Page 11 of House of Lies

7pm 4/11

E Remington

@ Glenmont

My mouth goes dry.

Mom wasn’t trying to sell her measly, over-mortgaged house. She was planning to buy a new one.

There’s a brochure holder under the framed poster with a bunch of folded pamphlets inside.

An interior door opens, and a man enters the reception area as I pluck a pamphlet from the holder. He detours like a vulture who’s caught a whiff of roadkill.

“Morning.” He gives me a quick scan, as if he’s calculating my net worth to the nearest dollar. No wonder he frowns at me like he’s wondering what the hell I’m doing here. Maybe he thinks I’ve come looking for work.

“Hi. Uh...this property—” I hold up the pamphlet. “Has it been on the market long?”

He cocks his head, then glances at the receptionist. Seeing her still engaged in her call, he comes closer.

He’s a beanpole of a man, the fact emphasized by his navy button-down shirt and dark jeans, both slim-fit. His leather suspenders match his worn-in boots, and his perfectly trimmed mustache and jet black hair make me believe that’s no accident.

Adjusting horn-rim spectacles that may, or may not, be actual prescription glasses, he clears his throat. “Actually, those brochures are hot off the press. The listing went live yesterday.”

My shoulders slump. Shit. Is it possible this is all just a coincidence? Maybe Detective Lewis is right. There’s no way of knowing whether that appointment took place this year.

I turn the pamphlet over in my hands.

Come on, think. There has to be a reason I saw this listing.

“Is this the first time it’s been listed?”

“Yes. This year.”

My heart does a happy little hop inside my chest, but then drops into my stomach. “Wait, this year? So you’ve listed it for sale before?”

The man studies me for a moment. “Donald Parker,” he says, holding out his hand. I shake it as firmly as I can manage, hoping the extra pressure will cancel out the tremors in my hand.

“Cassidy. Nice to meet you.”

I’m so done with these pleasantries. This guy obviously isn’t a kidnapper, but I have to figure out what his connection with my mother is. This was, after all, the address under E. Remington’s contact in her organizer.

“Did you or one of your staff have an appointment with Rebecca Monroe in April?”

He smiles like he’s wondering if I took my meds this morning. “In connection with…?”

I hastily abandon that line of inquiry. “Sorry, I must have my wires crossed. Um…can I speak to Remington? E. Remington?”

His head darts back a little, eyes narrowing. “The owner prefers my office deals with all enquiries,” he says, speaking carefully, like he’s still trying to puzzle me out.

The owner?

I look at the listing behind its glass shield. My mother had an appointment with the owner of Glenmont Manor?

Fuck.

Maybe she made that appointment after all.

She’s eloped once before…what’s to stop her doing it again? With the owner of Glenmont Manor.

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