I swallow hard, feeling like I’m suffocating in the tense atmosphere of the car. I need fresh air desperately, but for some reason, I can’t figure out how to roll down the damn window.
“It’s kind of hot in here. Can I roll down the window a bit?” I ask, my voice betraying signs of aging, even though I haven’t experienced menopause symptoms in a few years.
“Of course. Let me roll it down for you.” I sigh with relief as a rush of cool air greets my face when I see the window slide down. The cold air feels invigorating, though my coat provides some insulation against the chill. I feel better with the wind in my face but refuse to look up and meet Jeff's eyes.
He takes us on a tour around Long Island, and I marvel at the vast Atlantic Ocean stretching out before us. We pass by vineyards and The Hamptons, where I can easily picture myself retiring in one of those beautiful lakeside properties. The Oheka Castle, perched by the seaside in Huntington, is truly a sight to behold. I can’t resist taking numerous pictures, already planning to frame one when we return home. Jeff explains that the cream-colored French chateau with its marine-blue rooftops is a popular wedding venue and had been built over a century ago in 1919. Again, I wish it were spring to see the gardens in full bloom.
A few hours later, we circle back to face Jeff's estate. He parks the car, and by now, the sun has set. I hope Melanie is home so we aren’t alone.
Jeff enters the security code, and the door opens, granting us entry. Laughter from children echoes through the hallway. “We’re home,” Jeff calls out. Shortly afterward, two kids emerge: a boy who bears a striking resemblance to Jeff and a girl who looks just like Melanie. The boy appears to be around ten, and the girl six or seven.
“Hey, guys. Where’s Mom and Ian?” Jeff inquires.
“Mom’s giving him a bath and said she will be down soon,” the girl replies. Despite her young age, her mannerisms seem mature. Her fiery red hair cascades down her back, complementing her wise green eyes. A few freckles dot her cheeks.
“Okay. Well, let’s go sit in the living room. The cook should have dinner ready soon.” He leads the way, and I catch a whiff of garlic mingled with the distinct aroma of rosemary, making my stomach growl. It has been hours since I last ate. Jeff directs us to a plush creme-colored sectional with a high back and pillow-type armrests.
“Hi, I’m Kirsten,” the girl introduces herself, extending her hand. I shake it, impressed by her politeness.
“And this is Jayden,” Jeff says, ruffling his son’s hair. Jayden pushes his dad’s hand away, clearly embarrassed. It reminds me of how my sons had reacted when they hit puberty, avoiding any public displays of affection from me.
A few minutes later, Melanie enters the living room, holding Ian. She’s dressed in a red pencil skirt, a black silk blouse, and black heels that accentuate her seemingly endless legs. Her red hair mirrors her daughter and displays subtle waves that add volume. She is undoubtedly gorgeous, and I can see why Troy was attracted to her. Brock even seems captivated, following her with his eyes.
“Melanie, these are the parents of two friends I hung out with while growing up in Grantsville.”
Melanie nods and hands Ian to Jeff like she’d had him for hours. “Nice to meet you,” she says, then kicks off her heels. “When’s dinner going to be ready?” She turns to Jeff.
From Melanie's demeanor, I can tell dinner will be somewhat tense. She makes no effort to engage in conversation or get to know us.
“I’ll go check,” Jeff replies, bouncing Ian in his arms. He looks like a proud father. If I hadn't seen the evidence for myself, I wouldn't think he had any involvement in Troy's death, but I have to try and relax and enjoy the rest of our time. We just have to get through the next few hours.
“Melanie, your home is gorgeous,” I compliment her.
“Thank you. It’s taken a lot of work, but it finally lives up to the Patterson expectation.” Melanie holds her head high, reminding me of Barbara Woodward, the most popular girl in junior high with her flowing red hair and piercing blue eyes. Barbara had walked the school halls as if she owned them, flashing a fake smile to anyone who waved. I had seen through her fakeness from the start, just as I see through Melanie's now.
“Jeff says you’re an Account Executive at an ad agency. I’m a marketing consultant myself, but I don’t travel as much as you do. I’m sure it’s very rewarding,” I say, hoping to establish some connection with her.
She flips her hair back. "Yes, well, it’s not always fun. But I do what I have to to contribute to our finances. Jeff isn’t always, well, responsible when it comes to money," Melanie reveals, raising her eyebrows. I'm curious about what she means, but I decide not to press her for details.
The cook enters the room, and my first impression is of an Italian chef. Her bobbed black hair is neatly tucked behind her ear, and though she is taller than me, it isn't by much. Dark brown eyes crinkle with smile lines when she greets us, and her bright red lipstick is a bold choice that I could never pull off. Her white apron is smudged with grease and what looks like sauce of some kind.
“Please, sit,” Jeff motions with his hand as he takes the seat at the head of the table, with Melanie sitting at the other end. I notice it’s just the four of us.
“Aren’t the children joining us?” I ask, secretly hoping to snuggle with little Ian some more.
“They will be eating in the kitchen. They usually don’t like the gourmet meals we feed our guests,” Melanie explains. Given the sumptuous spread before us—pasta with shrimp and what smells like a garlic sauce, roasted Rosemary chicken, and artichokes in a creamy white sauce, accompanied by various sliced breads and cheeses—I could understand why.
“This is delicious wine,” I comment after taking another sip.
