Page 10 of House of Lies

I run my hands over my hair, grimace. I pulled it into a quick ponytail when I left my apartment this morning. For the first time since I unfolded that note and realized what I was holding, I do a mental inventory of myself.

Greasy hair.

Disheveled clothes I’ve worn over five times.

Smudged make up that I didn’t have the energy to wash off last night and hadn’t bothered to clean up this morning either.

Shit. I look like a train wreck.

“We spoke.” I pluck at the sleeve of my wrinkled cardigan. Is that a coffee stain on the wrist? I twist my arm inward to hide the mark, though I’m pretty sure the detective’s already seen it. “He said he’ll file a claim, but it’s going to take at least five years before they—” My voice hitches, and I stop talking.

“There’s always a chance she’ll turn up,” he says.

Of course he’d say that. He’s still trying to convince me that Rebecca Monroe had grown bored with her pedestrian life, and had simply run away.

I’d love to believe that.

The alternative is that she’s already dead.

Chapter 4

Cassidy

Tuesday morning sees me pushing open the door of Parker Realty, anticipation fizzing in my stomach. I shouldn’t be here—I should work another double shift for the money I desperately need to pay my rent. But ever since I left the police station Sunday morning, I’ve barely slept, hardly eaten, and consumed enough coffee to caffeinate an entire class of college students studying for their midterms.

I left a message for Detective Lewis on Monday afternoon. When I hadn’t heard from him later that day, I called again. Turns out, he was off sick. Which is fucking weird, because he looked just dandy when I went to go see him on Sunday. I called Parker Realties myself, but they were already closed for the day and all I got was their voicemail.

If all he was going to do was ask some questions, then I’ll save him the obvious hassle and just do it myself. In fact, I’ll do one better. I’ll ask those questions in person.

I’m not waiting around any longer. I need answers, and I need them now.

It’s a small office, neatly furnished with a sleek, boxy sofa and a chrome reception counter. Two doors lead off the foyer—one unmarked, the other with a bronze restroom sign. Framed posters of real estate listings and advertisements for insurance companies and mortgage lenders stud the white walls.

The receptionist behind the counter is on a phone call and holds up a finger, asking me to wait. I tug impatiently at the lapels of my thrifted brown corduroy jacket.

I didn’t want to interrogate anyone in dirty jeans and a stretched out tee, so I wore my knee-length wrap dress and tan Walmart leggings. I almost wore my heels, but decided on ankle-length suede boots with a short one-inch heel instead. My makeup is minimal—no lipstick, just a touch of brown eyeshadow and some mascara.

The real secret to my confidence, however, is the plum-colored negligee I’m wearing under my dress. A gift from my one and only boyfriend a few years ago. Mom said he was trouble, so we broke up after only a few months together.

Every time I move, the silky fabric brushes against my skin. I don’t understand the psychology behind it, but it makes me feel like I can conquer anything.

Then there’s the necklace. An elaborate gold and diamond chain with a colorful pendant. That I keep tucked away behind the bodice of the dress. I’ve been wearing it almost every day since Mom disappeared.

When it’s obvious her phone call is going to be longer than a few seconds, I wander around the front area, glancing at the for sale posters. Most of them are massive, sprawling estates or luxury penthouse suites. My eyes want to fall out of my skull at some of the asking prices.

What was my mother doing meeting with these realtors? Our modest little three bedroom in white picket fence suburbia would stick out like a sore thumb between all these mansions.

But in my incredibly limited—or should I say, non-existent—real estate experience, I’m guessing it takes several months to close a deal on a house. I can imagine pricey lots like some of these would take just as long, if not longer. That’s a long time to wait for a payout. Maybe this company brokers smaller deals to span those gaps.

To her credit, it sounds like the receptionist is trying to rush the conversation so she can speak to me, but she’s far too polite, or the person on the other end of the line is a dick. I grow bored with looking at the posters, and turn away to see if there’s a place I can sit and wait. Being on my feet all day at the diner, I’ve learned to take a weight off every opportunity I get.

GLENMONT

The word jumps out at me like a ninja assassin. I spin back to the framed poster, eyes wide.

It’s a listing for an enormous gray manor set against a backdrop of tall oaks. It’s a gorgeous, broody building, but that’s not what caught my eye.

It can’t be a coincidence.

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