10
Westport, Connecticut
I’m shaking as I tear through every drawer, the closet, every shelf in search of anything that shouldn’t be here. Relentless, overwhelming fear pounds inside me. I can’t seem to pull myself together. It’s as if my emotions have taken over and I am no longer in control of anything.
The necklace. Touching it. Remembering the words.
Friends forever.
I have thought of that moment a million times. The images . . . the words . . . they fire in my brain, flash in my eyes. I cannot make them stop.
When I have gone through every possible nook and cranny, I stand in the middle of my room and turn around slowly, my heart thudding against my ribs. I close my eyes and tell myself over and over that I am okay. That I shouldn’t be surprised.
I have always known how this could go, when and if it happened.
It’s happening.
Anxiety twists like a knife in my chest. Pull it together. There are things that need to be done. I have to be ready, prepared . . . able.
However many times I tell myself this, I cannot make the fear and dread stop rising inside me like a swollen river with no place to go except over its banks. It’s like the worst panic attack imaginable, and I cannot regain control of my feelings. I cannot pull myself together.
Breathe slowly. Deep. Hold it. Release. Over and over I do this to no avail.
Finally, I gather my wits well enough to separate the facts from the rampage of fear funneling through me. There are only two potential ways the necklace ended up in my bedside table. Either an intruder brought it into the house, which is highly unlikely, or . . .
I steady myself a little more. Or Acacia did. She was in my room. She unpacked my things.
A new stream of uncertainty trickles through me.
I lower onto the end of the bed and review the possibilities.
First, I have no actual proof that Acacia is working against me.
She came into our lives at a time when I was in no position to make decisions or even aware of those being made, for that matter.
But there are little things that nudge at me.
Like the way I sometimes catch her watching me.
The comments she has made from time to time that reveal things she shouldn’t know.
Things we have never discussed. Or the idea that her emotions never seem to show other than in practiced smiles and fake surprise.
Not to mention the glaring fact that she has no past that the PI can find—never a good sign.
Still, I have told myself on occasion that I’m imagining things.
That I’m overly suspect of her simply because I don’t know her.
And that she was with Eleanor when she died.
Whatever it is, I need that damned private investigator to get the job done and find out her deal. How hard could it be? If I hadn’t been battered like a broken Barbie doll in the hands of a hyper toddler, I would have done it myself.
Under the circumstances, I can either wake her up and demand an answer about the necklace—no doubt she will lie—or I can search the entire house. Ensure there is nothing else here that shouldn’t be and then have a chat with her in the morning.
Wait . . . wait. Rick helped her bring the luggage upstairs. What if he put the necklace there?
A new wave of adrenaline floods me, and I turn all the way around again, making my head spin even worse. I’ve made a total mess of the room. I stand as still as possible and close my eyes. More deep breathing.
What is happening to me?
Yes, this is an unnerving discovery. Yes, there is reason to be worried, afraid even.
But now it’s time to steady myself and do what must be done.
Except for some reason I can’t. Okay. Think.
This must be a panic attack. I’ve had my share in the distant past. But never quite like this, and certainly not any time recently.
First of all, I tell myself: It can’t be the same necklace. It could not have been here this whole time. I am certain it was not in this damned drawer before today. No way.
Surely Acacia would have noticed if Rick lingered in my room. But would she have told me?
Confusion screws through my thoughts. The urgency, the desperation is over the top. Just stop. I’ve already concluded the next step to take. Search the house. Make sure there are no other surprises. Moving about might help wear off all this excess adrenaline.
More deep breaths. I can do this.
First I steal into Olivia’s room and ensure she hasn’t roused.
Just looking at her calms me a little. Methodically, I examine her space.
Moving clothes and toys. I put my hands on every single item in the room, inspect it, and put it back in place.
Leaving a jumbled mess would upset her. I can’t allow my hysteria or paranoia or whatever the hell it is to become hers.
I also will have to sort my room before anyone sees it. I lost it completely in there.
My body aches with every bend and reach, reminding me that I am sorely limited. I ignore the pain and stiffness and carry on.
