Vicki Pettersson - The Touch of Twilight

The lockbox was set aside, the Realtor had already been by to prep for the open house later that day, but I didn’t worry about that. Stepping inside a foyer that opened directly into a sunken living room, it felt like I was stepping back forty years in time. The light bulbs didn’t even appear to have been changed in that time. It was as if Brynn had stepped out for a liquid lunch with girlfriends and would be back any moment.

How many martinis had the Shadow Cancer imbibed in these rooms? I wondered, wandering over the high-gloss terrazzo floor. How many nights had she put on furs and heels to take in a post-hours set with the Rat Pack? How many men had she lured back here to show off her glass-top bar…to torture and to kill?

I sniffed, caught the skein of Regan’s scent on the velvet fabric of a streamlined lounge chair, and knew she’d spent some time here. Not a lot…it wasn’t saturated with her odor, but some. So why was she selling it now?

I stepped up into a wide dining room overlooking a sheltered reflection pool, thinking perhaps she’d realized I was closing in on her real life. I guess she didn’t want me springing up behind her one night while she was propped on her vintage sofa with a bag of Cheetos. Or maybe my mention of an agreement between the Tulpa and myself had her second-guessing her leader, her place in the troop, and my place above her if I ever did switch sides. She could be selling this safe house for another, one even the Tulpa didn’t know about. It wouldn’t be the first time, I thought, remembering the underground lair I’d been trapped in two months earlier.

But whatever it was she thought I might do, it was spooking her enough to have her selling a family home she’d held on to all these years. Out of nostalgia for the mid-mod period? I wondered, or had a young Regan DuPree created a few memories here of her own?

I reached the kitchen, and it was all I could do not to let out a covetous sigh. Sure, these Shadow bitches were spoiling like soured herring inside, but damn they had good taste in homes. The cabinetry was sleek, white, and sliding, clearly custom-made. A futuristic metal vent hovered over what was clearly the original aqua-colored stove, which matched the empty refrigerator and built-in counter appliances. The ceiling angled sharply upward into the backyard, adding to the space age feeling of weightlessness and light. I sniffed and found no bottom note of cooked food to add weight to the air, but there were herbs lined in sharply angled pebbled pots, fresh dirt mingling with the mint and tarragon and basil to snag my sensory attention. It reminded me of Ben, I thought, looking past the plants and out onto the expansive lawn dotted with round stone pavers. But then everything did. Even the gardener, I thought, spotting a man kneeling in the hedgerow.

I froze as the man suddenly looked toward the house. Maybe the reminder was so pronounced, I thought woodenly, because it was Ben.

The sun was in his eyes, so even though he’d seen me through the kitchen window, I knew he hadn’t made out my features. He lifted a hand, one stranger acknowledging another, and I hesitated before edging around the slick, white counter, and through the glass slider wall. The gesture was appropriate, I thought, swallowing hard. Sometimes I felt like we’d never before met.

He recognized me-or Olivia-as soon as I stepped out onto the stone patio. The curious expectancy left his face and as it fell, my own blood ran cold. I fitted on a smile, trying for friendly warmth, though the Olivia of old would’ve reached out and hugged him as soon as they met. I wasn’t sure I could risk the pain if he turned away, so I didn’t.

“Hello, Ben,” I said, shading my eyes as I sauntered toward him.

“Olivia.” He wiped his brow with a forearm, but otherwise left his hands hanging loosely at his sides. “Just in the neighborhood?”

“Sure. I saw the open house sign and thought I’d stop in,” I said breezily, ignoring the censure that’d bubbled up with his words. “What about you?”

“This is my friend’s house. You remember me telling you about a woman I met online a few months ago, don’t you?”

“Oh, sure.” Too fucking well. “I do.”

He paused as if waiting for me to say more, squinting as the morning sun brought out the caramel in the waves of his hair. Oddly, it didn’t soften him like it used to. “Well, I told Rose I’d plant some greenery for the open house, add a little color to the hedges and pots so it looks like an oasis in comparison to all the cookie-cutter properties out there.” He looked around, and despite his stiffness with me, sighed wistfully. Ben loved old properties like this. “It doesn’t take much.”

It didn’t; the landscaping had had forty years to mature, and had obviously been maintained by a professional both loving and adept. But Ben sighed again as he turned back in my direction, and I froze under the weight of his gaze…and his scent.

“What are you really doing here, Olivia?”

I didn’t answer, eyes flicking over his face assessingly, pausing on the scar below his hairline, the dark hair long enough to curl over his nape, and back to his eyes, which seemed too deep and hard in the bright morning light…not that I was one to talk. But it wasn’t his eye color that was bothering me. It was the smell I’d picked up beneath the clean sweat on his skin, something acidic that had sunk into his pores and was souring there. Like the fermenting of cider vinegar. Like Regan .

“Sorry,” I said, shaking my head, trying to loosen the thought’s hold. It wouldn’t budge. “What did you say?”

“Why are you here?” he said slowly, as if daring me to repeat my first answer. The fingers of his left hand twitched before he placed them on his hip, and the look he gave me was as dark as any I’d ever shot.

I’ve come to kill the woman who’s trying to turn you into a monster .

I smiled again, even though the emptiness of unanswered questions hummed around us like a dial tone. We were so disconnected, this man and me. Standing right in front of each other with an entire unseen world between us. Unseen by him, anyway. “I’m always looking to acquire new properties, Ben. This one is a masterpiece. The interior is flawless, the furnishings vintage, the flooring original. I wanted to see for myself if the foundation was sound, or if the structure had any problems. If not, I’ll have the plumbing inspected,” I lied and lied and smiled. “We’ll see.”

“High-rise living getting old?”

I thought of my sister falling to her death. “It has its down sides,” I said softly.

“So thinking of joining us mere mortals on the ground, then?” He was teasing, but that sharpness was still there, like flint, indicating a spark of something more. The word choice was peculiar as well. What the hell had Regan been telling him?

“You takin’ shots at me, Traina?” I pouted and turned away, ostensibly to study the kidney-shaped pool, the scattered light of the trees falling softly across its surface. “Never thought I’d see the day. Must be that new girlfriend of yours making you forget who your old friends are.”

“I haven’t forgotten anything,” he said, the censure in his voice equaling my own. “But Rose is very selective, and she knows how to make a man feel special. For example, she only brings people here once she knows she can trust them. And once she’s gained that trust, she doesn’t blow it away with lies or abandonment.”

The insinuation was clear, and I thought, It was a mistake to come out here . I looked around the cool, dappled yard like I was searching for escape. He looked like the man I loved, and smelled like the woman I hated. And he was probing at Olivia to see how much she knew.