“C’mere, Brando,” I called to my dog. I let him off the leash to have some freedom, but I still wanted him in my sights. There were no streetlights on this steep, wooded block, and the heavy clouds dispersed the moonlight into a thick, steamy glow. The only other source of light was from the houses—a front porch light, lamplight from an upstairs bedroom, solar torches on a front walk. Some people liked to light up their trees with spotlights in the ground, reminding you that night was the opposite of day, with light shining up instead of down.
As Brando trotted from tree to tree, I peered over fences and through thick iron bars, imagining what kind of people lived in the mansions just beyond. There were castles made of stone, white plantation-style houses with wide black shutters that looked right out of Gone with the Wind. There was a snooty English Tudor with pointy turrets and rosebushes for days. Even the smallest of these palatial estates was five times the size of the boxy Colonial I grew up in, and Jordan and I could have fit our rented cottage into any one of these house’s garages. Who are these people who live in these palaces? Celebrities? CEOs? Crime families? I knew what they cost—I’d looked them all up on Zillow. They were notable homes, and I was a tour guide—curiosity about their histories was practically a job requirement!
We were nearing the end of the block. The street was a dead end that fanned out into two driveways. The driveway on the right led to an inviting cream-colored Mediterranean with a motor court big enough to accommodate a dozen Range Rovers. A row of towering, evenly spaced palms along the perimeter completed the regal Old Hollywood vibe.
The other driveway was long and narrow and completely enshrouded by thick brush and trees. You couldn’t see the house at the end of it, and if I didn’t know better, I might have thought that driveway went on forever. Old-fashioned lampposts spaced too far apart did little to light the way beyond creating eerie shadows distorted by the uneven ground. A PRIVATE PROPERTY, NO TRESPASSING! sign was nailed to a fence post spiraled in ivy, completing the unwelcoming facade. It was a scene right out of an old Scooby-Doo cartoon, spooky to the point of being almost comical.
I never lingered at this driveway. Its horror-movie vibe unsettled me, and I had no interest in knowing what sort of recluse lived at the end of it. So I was more than a little annoyed when Brando ventured past the first two lampposts like Scooby stumbling into a mystery.
“Brando, come!” I called to his fluffy backside as he trotted down the driveway. But he didn’t stop.
“Brando, come!” I commanded, a little louder this time. But he just kept going. A few seconds later, he had completely disappeared from view.
“Brando!” I shook the leash, hoping the clang of the metal hardware would signal I was serious. But it didn’t work. He didn’t come back.
“Braannnnndo!” I sang, “C’mon boy!”
I waited at the base of the driveway for a long, anxious beat. Ten seconds. Then ten seconds more.
My dog was not coming back.
Which meant I was going to have to go after him.
CHAPTER 4
* * *
LOUISA
“There’s something I need to show you,” I told my nephew, after his third cookie. I stood and he followed me into my study. Even if he wasn’t willing to step up as my heir, he could still be useful to me. An opportunity to enact my plan would eventually present itself, and I needed to be ready.
“I have a folder here in my desk,” I said, opening the bottom drawer. “I’ve labeled it ‘Louisa’s Death Folder.’ It contains instructions about what to do when I die.” I extracted the folder and handed it to him. His eyes got wide like an owl’s.
“Louisa, why are you showing me this?”
He looked frightened, so I tried to reassure him. “I should have shown you a long time ago.” Of course there was a reason I was showing him now, but if he wasn’t going to help me, there was no point explaining.
“Is everything . . . all right?”
“No,” I quipped. “I’m old. Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed.” He smiled a little, like he thought I was joking.
“Sometimes I forget,” he said, and once again I was reminded why he was my favorite. Unlike my children, he hadn’t run away when my husband died and things got hard. He stepped up, like family is supposed to.
We returned to the dining room to clear the table. Nathan insisted on cleaning the dishes before he left. I allowed it under the pretense it was his penance for refusing to step up as my heir, but the truth was I welcomed an excuse to sit and close my eyes for a few minutes. The high-back sofa in the parlor was great for encouraging good posture and not much else, but I didn’t want to stray too far from the kitchen while he was tidying it, so it would have to do.