Then I move to the hall bath. Nothing goes uninspected. I’m like a crazed Dorothy desperate to find the key to getting back to Kansas. I shiver at the adrenaline firing through me. This is not normal. I have never felt this way before. Not even in the throes of my worst panic attack.
Again, I carefully put all things back as I found them, no matter that my mind spins like a top on steroids.
I can do this, I tell myself. I can work through the insanity racing through me. It feels exactly like that—as if I’ve lost all control of my emotions.
After a few more minutes, I call it done. I found nothing in the bathroom or in the hall out of place. Unless there is something in Acacia’s room, which I decide to skip so as not to disturb her. I do not want to deal with that in my current mental state. Otherwise, the upstairs is clear.
Still, I linger at the door to the bedroom Acacia uses. To this day, it looks like a teenage girl’s room. We never redecorated it. Phillip and I took the larger room, since it was the only bedroom with an en suite. We turned the guest room into Olivia’s.
I shake off the thoughts and move down to the first floor, one achy step at a time.
I’m beyond exhausted and frustrated now, but the adrenaline just keeps flowing.
I cannot slow it, and it’s inciting more of that fucking paranoia.
A hand on the wall or whatever piece of furniture I pass keeps me steady.
I consider the other option in this puzzle. If there was an intruder, how would they have gotten into my house when it remains locked with a security system armed? It’s basically impossible, but now that my mind has latched onto it, I can’t ignore the idea.
I could see someone picking their way through the woods to avoid the gate and the guard there. But how did he or she get into the house without the necessary code? That is the real sticking point.
Maybe I should call Helen. If anyone has been in this house, she had to be here. Or maybe she left the door unlocked and the alarm deactivated. No, I don’t think Helen would do such a thing.
Even if someone had somehow known a way to bypass the security system, the moment it was disarmed, I would have received a notification on my phone.
The intruder option simply doesn’t work unless the intrusion happened while Helen was in the house.
Or . . . it was someone with intimate knowledge of the house.
My heart thumps hard against my sternum.
It’s her. I know it. She is the only person who knows all that happened twenty years ago.
Fury tightens my lips. Everyone thought she disappeared just as I did, but they were wrong.
She didn’t. And now she’s back. I can feel it . . . feel her.
I should have known she would show up. Like a damned cockroach crawling away from nuclear annihilation after everyone else is dead. Let her come. Just like last time, I won’t go down without a fight.
When I reach the great room, I am in considerable pain. I grab my cell and call Helen. It’s late, and it takes several rings to prompt a response. Her voice is thick with sleep. Of course it is, it’s past midnight. I’m behaving like a lunatic.
“Helen, it’s Julia. I apologize for calling so late, but I need to know if anyone else has been in the house.” I scratch at my scalp. It feels like bugs crawling there. What is happening to me?
“Is everything all right, Dr. Belmont?”
I take a breath, choose my words carefully. “There were things out of place in my bedroom.” How do I explain that I found a necklace just like the one I had twenty years ago that should not be here?
“Oh no. No one goes into the house without me, just as you’ve always requested. I can’t imagine how this happened. Is something missing?”
I can’t answer this. I actually don’t even know what to say or if there is anything missing.
“Let’s just . . . not worry about what is or isn’t missing,” I insist, though I recognize how ridiculous it sounds.
“My question is, has anyone been in the house besides you and the usual maintenance people or the cleaning team?”
“Absolutely not. No one.”
I rub at my throbbing forehead. Maybe I’ve developed a brain aneurysm. Or I’m having a stroke. A breakdown of some sort. “Anyone new on the cleaning team, or is it the same two women as always?”
“The same, yes. You’ve got me worried now, Dr. Belmont. What exactly is going on?”
I struggle not to sigh. “You’ve seen the Times article, I’m sure.”
Everyone who knows me and plenty of others I’m confident have seen it. Millions of people, no doubt. It’s impossible that she doesn’t know.
“I did, yes. It’s a horrible travesty that such lies are printed as truth.”
I sink onto the sofa, hug my damaged body in an attempt to calm the pain and to slow the jittering. “It is. Anyway, whoever is responsible could be watching me. Watching the places I live. It’s very important that I know anyone who came onto the property for anything at all.”