Page 4 of The Roads We Follow

Adele:

What do you know about the meeting Mama put on the family calendar for tonight? There’s no way I can break away from the office before seven.

Adele:

Did you pick up the outgoing packages from my secretary yet? They need to go out by four. I don’t trust our new mail courier. Please confirm.

Adele:

Please get Mama to reschedule tonight’s meeting for some time after next Wednesday. Please confirm.

Adele:

Why is Hattie’s location showing she’s near the courthouse??? There’s nothing on the calendar regarding her custody appeal until next week. Are you with her? I’m walking into an important meeting. PLEASE CONFIRM ASAP.

Reality presses down on me with such force it’s an effort to switch mental gears in order to say a final good-bye to Chip as I take a step back from the table. Only, his reply comes in the form of a furrowed brow as he seems to contemplate me.

“Before you go, there’s something I overheard at the conferencethat’s been bothering me, especially in light of our conversation here today. At the risk of beating a dead horse, can I ask if ...” He stops himself and then starts again. “Does part of your reasoning for anonymity have to do with a publication rumor involving your mother?”

“What rumor?” I shake my head. “I haven’t heard anything.”

“Really?” His brow rumples further. “Interesting. I swear I heard something about a biography collaboration.”

Relief comes swiftly. “My mother would never agree to anything like that. I know that might seem odd, given her gregarious personality onstage, but my parents made a commitment early on to each other and to us that they’d keep their private lives private.” And given the fact that Adele is the reigning Nondisclosure Queen of our family, there are few people who could write anything of substance without having to go through her first. My oldest sister is a star player in both offense and defense when it comes to matters of family. “Chances are good it’s nothing more than a rumor.”

He bobs his chin twice. “Perhaps I’m mistaken, then.”

“Perhaps.” Then again,ifthere was something unsanctioned in the works and I failed to give Adele a proper heads-up, she’d skewer me. “But if you hear anything more, would you mind letting me know?”

“Certainly. I’ll keep my eyes and ears open for you.”

“I appreciate it.” I try to hold my smile even as I feel the vibration of more texts rumble against my palm again. Any chance I had of appealing to Adele’s good graces at this point are long dead and buried. “Bye, Chip. I hope you have a good trip back to California.”

I’m only a few steps away from the cardboard cut-out of my mother when I hear him call after me, “Do whatever it takes to get your book on the shelves, Raegan. Your future readers will thank you for it.”

I hesitate for the briefest of heartbeats as my mind is whisked away to a fantasy life where I can be both an accomplished author and a dependable sister. But then I look down at the leash tethered to my palm, and the spell is broken.

2

Raegan

By the time I pull through the privacy gate of Mama’s estate in Brentwood, the all-too-familiar itch on the inside of my wrist has already begun, made worse at the sight of Adele’s black Lexus parked in the driveway. Using the pad of my thumb, I rub at the pink patches snaking up my forearm and release a weary sigh—for the stress hives, for the 9-1-1 summons on my phone screen, and for the dream that felt so close to being realized if not for my name.

I slip through the front door unannounced and head straight back to Mama’s kitchen—though for the last four years, it’s been my kitchen, too, ever since Adele insisted that the best thing for Mama after Daddy’s passing would be for me to move in with her. One might argue that Mama’s longtime house manager and trusted friend for decades, Jana, who’s here five days a week plus most Sunday afternoons to swim with her grandbabies, would suffice for companionship. But arguing with Adele is a lesson in futility.

I scratch again at my forearm. My hives have crept their way past my elbow, and as much as I want to learn the reason behind Adele’s urgent texts regarding my middle sister, I will be of no use to her or anyone else if I don’t first locate some antihistamines.

I’m rummaging through the medicine cabinets when I hear Adele’s assertive tone barking orders from the living room. She’s using legal jargon I don’t understand, yet it comes as no surprise that she’s on the phone after summoning me here. Benjamin Franklin had it wrong; death and taxes aren’t the only two things that are certain in life.

Hiding behind the Pepto Bismol is a box of expired Benadryl tablets. I down two with a tall glass of water just in case expired equals less potent, then go in search of answers.Where is Hattie?I stride down the hallway from the kitchen toward the formal sitting room and library, listening for Mama’s low hum or the light sweep of her rhinestone slippers against the hardwood floors. Maybe she can shed some light on whatever drama happened today. But the only thing I hear is the low rumble of Adele’s stern voice echoing in the quiet.

As I round the corner into the parlor, the blood in my veins chills. Hattie—almost eleven years my senior and three years Adele’s junior—is passed out on the sofa, where three bulky black garbage bags are parked near her feet. Her snores are light, but the thick, dried rivulets of mascara on her cheeks are not. The rare sight of her disheveled appearance keeps my eyes locked on her still form as I move to tuck a throw blanket over her bare feet and legs, all the while searching my brain for a narrative that makes sense.

“Apparently,” Adele says from somewhere behind me, “Hattie’s custody appeal hearing was moved to this afternoon. And she went alone.”

I spin to face her. “What?”

“And she lost.”

---