It's One of Us(34)
“You brought me up well.”
She hears voices in the background, a murmur, and what sounds like crying. “Do you have people over?”
The noise stops. “Sorry. YouTube. An ASMR room to help me focus. I don’t want to rush you off, but I am in the middle of something. Want to tell me what’s really going on?”
She explains as succinctly as she can. “I can’t imagine this isn’t going to be big news locally, maybe even nationally, and I’m sure people will seek you out.”
“Wow. Is Scar okay?”
“She’s justifiably upset.”
“I bet. I’ll text her, see if I can calm her down. But, you know, it doesn’t affect me otherwise. He’s not my donor. The media and police shouldn’t bother me at all.”
“You know how the press is, sweetie. They will hunt down every angle they can. Proximity will be enough.”
“I wouldn’t worry so much about the press. I’d be more concerned about the lawyers.”
“What do you mean?”
“Winterborn will most certainly be sued, I would assume in some sort of class action, and there will be discovery, and every family who’s used their services regardless of whether they belong to Scarlett’s donor or others will be scrutinized.”
Darby sighs. “I suppose you’re right. You planning to go to law school now?”
“I’ve considered it,” he says lightly.
A spike of pride in her heart. This is news. She won’t think about the money, the time, the effort, the challenges, will only be happy for him finding his own path, deciding the course of his life.
“That’s great, honey.” The background noise starts up again, his video coming off pause. “I better let you go.”
“Okay. Keep in touch, though. I can come home this weekend if you want. I have plans, but I can break them. It might be good for Scar to have someone to talk to. You know, someone that she doesn’t blame. Sorry, Mom, that sounded bad. I just assume she’s upset with you? Though you haven’t done anything wrong,” he adds quickly.
“No. You’re right, she is upset. I’ll text you, all right, honey? I love you.”
“Love you, too, Mom.”
There is a squawk as he hangs up, and Darby can swear she hears a woman’s voice calling as the phone dies.
She freezes, listening, as if the connection hasn’t been cut.
Nothing.
Good grief, Darby. Your imagination is really running wild these days.
Later, exhausted, Darby decides a nap is in order. She wraps the blankets around her and falls into a fitful sleep, startling at every creak, dog bark, engine whine, door slam. These are the sounds that have always comforted her before, and now they are ominous, frightening. A woman has died, been murdered, and while she hasn’t fixated on Beverly Cooke’s death, suddenly it is all she can think about. What it must have been like to know you were about to die. The panic, the fear, the hypoxia.
She wakes to the sounds of lapping water and shattering glass, but quickly realizes it was just a dream, just a nightmare. Her imagination on overdrive.
As she drifts back to sleep, she hears something from her dreams.
A woman’s voice.
A woman’s voice, calling for help.
17
THE WIFE
At the Jones build, Olivia shuts the door behind her and walks carefully between the stacks of flooring and paint buckets to the kitchen.
A flash of red. A hoodie, draped over the counter, next to a leaking to-go cup of coffee. The cup is perched atop her unfinished four-inch-thick slab of Statuario marble, and even from here she can see the dark ring that’s formed on the stone’s porous surface.
“No!” she cries, leaping for it, just as a head pops up from behind the island. She screams in surprise and knocks the coffee cup off the slab, where it immediately begins to soak into the subfloor.
“Oh my God, it’s ruined.”
And there goes the budget, and the timeline. They’d ordered this piece directly from the quarry in Italy, had it specially cut striato, so the veining formed a swoosh pattern that ran over the waterfall edge, and waited three months for it to show up, and now some idiot has managed to ruin it by putting his coffee cup on the raw marble? She knew they should have polished and sealed it the moment it arrived. They were waiting for the owners to decide on a finish. Never again.
“Hey, sorry.” The owner of the hoodie—young, bearded, rumpled, sweat-stained—calmly picks up his coffee cup. The stain is dry. He’s been there for a while. “I’m sure we can get that out. I can just buff it up.” He starts for his toolbox, which she notices is perched precariously on the edge of the island, ready to fall and ruin something else.
“No. Stop. Don’t touch it. I’m calling my guy. Who the hell are you, and what are you doing on my job site?”
“Griffin White. I work for Dave.”
“Which Dave? I have three.”
He mutters a last name that sounds like Hartwell, and she narrows her eyes. “Dave Hartwell is a carpenter, not an installer. Plus, he isn’t working this job. Who are you really?”
He doesn’t answer, only stares at her, his brown eyes unfathomable. His voice is cold. “Like I said, I’m Griffin. And I work for Dave Caswell. I’m supposed to be pouring footers for your porch.”