For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow Brooklyn
For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow
Brooklyn
I fold up the blanket and hold it to my chest for a moment.
Everything that’s happened over the past few days has been reactive.
From the second Trey told me we were going on a surprise trip, I’ve been on my back foot.
And then, of course, his leaving us at the airport, the accident, the poisoning, the hallucinating .
. . I’ve been stuck in reverse. I’ve gotten soft sitting at my desk in suburbia. No more.
It’s time to put it in gear.
I take the gray lockbox off the shelf and put in the combination. It is the password to our phones and all of our devices. It clicks on the first try, and the box opens. At least that hasn’t been changed.
Inside is a small handgun with two magazines.
It is already loaded, but I check it anyway, sliding the rail and seating the bullet, then replacing it in its holster.
Trey made sure I knew how to shoot, and I have a concealed carry permit.
I haven’t shot the weapon in years, but he keeps it oiled and clean just in case.
Am I thrilled to bring a gun into my home with two small children? Of course not. But the FBI agents have them, and now I need one, too.
I have the burner phone, but I need Trey’s phone from my bag to check the passcodes for the crypto wallets. Four said I’d know what it is. I can only assume it’s the same code as the rest of our lives.
Maybe that’s why Trey changed his phone code—in case someone did guess our passcodes, they wouldn’t be able to activate his phone to open the crypto wallet?
I enter through the back door, nose red and cold.
I kick off my shoes. I don’t want to track mud through the house.
I see Four has done the same. I need to figure out where I can stash the wallets; they’re bulky in my pocket, and the gun is jamming into the small of my back.
I’ll keep the phone on me, but the rest need to find a home, or they’ll be seen.
I’m not about to wander around with a gun in my waistband.
Margot sees me coming from the living room. She jerks her head toward the bedroom, eyes exaggeratedly wide. I detour down the side hall into my bedroom. Hopefully, she doesn’t want to scold me about something, but she looks . . . scared.
Neve is already in my room, lounging on the bed with Bohdi. Four follows us in, leaps up onto the comforter, making the dog yip in surprise.
Margot closes the door to the bedroom quietly, looking out into the hall. She’s being furtive, and I go on alert.
“Kids, do me a favor and turn on the TV. You can watch for a few minutes before dinner.”
Four gives me a look, then takes his sister’s hand and leads her into the snug off the bedroom that we use for movie night.
It’s a small space, an old dressing room we converted, with a sectional couch, a coffee table, and the big TV on the wall.
He turns on the television, and Neve asks for the Nutcracker ballet.
“Again?”
“Please,” she begs, and he turns it on, shooting me pointed looks. It’s like he’s gone from child to man in the blink of an eye.
Once they’re settled, I pitch my voice low. “What’s wrong?”
“Stephanie Miller, you know, the pink house on the corner? She was just over here bringing a lasagna. She asked if she could interview Eden to be her nanny.”
“Well, from what you’ve told me, she’s good with the kids and the house management, right? Maybe she would want to do it. It might get her out of here, at least.”
“No, listen. Stephanie said she thought she knew Eden from the kids’ school. That she’d seen her in the pickup line back around Halloween.”
“Halloween? She must be mistaken.”
“Maybe. She was adamant, though, and it freaked me out. We really don’t know a lot about Eden, do we? Other than she went to school with Trey, and her sister was murdered.”
Now she starts seeing sense. Takes an outsider.
“You’re the one who’s been spending all the time with her. You know her better than I do. And don’t give me that look, I’m not judging. I thought you liked her.”
“I do. I did. I’m . . . confused. Actually, I don’t think she’s that into me. Her attentions feel insincere, if you know what I mean. Or really inexperienced.”
“You think she’s straight?”
She huffs out an unamused laugh. “I do. Embarrassingly, I do.”
“Then why is she sticking around? Surely not for me.”
“I think it’s the kids. She adores them. And they seem so enamored of her, I haven’t wanted to shut them down.”
“Knock knock!” There is a rapping at the door, and damn if Eden doesn’t open it and stick her head in.
Her smile is wide but forced. We’ve left her out, and I get the sense she doesn’t like it.