“Ah, yes, the best Italian wine, vintage 2001 Montepulciano d'Abruzzo,” Melanie replies with decent Italian pronunciation. I have never heard of it, but I disagree with her assessment of 2001 as a vintage year. Nevertheless, what do I know about wine except that this one is a sensual delight with a light cherry flavor that has just the right amount of acidic taste. I also detect a hint of earthy mushroom that harmonizes perfectly with the chicken's sauce. The entire meal is a delectable experience.
For dessert, the cook serves a chocolate fudge cake with orange sorbet that tastes heavenly. When I finish, I am comfortably full but not overly stuffed. Throughout dinner, Brock and Jeff engaged in conversation ranging from cars to the past, while Melanie remained mostly silent. I chimed in occasionally to feel like a part of the conversation.
I check my watch and am surprised it is nearly 8:00. I want to leave, but Brock is deeply engrossed in Jeff's discussion about the stock market. Melanie dabs her mouth with her napkin, then pushes her chair back and stands up.
“I’m going to put the kids to bed. Patrice, Brock, thank you for visiting,” she says, quite curt, directing her thanks mainly at Brock.
"Thank you for having us," I say. With that, I also push my chair back and stand up, but my eagerness to leave is interrupted by an unexpected announcement.
“Looks like a storm has arrived. It’s snowing pretty hard out there,” Jeff observes as he gazes out the window. I follow his gaze and see a blizzard brewing outside, the snowfall so thick that visibility is severely compromised.
“Oh wow, I never noticed. We’d better get going,” Brock says, a note of urgency in his voice.
Jeff chuckles. “No Uber will be coming out here tonight. But no worries, you can stay here the night,” Jeff offers, leaving us with little choice.
“Are you sure? We wouldn’t want to impose,” I reply, knowing full well that the weather has made any other option impossible.
“Of course. Mi casa, su casa,” Jeff reassures us.
“Thank you,” Brock says as he gets up from his chair. “The dinner was delicious.”
“Yes, it was very tasty,” I add, feeling a bit silly for using the word "tasty."
“Rosalie is a great cook, learned it in her family’s restaurant in Italy before immigrating here. We hired her a few years ago, and she’s never let us down,” Jeff explains. Then, he turns to me and utters words that send a chill down my spine. “No one lets us down.”
As Jeff leads us to our rooms on the fourth floor, I find myself panting. I’m way out of shape. He opens the door to one of the rooms, revealing a breathtaking cherry oak bed with a burgundy swag canopy surrounding it. The dark cherry wood is intricately carved with beautiful swirls. A matching six-drawer dresser sits stately across from it, and a desk in the corner features a computer and keyboard. I wonder if there are computers in every room.
“I’ll let you get settled. There are some extra toothbrushes and toothpaste in the bathroom down the hall on your right. You’ll find some other personal items there as well,” Jeff informs us before leaving.
I sit on the bed, marveling at the luxurious surroundings, and stare at the large-screen TV on the wall across from me. Though I’m ready for sleep, I’m ready to relax and watch a mindless movie until slumber takes over. The sooner night is over, the sooner tomorrow comes, and we can leave.
Following Jeff's directions, I eventually find the bathroom down the hall. We seem to be the only guests on this floor, and I can’t help but wonder why anyone needs so many rooms. A family with only three kids certainly didn't require this much space.
All their bedrooms are on the second floor, so what do they do with the other two floors? I ponder this as I explore the bathroom, which resembles the amenities of a luxury hotel: soap, shampoo, conditioner, a built-in hair dryer, toothbrushes and paste, washcloths, and plush bath towels. The countertops are adorned with pure white marble, and the glass tumblers add a touch of elegance. Gold faucets, similar to those in the kitchen, grace the sink. The jetted tub looks especially inviting, and I wish I could take a leisurely soak.
After preparing for bed, I exit the bathroom and step into the darkened hallway. I can make out enough to find my way back to our lit room. The TV is on with the volume set low, and Brock sits at the desk, engrossed in the screen.
“Trice, come here. Check this out,” he beckons me over.
I walk over to the desk and notice the intense look on Brock's face, his hand cupping his mouth.
“What is it?” I inquire.
He clicks on a video folder. “They're small video clips of a cabin, but it's only like 15 seconds of video, like a panorama view of the area. I also saw a folder that wasn’t labeled, and when I clicked on it, a bunch of your gardening videos showed up, as well as you and Goldie sitting in the park, you coming out of the store, our home. It’s as if he’s spying on you.”
I clamp my hand over my mouth. Goldie warned me. “Brock, how did you access this?” I react with concern as I rush to close the door before returning to the computer. I can’t believe Jeff has all this on me. The only thing I can think of is that he hired a private investigator or had his goons track me. Maybe this is who has been stalking me – the person in our backyard, in our garage, the car next door … it’s all making sense now.
“Honestly, I wasn't hunting for a password. I was exploring the hard drive, and the password was taped on the bottom. I thought I might check my work emails while we're here,” Brock explains, reminding me that even on vacation, he can't fully disconnect but refuses to tie his personal email to his work. He left his laptop at home, knowing it would be too tempting to check on work. He's right about that.
“We must send these over to Gray,” I say, wanting badly to leave this place now.
I scan the rest of the folders, and one particular folder caught my eye. My stomach churns when I read the label:
PAYMENT FOR THE FIVE
No comments:
Post a Comment