The Echoes of Shadows

CHAPTER 7

It's better than blowing up and punching in someone's face like he was notorious for after Mom was sentenced. It's a wonder he isn't locked up in a juvenile detention center somewhere.

"I left your bags in the living room," he tells me, sliding the dining chairs back where they belong. He doesn't look up at me, when he says, "Hey, do me a favor - when Grandma gets in, can you tell her to call me."

Realizing that our heart to heart has come to a definite close, I nod my head. "I will. You drive safe, okay."

He rolls his eyes and mutters something under his breath where I only make out the words f*****g and mom, then says, "I'm going to start looking around for places for . . ." his voice dies away, and once again, I bob my head up and down.

Like a broken little bobble-head doll.

Jarod leaves without a proper goodbye. When I hear him start the engine to his truck, I go back upstairs. I clean up the mess in the bathroom, throwing the used scrubbing pads in the wastebasket and running the shower to wash away the neon blue soap that's dried to the porcelain.

Resting against the mass of pillows leaned against the headboard, I open my laptop, determined to see what the damage will be if I go ahead and reserve a compact rental car for the next 13 days. There's no way I'll be able to get anything done without a car, even if I have to spend a couple hundred dollars for the sake of convenience.

"It's just money," I tell myself. "I'll make it back quickly and all will be well in the world again." Silently, I add, if Tomas doesn't do a 180 and fire me.

I'm typing the rental car agency's web address in when I notice the tiny red notification in the left corner of the f*******: page I left up earlier after I was through chatting with Maddie and a girl I'd gone to high school with. It's a friend request.

From Kylie Martin, Damian's blue-haired assistant.

"Dear social media: piss off," I mutter, moving my mouse to decline the request. The message just below the request stops me, and I lean in closer to the screen to read it.

Hey Elena,

I know you really want to just tell me to go get hit by a bus (or you know, decline being my friend) but please accept. I have a way you might be able to save your grandmother's house. All we need is a few minutes of your time.

-Kylie

And just like that, I'm friends with the enemy's little worker bee.

Less than an hour after I accept Kylie's friend request, my curiosity gets the best of me. What does she mean she knows a way to save this house? I message a single word reply that simply says: How?

A shrill ding indicates that I've received a brand new message seven minutes after I click send. Tossing the fitness magazine that I'm attempting to read (and failing miserably because I'm so worked up by Kylie's cryptic message) on top of my nightstand, I watch the screen and shift my teeth together as Kylie sends me a series of instant messages.

Kylie Martin: Hmm . . . to be honest, what I've got to tell you is probably something that should best be said in person and not online. Are you free this evening?

I wait to answer because the instant messenger says she's still typing.

Kylie Martin: I can pick you up at, say, 7pm and we can go into all the nitty-gritty details over dinner. My treat. Order the most expensive prime rib on the damn menu, if you want. It's on Damian's dime.

This time, I don't immediately answer because there's something that chafes me raw about going out to dinner and using Damian's money to do so. It makes me feel . . . well, sort of cheap, even though I know that's ridiculous. I'm sure his assistant takes other people out on all sorts of dinner and lunch dates, swiping Damian's credit card at as many restaurants as she can reasonably get away with. If I go, tonight won't be any different.

Except for the glaring fact that it so obviously is different.

Kylie Martin: Just let me know something in the next hour, by 6pm, okay?

I ease my butt down on the edge of my bed. The mattress dips down a tad in that particular spot and I make a vow to go for a run first thing tomorrow morning. Clutching the sides of the laptop, I stare at the messages at the bottom of the computer screen. I can't look away, even when the words start to blur into one another and all I'm able to see is a dizzying swirl of blue and white and black.

Does Kylie genuinely know something about Damian that might delay the foreclosure? But even if she does, why would she betray her boss like that to help me? She's been working for Damian for a long time - at least a couple years - and I'm no one special to her. Other than this afternoon, I've only met her one other time in my entire life and we hadn't had much to talk about other than the usual pleasantries.

Then, another possible reason behind Kylie's invitation comes to me, knocking me upside the head like a brick. My thoughts shift to a completely different direction.

What if her inviting me out is some sort of setup just to get me out of the house for something? Like Damian and those two contractors coming back over here tonight so they can go over where to put the gaudy house he'll more than likely start building in two weeks or how much of Gram's cabin they should keep around for firewood.

A frustrated noise escapes my lips. I press my fingers to the computer keys and type out a message in record time.

Why can't you just tell me now? I demand.

For five minutes, Kylie doesn't answer, but I see the little notification letting me know that she's typing in the center of the message box. I'm impatient as I wait, tapping my fingertips on the flat space on either side of the mouse pad and grinding my teeth back and forth, the clicking noise coursing tiny prickles through my body. The teeth gnashing has got to be the worst in the history of awful nervous habits. It's one that I picked up as a kid after my parents dissolved their ill-fated marriage that not even relaxation massages or yoga have been able to control or stop.

If Maddie could see me right now, she'd hand me a piece of gum and tell me that my teeth will be nubs by the time I'm 40.

I'm so irritable today I'd probably throw one of Maddie's many stress balls at her head. Or five or six of them.

Kylie Martin: Sorry, I'm only willing to do it in person. If it's not tonight or by tomorrow evening, it will be too late to do anything.

She's giving me an ultimatum. She's using a limited timeframe to coerce me into going out to dinner with her, and I don't like it one bit. Ever since my sophomore year at college, I've tried hard to avoid people who do that to me because it's too reminiscent of the boy I dated all through high school who wanted to control everything I did.

Preston had had different demands for something or another every other day, and each one was something he'd change his mind about as soon as I followed through. By the time he ended things with me he swore I was co-dependent. Looking back at the situation now, I was.

I still am.

I focus on the screen again, attempting to ignore the bevy of emotions that thinking about Preston always seems to bring about. I don't love him. Maddie says I probably never did and just went out with him because of my parental issues. Still, there's a bitter ping in the center of my chest.