinch.
Dalen sees it. “I didn’t mean it like that.” He drags a hand through his hair. “I’m telling you what I know.”
“And I’m telling you what I saw.”
He nods. “Okay.”
The word is too careful.
Sirens reach us before I can answer. The next half-hour becomes lights, questions, and strangers walking through our house.