The Boy from the Woods(83)

Most nights that would stop her, but again tonight was not most nights.

She squinted and reached for her phone. How, she wondered, had she made it into the bedroom? She didn’t remember. Had Laila come home and found her former mother-in-law passed out on the couch? Had Matthew? She didn’t think so. She conjured up a vague recollection of being cognizant of her state and preparing for bed before the inevitable overcame her. But she couldn’t be sure.

Hester could still hear voices floating up from downstairs. For a moment she worried that perhaps Laila forgot that she was staying over, that Hester was actually listening to Laila make breakfast for whatever male may have stayed the night. She held her breath and strained to hear.

Two voices. Both female. One was Laila’s, the other…?

Hester’s phone was down to four percent charge. The clock on the screen read 6:11 a.m. She could see the notifications from Oren. He’d called several times. There was one voicemail. It was from Oren too. She hit play.

“Hey, it’s me. I’m…I’m so sorry. I can’t believe how insensitive I was. I got the call, and I just rushed out, not thinking, but that’s no excuse. I’m really sorry. Just so you know, the accident was nothing major, no serious injuries. I don’t know if that matters or not. Call me, okay? Let me know you’re all right?”



But she wasn’t all right.

Hester could hear the worry in his voice. Oren was such a good man, but it was like in one of those movies where a witch cast a curse on you. Oren had been there the night David had died. He’d been called to an accident scene that night too, and there was no way she could shake that and be normal about it. Not now. Not ever. The curse doomed any chance, remote as it probably had been anyway, for them to be happy.

She didn’t want Oren upset. This wasn’t his fault, and he wasn’t a young man anymore. No need to give him additional agita. She typed out a text to Oren:

All good. Super busy. I’ll call you later.



But she wouldn’t call him. Or reply if he called back. Then he’d get the message, and everyone would be better off.

The voices downstairs were getting louder now, on the move. Funny what you remember. This room, which Laila and David had turned into a guest room, had been Hester’s home office way back when. She still could tell from the echoes and volume that the two women had originally been talking in the kitchen and that now they had moved to the foyer near the front door. Probably saying goodbye. Hester looked out the window as, yep, a young woman walked down the cobblestone path to a dark blue car parked in front of the house.

Hester threw on a robe Laila kept for guests and made her way into the hallway. Laila was at the bottom of the steps.

“Good morning,” Laila said.

“Good morning.”

“You were in bed when I got back last night. Everything okay?”

“Yes,” Hester said through the hammering in her head. “Fine.”

“I’m sorry if I woke you. A client who lives nearby needed to talk.”

“Oh, I get it.”

“There’s brewed coffee in the kitchen, if you want some.”

“You are a goddess,” Hester said.

Laila smiled and picked up her bag. “I have to run before the traffic builds. You need anything?”

“Nothing, Laila, thank you.”

“Matthew should be up soon. If you’re still in town tonight, do you want to do dinner?”

“Let’s play it by ear.”

“Sure.”

With that, Laila smiled, opened the door, and exited. Hester dropped her own smile and put both her hands on her pounding head, pushing at the sides to keep her skull from falling open. She started down the stairs because, no question about it, the coffee would help.

From the window by the door, she could see the young woman in the blue car hadn’t taken off yet. Laila walked over to her. Hester watched them talk for a second or two. Laila put a comforting hand on the woman’s shoulder. The woman seemed to gain strength from that. She nodded and hit the remote on her car.

“Hey, Nana.”

It was Matthew at the top of the stairs.

“Hey.” Still looking out the window, Hester asked, “Do you know that woman with your mom?”

“Who?”

“The one getting into that blue car.”

Matthew bounded down the steps as only a teenager can. He squinted out the window as the young woman slipped into the car and pulled away. “Oh,” Matthew said. “That’s Ms. O’Brien. I think Mom is helping her with a case.”

Why, Hester wondered, did that name ring a bell?

“Ms. O’Brien?”

“Yeah,” Matthew said. “She teaches art at my school.”

*



The Uber driver who, according to the app, was named Mike with a 4.78 rating, didn’t like the looks of the crowd in front of the Maynard Manor security gate.

“What the hell is this?” he asked Hester.

A handful of protestors, no more than ten, stood outside with signs reading FAKE NEWS! and SPIES BELONG IN JAIL FOR TREASON and chanting. An equal number of local police were on the scene, keeping them back from the opening, and as 4.78 Mike of the gray Honda Accord pulled up, a uniformed Oren, of all people, strolled over, leaned his head in the front passenger side of the car, and asked 4.78 Mike, “Are they expecting you?”