Chapter Twenty-Four
TWENTY-FOUR
Once inside the house, I find Miguel and Rachel at the kitchen island, eating lunch and chatting. From the scent of basil and olive oil that hangs in the air, I’m guessing that Miguel has made Rachel’s favorite—linguine with pesto.
“Hi, guys,” I say, unleashing the dog. Kugel’s nails click across the hardwood floor as he heads over to his water bowl and starts slurping.
Miguel looks up, his dark eyes warm but questioning. A faint line appears between his brows—the one that always forms when he’s concerned but trying not to show it. “How long have you guys been gone?” he asks. “I was starting to wonder where you were.”
“We were at Yumi’s.” The lie—or at least the omission—comes out more easily than I would like.
I don’t want to talk about the house and the blood on the carpet in front of Rachel.
My daughter’s face is bright and relaxed, the camping trip having scrubbed away the usual teenage angst that often clouds her features.
I pass by her, stooping to give her a kiss on the back of her head, breathing in the scent of her coconut shampoo.
Before pulling away, I squeeze her shoulder gently, a quiet reassurance to myself that she’s really here, safe and whole.
Then I grab a bowl from the drawer and help myself to the pasta.
“What about you?” I ask. “I thought you went into the office today?”
“I did.” Miguel’s voice has that carefully casual tone he uses when he’s orchestrated something he thinks will make me happy. “But I thought I’d take the rest of the day off and hang out with my favorite daughter.”
Rachel rolls her eyes at the tired joke, but the smile tugging at her lips hints at the joy of being the center of his attention. “We’re going to play tennis later,” she says, twirling her fork in her pasta, a gesture so reminiscent of her childhood self that my heart contracts.
“Sounds like fun.” And I mean it, even if a tiny part of me wishes they had made a plan that included me. The exclusion stings in a way that feels childish, but real nonetheless. “I should probably rest anyway,” I say, settling onto the stool across from them.
“Why?” Rachel asks. Her eyes narrow slightly. She’s always been perceptive, able to sense when something’s off. “What’s going on?”
Neither Miguel nor I answer immediately. The silence stretches a few moments until Rachel breaks it. “What?” Her voice rises slightly. “Just tell me. Are you sick, Mom?” Fear flickers across her face, making her look younger than her eighteen years.
“No, honey, I’m fine.”
“Please don’t lie to me. When Aida’s mom got cancer, they didn’t tell her for months. I’m an adult now. You need to tell me.” She sits up straighter, as if bracing herself for bad news.
“Your mom’s fine,” Miguel says, reaching his hand across the island to cover mine briefly. “But she had an accident while you were away.”
“Like a car accident?” Rachel’s eyes widen.
“No, I fell and hit my head. And got a concussion.” I touch the tender spot on my scalp instinctively. “I am fine, but I do need to take it easy for a week or two.”
Rachel jumps from her chair, the wooden legs scraping loudly against the floor.
She rushes to me, her movements quick and urgent.
“Mom, you have to be careful.” She throws her arms around me, her embrace fierce and protective.
“I don’t want you getting hurt.” Her voice cracks slightly on the last word.
As we hug each other, I bask in her warmth and concern, closing my eyes to savor the moment.
I would never have predicted this two years ago when Rachel wouldn’t even allow me to touch her, when the gulf between us seemed unbridgeable.
I want it to last forever. Even though I am dying to ask her about the bracelet and whether it really was her that Yumi saw with Van that night, I don’t.
She pulls away, her eyes searching mine with an intensity that makes my heart hurt. “Promise you’ll be careful?”
“I promise.” I smile, brushing a strand of hair from her face, my fingertips lingering on her cheek.
Miguel’s phone buzzes and he pulls it out, frowning as he reads what’s on the screen. “It’s our general counsel. I have to shoot off one email before I can go.”
After he leaves the kitchen, Rachel sits with me as I eat my lunch, her animated gestures punctuating her stories as she fills me in on some of the funnier moments of the camping trip, like realizing they hadn’t packed powdered milk and had to take their coffee black for a week.
Her laughter fills the kitchen, bright and unguarded.
“So, anything interesting happen while I was gone?” she asks, twisting a long strand of hair around her finger. “Did you go to Elo?se’s graduation party?”
“Yep, I stopped by.” I press my lips together in a tight smile, trying to stop myself from asking about the bracelet. What I know, what I learned this morning, sits uncomfortably on me like a weighted blanket.
“What?” Her smile falters. “Why are you making that face? Was it extra?”
“I’m not making a face.” I busy myself with my pasta, stabbing at a cherry tomato harder than necessary.
“Please.” She leans forward, her elbows on the counter. “You are so bad at hiding your feelings. Were you going to say something bad about Elo?se?” A defensive edge creeps into her voice, the old loyalty still there despite everything.
“No, I wasn’t. I swear.” I have said enough bad things about the Allard kids for a lifetime.
“Just tell me. You’re the one who says we can tell each other anything.”
My fork clinks against the bowl as I set it down.
“It’s just, you know how I do the yard sale every year, right?
Well, I found a bracelet in the bottom of a bag you were donating to Goodwill, and I put it up for sale on the Facebook page.
Then a woman in the neighborhood contacted me and told me it was stolen.
” The words tumble out faster than I intended.
Rachel’s mouth falls open and she stares at me wide-eyed, all color draining from her face.
“Rachel?” I prompt gently, my stomach knotting with apprehension.
“Why did you go through the donation bag?”
“Honey, that’s not the point. Someone has been burglarizing houses in the neighborhood.
That is a very big deal. If this bracelet is stolen, and you had something to do with it, I need to know.
It’s irrelevant that I found it in a Goodwill bag.
” I gird myself for more indignation that I’ve invaded her privacy, that I don’t understand.
But instead she seems to crumple before me, her eyes welling with tears, her shoulders slumping as if under a sudden weight.
The transformation is startling—from confident young woman to vulnerable child in an instant.
“Honey, what is it? Did you take that bracelet?” I resist the urge to reach for her, sensing she needs space.
She jerks her head back. “What? No. How can you think that?”
“You can tell me the truth. I won’t be angry.”
“I said no. I would never.”
“Honey, someone told me they saw you coming from the house that it was stolen from. Someone I trust.”
“Well, they’re lying.” Her voice is tight, indignant.
“Are they?”
“You don’t believe me? When did this supposedly happen?”
“Early fall, junior year.”
“When?” She crosses her arms.
I sigh and open my phone. I recall people posting on the Facebook group when that rash of break-ins was happening, so I open the app to look for the posts. It takes a while, but I finally find it. Holly Stone herself had posted about her home being burgled, asking for help. I tell Rachel the date.
She goes to her own phone and begins typing. “We weren’t here. That was parents’ weekend at UVA.” She holds her phone out to me. On it is a picture of the four of us, Miguel and I on either side of Zach and Rachel, on the quad in Charlottesville. I take the phone.
“You’re right,” I say softly. Then I double-check the dates on my own phone. “We weren’t even in town.”
“I told you. Just because some kids in this neighborhood are doing stuff like this, you think I do too.”
“So did you know about the break-ins?”
A stunned look crosses her face before her features harden in anger. “That’s not the point. The point is you accused me.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I got my facts wrong.”
She plucks her phone from me and slips it into her back pocket. “Doesn’t sound like you’re the one who got them wrong.” Her tone shimmers with defiance. “Sounds like someone lied to you. So, who told you that I was breaking into houses anyway?”
Yumi. My best friend. “No one you know,” I say. “Just a neighborhood gossip.”
Rachel snorts. “Yeah, well, now you know that you can’t trust anything she says.”