Page 53 of The Golden Hour

She shrugs. “I’m a thirty-eight-year-old woman with no college experience and a family to care for. This job pays the bills and then some. I’m very lucky.”

The words don’t ring false, exactly, but there’s a dissonance to them. They definitely don’t sound like something she would say—not the woman who warned me about the bug in my room and told me how to keep phone calls private.

Not sure how to respond, I nod.

“I’ve been here almost five years,” she continues idly. “Long enough to know how hard it was for the girls when you were gone. I know they’re very glad you’re back. Your uncles missed you as well. They spoke of you often.”

“They did?” My voice is dry.

“Of course.” Her brows lift. “They’re your family.”

I’m beginning to feel like I’m missing an entire subtext of the conversation.

The doorbell rings.

Selina smiles and stands. “That must be the doctor. I’ll let her in.”

“Thank you.”

I sit a moment more, unsettled, then stand. A folded piece of paper flutters to the floor.

“Miss Calli,” says Selina sweetly, “it looks like something fell from your pocket.”

My ears ring with adrenaline. “Oh, thank you.”

I snatch the paper up and tuck it quickly into my pocket. When I straighten, Selina watches me placidly while the doctor—a slender, WASPish woman—regards me with blatant curiosity.

“It’s, ah, my grocery list for the cook.” I flash a smile. “Gotta watch those carbs.”

Selina ducks away, silent as usual, while the doctor smiles and nods. “Absolutely.”

28

Thanks to CNN, Monday morning I learn that Vivian is campaigning out of town the next two weeks. No family dinners for me. And no heads-up from Callisto.

I want to be angry, but I can’t be. Not when, were the situation reversed, I’d probably give myself the silent treatment, too. And that’s exactly what she does for most of the first week.

She doesn’t answer the phone—either one—when I call, and I’m lucky to get a text back for every five I send. I have no idea what she’s doing, if she’s okay. The only evidence I have that she’s alive are a few live phone interviews on morning radio programs.

As the days pass, Molly becomes increasingly frantic. I hide my own worry behind my camera, taking action the only way I know how. Thanks to a few amateur stakeouts, I know the Avellino maid, Selina Hernandez, arrives promptly at the house at 7:00 a.m. and leaves at 8:00 p.m. She drives a well-kept 2000 Nissan Pathfinder with a booster seat in back, and lives in a condo complex in Encino, about thirty minutes away. Wednesday is her day off. Cramped from dozing in my car and with a pressing need to piss, I stick around only long enough to see her leave midmorning with a man and a kid maybe six or seven years old.

If it weren’t for Selina warning Callisto about the house surveillance, I’d say there was nothing interesting about the woman. But it’s somewhat of a relief to relay the information to Molly, who attacks it like a problem she’s waited her whole life to solve.

I don’t get in her way, even when she leaves Thursday evening to intercept Selina outside her condo. I trust my aunt. She’s smart, and she’s a people person. Whatever her angle she pursues, the worst thing that could happen is it’s another dead end.

Alone in the apartment, I take a shower, eat some dinner, and stare at the wall for twenty minutes before breaking down and calling Callisto’s iPhone for what feels like the eight millionth time. She doesn’t answer. I try her burner phone next, and the call is declined after the second ring.

It might be the first time a woman has declined my call—repeatedly, no less. It’s almost refreshing. If I weren’t so irritated, I might be impressed by how stubborn she is.

But what Callisto doesn’t know about me, and is about to learn, is that I’m not just a prickly asshole. I’m a tenacious, prickly asshole.

Mind made up, I grab my keys.

I’m done waiting. If she won’t answer the phone, even to give me a simple Stop calling, dickhead, then I’m going to her.

When I reach the estate, I park a half block away, then pull my beanie down low and jog to the vine-covered wall. My gaze ricochets around the dark, silent street like a certified creeper, and if someone sees me it’s a call to the cops for sure. But the threat of handcuffs isn’t enough to make me turn back. Now that I’m here, the need to see Callisto drives everything else from my mind.

Ducking behind some bushes, I pull out my phone and text her.

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