“OHB Designs.”
“Olivia? Oh, I’m so glad you answered. It’s the crazy cat lady! When are you coming to the beach to redo my house?”
Annika Rodrigue is hardly a crazy cat lady, though she is very rich, and very eccentric. She earned the moniker by having a human-size bronze sculpture of a stalking Siamese commissioned to place by her pool house. Thanks to a clever system of automated pulleys that Olivia designed for her, Annika’s guests would open the door to find the massive cat blocking their path, ready to pounce. Annika thought it great fun to scare her friends with the looming beast.
“Annika. How are you? It’s been ages.”
“It has been. You promised you’d get me on the schedule when I was ready and girl, now is the time. I won’t take no for an answer. We’re heading down to the beach house tomorrow, and you must come with. We’ll make a long weekend out of it. I’ll give you a blank check and free rein…” This last is sung with a cajoling two-note cadence.
“Such a seductress. I wish I could pick up and come with—”
“You can, and darling, you should.” Annika’s voice drops to a conspiratorial level. “A little bird told me you’re having quite the drama. Sneak away now before the media latches onto you. You’ll never shake them otherwise.”
Uh-oh. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Now, now, dear. You know I am Nashville’s most omniscient hostess.”
“You’re something, Annika. I’ll give you that.”
The woman laughs like a waterfall. “I’m serious, my love. If what I’m hearing is true, you’re going to need an exit ramp, and I’m happy to provide it for you. You don’t even have to work if you don’t want. You can just use the house as an escape. I’ll text you the code to the front door and alarm system, and whenever you need to bolt, the house will be there, waiting. Deal?”
“I—” But Annika is already gone.
Olivia’s phone dings with a text, the information promised.
How in the world has Annika Rodrigue, of all people, found out about the police visits to their house?
And why offer up such a kindness? An escape is all Olivia wants right now. But running won’t solve a thing. She’s going to have to face Park, and the police, and the horror of this situation. （And Perry. Don’t forget Perry.）
On impulse, she calls for an emergency appointment with her therapist. An afternoon slot secured, she pulls into the Joneses’ gravel driveway and jumps from the Jeep, relieved to be able to lose herself in work, if only for a few hours.
As she unlocks the door, the thought grabs her. What exactly does Annika think she knows? That Park has multiple children? That the police think one of them killed Beverly Cooke? The police had been quite clear they were keeping things quiet, that they didn’t want this news out there for fear of muddying the investigative waters. So, what has Annika scavenged from the rumor mill?
Lindsey was right. They’re going to need a professional to help.
OK, she texts, juggling the phone with her sample bag. Get in touch with your friend. We can talk to her this afternoon after I get out of therapy.
10-4 comes the quick reply, followed by thankful hands and a smiley face blowing a kiss.
16
THE MOTHER
After they called the police, Darby and Scarlett had a long and serious conversation about why Darby felt Scarlett had betrayed her trust, and Scarlett explained how growing up without a father made her a target. The emotions ran too high until they began to bicker, and then things blew up. A fight to remember, one that will live in infamy between a mother and daughter forever. The things Scarlett said. The replies Darby made. The doors slammed. The silence between them charged with lightning. Days of this. It was too much to bear.
Darby and Scarlett rarely fight, but when they do, it’s the knock-down, drag-out of two lionesses with too-similar buttons being pushed. Things were tense enough before the blowup; Darby hadn’t told Scarlett she lost her job yet. She didn’t want her daughter worrying, naturally, but in truth, she’d been too consumed with learning the hideous news that her child had multiple siblings and said child had been hiding that information from her mother. For Scarlett to go behind Darby’s back was such a betrayal. Such a lie.
And it hurt. It hurt terribly.
Yesterday, watching Scarlett through the kitchen window, her legs drawn up underneath her on the front porch swing, the creak, creak, creak of the metal S-hook that she’s needed to hit with oil for months now, Darby realized there was more to it.
Darby spent her whole adult life staying in control, staying on top of things. She is organized, dedicated, reliable. When she says she’s going to do something, she does it, right away. She’s raised her children to be just like her—compassionate, capable, and considerate.
They are not liars. They do not hide things from her. They are expected to be honest, forthright, and kind—especially with her.
But is Scarlett searching for the identity of her donor really a lie? Is it really a betrayal? Can she blame the girl for wanting to know where she comes from?
Yes, she can. If Darby’s being honest, she knows exactly why she’s upset. Scarlett wanting to know her father means Darby—as a mother, as a parent, as a friend—isn’t enough. And when did that happen? It used to be the two of them against the world. Especially when Peyton left for school, she and Scarlett were inseparable.
Darby thought she was doing a stellar job. Clearly, she isn’t.
And despite herself, she keeps going back to something Scarlett said during their initial argument. “But aren’t you lonely? I mean, it would be so hard to be alone all these years.”
Of course she’s lonely. But she’s never been alone, and that’s a very different thing.
And it doesn’t matter anymore. The police have their names; the donor will be notified that they exist. So as soon as Scarlett leaves for school today, Darby is going to talk with the head of Winterborn. She is going to demand an explanation. Later, once she knows the whole story, once she has a plan in place, she’ll explain to her daughter what’s happened at the hospital.
Darby glances at the clock on the microwave, goes to the stairs and calls up.
“Scarlett Flynn, you get out of bed this minute. You’re going to be late.”
“I don’t want to go today,” comes the plaintive reply.
“Tough. Get up and get out of here.”
A yawning Scarlett arrives in the kitchen. “Is there coffee?” Her daughter’s hair stands on end, like she slept upside down.
“There’s milk.”
“Yeuch.”
She drops into her chair, head bowed. Darby softens, the breath leaving her, and with it, the tension from their fight. She can’t stay upset with Scarlett. This isn’t the girl’s fault.
“I’ll make you a deal. No more forcing me to drag you out of bed, and I’ll make an extra cup in the morning. But only one, you hear me?”
Scarlett brightens and blows her a kiss. “Mwuah! Thanks, Mom!”
“Go brush your hair. You look like a wild woman.”
Truce.
After a cheerful Scarlett leaves with coffee heavily laden with milk and stevia sweetener in her thermos, Darby spends half an hour on the Winterborn website, searching for anything that might help her argument, then another hour with her files, picking through her privacy statements, her agreements, what she’s allowed to ask for regarding the identity of her donor and what she is not, taking copious notes, before she picks up her phone. She is going to get to the bottom of this. She wishes the original founder was still alive; a quick search shows he passed away almost a decade earlier. Him, she knew, and liked, though considering, realizes he was the one who’d let this happen. She’s going to have to talk to someone who will certainly deny any responsibility or culpability, but at least there’s a chance she can get more information.