Derek the architect would probably take a carton of smokes and a five-dollar bill for the loft by now, but Jason doesn’t need to know that. Call it my repayment for the way he took my personal cell number and never called me for another late night hookup. “Sounds decent,” I say. I tear my gaze away from Jason’s gorgeous baby blue eyes and glance over the paperwork Jen had prepared for me months ago. It’s a standard offer form with the loft’s address and information already filled in. Somehow, I feel like I don’t know what I’m looking at. But I do know. I’ve known for years.
With my favorite Sharpie pen, the one with the chewed up cap, I write a four and a nine and one zero. My eyes blur and I blink to clear them but it doesn’t help. Come on, Robin. Three more zeros, then a signature here and here and it’ll all be done.
Grandpa would be proud. He’d tell Derek the architect that he knew I could sell the loft, I just needed a little extra time. He would smile and hug me, and—
Is that what he would do?
My hand shakes as it hovers over the paper. Three more zeros. Why can’t I write three zeros? A rush of images flies through my mind, bending and twisting every bit of my subconscious until I can’t think straight. Memories of the night grandpa died.
“Promise me you’ll never sell another house,” he had said. Why? Why couldn’t I sell another house? I shake my head to clear the thoughts, but it only makes them grow louder in my mind. Just write the three damn zeros, Robin. You can do this. You’ve been writing zeros all your life. With an extreme amount of mental focus, I write one zero and then two more so close together it looks like an Olympic logo. But at least it’s done.
Why is my vision still blurry?
I glance away from my desk, trying to focus on something farther away. Jason eyes his watch, rubbing his finger over the massive glass face. I can see him, but I can’t somehow. He’s out of focus, and my heart runs cold and fast and does something – something weird.
I’m having a heart attack. I gasp for a breath as my left hand slaps over my chest. I’m feeling for a pulse, for a heartbeat, for anything to assure me that the soaring pain under my ribcage isn’t real.
“Are you okay?” Jason’s closer to me now, but I still can’t see him clearly. My nose tingles and my face starts to go numb. I promised Grandpa I wouldn’t sell any more houses. It was a lie, but still. I said the words and he believed them. And I’ve never believed in ghosts in my life but right now it feels like he’s right here, shaking his head at me in brokenhearted disappointment.
The pain in my chest turns to a light fluttering as I push out of my chair and race for the closed door. Everything goes purple and splotchy and I’m going to pass out. I will pass out right here in front of Jason, who’s seen me naked but hasn’t seen me sprawled out dead on the floor, in my non-designer clothing with my ugly panties because the rest were dirty, and oh freaking god.
I cry out for help, I think. I don’t know what I say. My heartbeat hurts my eardrums. Someone’s arms wrap around me and squeeze me tight. Someone’s voice whispers in my ear and says nice things. I don’t know what the fuck is going on. I still can’t see and my whole body is numb.
All I know is that I will not be selling this property. Or any property, ever again.
Chapter 5
My entire condo of personal possessions fit into seven of the twenty large U-Haul boxes I bought with my U-Haul rental. And one box is just purses. Talk about a total lack of stuff-size to box-size ratio. All of my furniture is on a one year lease from Suzie’s Staging and Home Organizing and although I’ve always felt like she didn’t give me the real discount she had promised when I moved in, I couldn’t be happier with my decision now.
It’s eight o’clock when I finish packing. I haul the first of the seven boxes to my door, only to freeze in panic when I reach the doorknob. Only one person knows I’m moving out, and that’s the middle-aged woman in the rental office, who likes me so much she gave me back my deposit without checking out the condo for damage. I’m not particularly chummy with anyone in this complex, but I also don’t feel like answering the one question everyone will ask if they see me.
Because I have no idea why I’m moving. It just feels like the thing to do. I don’t need my job anymore, not that I could even go back now after the fallout with Maggie. Money isn’t an issue. What do you do when money isn’t the issue? This is what people dream of their whole lives, and now I have the opportunity to pack up and run away with no cares at all and I’m only twenty five.
It could be the right thing or the wrong thing to do, but I won’t know until I actually do it. And the rush of driving my SUV with the U-Haul traveling along behind it, not knowing where the hell I’m going, is keeping me from calling the whole thing off. Worst case, I will just find another place in Houston to live.
Best case, I’ll discover why Grandpa did this to me.
Dropping the box at the front door, I decide to wait another hour or so to take them outside. Yeah, right. As if moving in the middle of the night doesn’t make me seem even guiltier.
The black leather couch feels cold when I sit on it. Not cool to the touch, but cold as if it’s shunning me, as if it’s not my couch anymore because I’m moving. It knows I’m a traitor. That terrible feeling comes over me again, starting as a tight clenching in my chest and the more I think about it, the more it spreads into my entire body. I feel sick.
A slight tapping sound catches me off-guard. My foot stops tapping in a nervous motion on the floor and I sit up, my ears straining to hear the sound again. And it happens again, only this time it’s so loud I bolt up from the couch and throw my hands up as if preparing to fight. Who is at the door? No one visits me at this time of night. A murderer probably wouldn’t knock…
Tiptoeing across the room, I grab my phone and prepare to dial 9-1-1. Then I creep to the front door, taking tiny footsteps. The knocks grow louder. Whoever it is really wants me to open the door so they can slash my throat. Okay, yeah, so I don’t know when I became so morbidly terrified of simple things, but I did.
I peer through the tiny peephole in the door.
I let out the breath I’d been holding. It’s Miranda, my niece.
I twist the deadbolt to the unlocked position and pull open the door cautiously. “Miranda?”
She’s standing there with a dejected look, her brown hair mousy and in unwashed tangles around her face. I’ve never seen her like this. Granted, I don’t see her much at all except on holidays and occasionally when Maggie brings her to the office, but this girl won Class Favorite the last two years in a row and maintains a straight A average. What does she have to be dejected about? Her plaid pajama pants are frayed and dirty at the bottom and her tattered flip-flops have seen better days. On a closer look, her eyes are swollen and red. Something is not right.
She looks at the floor. A pained expression flickers over her face. “Could I come in, maybe?” she asks. Her voice is small with a weak thread of hope.
“Of course.” I throw the door open and step aside, feeling like a total ass for making her wait in the hallway so long in the first place. What the hell is wrong with me?
She grabs a fat backpack off the floor in the hall and pulls it inside with her, looking around the room with curiosity as she walks inside. I don’t think she’s ever been to my condo before. Maggie has only been once, and that was to give me a ride to work when my car broke down.