Or she was listening at the door. “Oh, there you all are. Dinner is ready when you are. I’ve already fed the agents, they’re eating as we speak. ”
“Thank you, Eden. We’ll be right there.”
The woman just stands there, looking slightly bewildered, as if she’s not used to her summons being ignored. I repeat myself.
“We’ll be in when we’re done chatting here.”
It’s not my imagination; her eyes narrow slightly before she pulls the door closed. This isn’t good. I knew something was off with her.
“Margot. Trey has been in touch.” I hold up my hand. “Later, okay? He says we’re not safe. And if Eden’s been hanging around since Halloween? I don’t know what’s happening here, but I’m going to listen to my husband. We have to get rid of her. Please?”
“Brook. The police, the FBI, Homeland, everyone’s looking for him. And there are four FBI agents out front. Do you think he’s going to show up here and whisk you away? We have to tell them he’s been in touch.”
“No. I need him. I need him here. We’ll have to distract them.” I breathe deeply, thinking. My head is killing me. “What if there’s a sighting? Won’t they all take off, looking for him?”
“Now you want to lie to the police?”
“What else can I do? I want my husband home safe.”
“Brooklyn, honey, don’t get pissed, but you aren’t thinking straight. We’ll figure it all out. Let’s just . . . eat dinner and think this through. I’m going to take Bohdi for a walk, then crate him so he’s not begging at the table.”
“Fine. But just leave him in my room and close the door, okay? He doesn’t need to be in his crate.”
With the creepy Eden here, I don’t want to stay in the house a moment longer. And my wish is granted, only not in the way I hoped.
I stash the crypto wallets in my purse and stow it in the closet temporarily, but keep the holster clipped to my waistband.
After Margot’s news, I feel safer having it with me.
This whole situation feels like it’s spinning out of control.
Coincidences are all well and good, but I’m starting to think that maybe all of this is tied together.
That Eden wasn’t on the plane to Atlanta by chance, and neither were we. And that scares me to my bones.
I dutifully appear in the dining room, only to see the table has been set as if royalty is coming.
All of our mother’s wedding china, the crystal, and the silver are arranged, along with our grandmother’s Belgian lace tablecloth.
Most of this was packed away in the attic.
When did she even have time to find it? Is there anything she hasn’t gone through in the house?
I’m already furious at this intrusion, so when she sashays into the dining room with my favorite Creuset in hand and starts to sing—“For she’s a jolly good fellow, for she’s a jolly good fellow, for she’s a jolly good fellow .
. . I made you coq au vin”—and the kids start to clap, that’s it. My patience has run out.
“No. Absolutely not. We’re eating in the kitchen. This is all lovely, and I appreciate the effort, but that tablecloth is a precious antique, and if we spill something, it will be ruined.”
Eden stops midway into the room with the big Dutch oven balanced in her hands.
She’s wearing an apron someone gave me as a hostess gift a few years ago, like she’s June Cleaver greeting us after a long day at work.
“But this meal is special—a celebration. You are home, and we’re all so happy.
It would be a shame not to eat it with the grandeur this moment is due. ”
“And I’m saying no. Back to the kitchen with it.”
The flash of hatred in her eyes is enough to make me gasp. It’s quickly replaced with her more amiable grin, which I can now see is plastic, brittle. “Gosh, Brooklyn, you’re right. I wasn’t thinking. We can certainly set up in the nook. Come on, babies. Let’s go eat in the kitchen.”
The children glance at me, then follow her from the room like dutiful little puppies. I realize I’m squeezing my hands so tightly that my nails have broken the skin of my palm.
“What the hell,” I say to Margot. “She has them trained?”
“No, they’re just trying to be good. They can sense you’re upset.”
“Yeah, umm. This isn’t safe. She’s not safe. Maybe it’s my damaged brain talking, but I am freaking out. We have to get away from her, right now.”
“Where are we supposed to go, Brook?”
“Trey is coming, he’s going to make sure we’re protected. But she needs to leave the house. I do not feel comfortable, and I don’t want to wait any longer. Please, Margot. This is not normal. It’s all wrong. She’s all wrong.”
“You sound a little paranoid, sis.”
“Have you ever known me to be wrong about danger to us, Margot? My instincts have gotten us to this point.”
She looks at me with alarm. “All right. I’ll get rid of her.”
Almost on cue, Eden sails back into the dining room and beelines for the wine. There’s no way she didn’t hear me.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt. Don’t want to waste this.”
I realize there’s an open bottle of red on the table, breathing. The label is facing out—it’s the Chateau Ausone 2010 I bought at the vineyard in Bordeaux and brought home. That bottle is now worth over $1,000, and we were cellaring it as an investment.
That. Bitch.
A flash and it all comes together. She has helped herself to my world. My house. My things. My children’s hearts. My sister. My entire life seems to be at her disposal.
She’s not trying to replace me. She’s trying to become me.
She’s gotten Trey out of the way, and now she’s going to do the same to me.
“I will handle the wine, Eden. Thank you.”
She looks me straight in the eye, with the edge of a smile on her lips, and I see the back of her hand brush the neck.
The bottle starts to tip. I lunge for it, but I’m not fast enough.
The bottle goes sideways and crashes onto the table.
Glasses tip and shatter, a plate breaks, and the wine glug-glug-glugs onto the precious Belgian lace.
With a cry of dismay, Margot rushes into the kitchen for towels. It’s too late. The mess is made. The lace is ruined. Her point is taken.
Eden grabs the bottle and sets it upright. There are shards of glass everywhere, and her eyes are doe wide. “Oh my goodness. I am so clumsy. I will clean this up right now.”
“No, you won’t. Leave. Leave my house. Get out of here, Eden. You are not welcome here anymore.”
“But you need me. The children need me. Margot can’t handle them on her own.”
“We can handle things just fine. You’re gone, now. Get your things and leave.”
Her face collapses, and tears form in her eyes. “I just want to help. We’ve had a good time together. Now you’re home, and it’s all disrupted. You’re just upset by the new environment. The doctors said—”
I step to her side and grab her elbow. “I’m not joking. Get out. Now.”
The tears disappear, and her lips thin. Her face is stony and set. “You’ll regret this, Brooklyn. Mark my words.” With another hateful glance, she disappears back into the kitchen.
Moments later, I hear the doorbell ringing. Men’s voices rise in conversation, then a familiar female voice responds. Detective Lee. I don’t know if this is fortuitous timing or a total disaster.
One of the agents appears in the doorway with the detective on his heels. He looks dismayed. “Are you okay?” I ask him.
“Yeah, just . . . stomach’s upset.”
“There’s Pepto-Bismol in the guest-bathroom medicine cabinet.”
“Thanks,” he says, paling even more, and heads toward the powder room.
I turn my attention to Detective Lee. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail; she’s wearing jeans and a blazer and black boots. She looks . . . excited.
“Brooklyn. Hello. It’s good to see you on your feet. Can we talk?”
Margot comes back with a stack of towels and starts mopping the wine from the table. I give my sister a look that says everything.
“The kids,” I say with a nod. “Can you get them ready? Please?” Unspoken: “Go protect my children.” Margot nods and, without another word, disappears into the kitchen.
There’s no leaving right now. But the second this is finished, and Eden has been banished from our house, we are out of here.
I’ll find a way to get word to Trey, but our home has been defiled. This ends now.
I lead Detective Lee to the living room and realize immediately that everything there has been rearranged as well.
The chairs now flank the fireplace, and the sofa has been moved to face them.
The whole room’s been cleaned and straightened, and the knickknacks reset.
The fireplace mantel has been cleared, all the photos of me and Trey are gone, and all the family photos, years of mismatched frames and loose pictures, have been replaced by a single photo of the children that I don’t recognize, and a vase of bloodred roses at the corner.
All traces of the balloons and flowers from the hospital are gone.
This is so flipping weird. And I can’t tell Detective Lee, because she and Eden are tight.
“Sit down, please,” she says, then shocks the hell out of me. “I want to talk about France. I want to talk about your time with Roger Bandolier.”