The Reappearance of Rachel Price

Bel wasn’t smiling anymore when Ash dropped her home.

Rachel had taken Dad’s spot, her new car parked in front of the garage, where his truck lived. The truck was nowhere, so Dad wasn’t home from work yet. Fucking great. No Dad, but CNN, NBC, ABC and FOX were all here.

“I guess I’ll see you,” Ash said as she climbed out.

“I guess,” Bel said. “As I’m contractually obliged to.”

“Always a pleasure, Bel.” He flattened his hand, saluting her as she shut the car door. Trying to out-smartass her; she’d show him, next time.

Bel tramped up to the front door, ignoring the four floating reporters shouting questions at her, protected by their property line, an invisible border they weren’t allowed to cross. She pretended sound couldn’t cross it either.

Bel eyeballed Rachel’s car. Three days back and she was already taking over, muscling the rest of them out, claiming territory. Bel had made progress today—an ally, a clue—but not nearly enough. She’d need more evidence than that to reclaim her home from Rachel Price. Because that was what it would come down to, wouldn’t it? One or the other.

She slotted her key into the lock. At least she had her bedroom; the last safe space that Rachel couldn’t claim. She’d go there right now, shut herself away until Dad got back, pretend she had homework.

Bel opened the door, holding her breath, preparing to face Rachel again, though she never felt ready enough.

The hallway was clear.

Bel locked her jaw and walked through to the living room. Rachel wasn’t here either, or in the kitchen, though the oven was on, rattling in that way it did. Was Rachel not home? Maybe she went out on a walk?

Something sparked in her gut, that instinct you got in an empty house to call out, make it un-empty, but Bel pushed the feeling down, overrode it. Why would she call out for Rachel? She didn’t want to find her. This was a lucky break; she could go hide in her room without having to make excuses.

She started up the stairs, skipping the one that creaked. She paused at the top. The door to the spare room—it was important to think of it like that, not as Rachel’s room—was open, and it was empty. The bathroom door was closed, though. No sound of running water, but maybe Rachel was in the bathtub?

Bel lightened her steps, tiptoeing now, just in case. She didn’t want Rachel to know she was home, force her to reappear again.

She reached her bedroom door and nudged it open.

Someone gasped and Bel caught it too, sealing off her throat, coughing through it.

Rachel was standing in her bedroom, by the bookshelves.

“Oh, Anna,” Rachel said, her gasp breaking into a shy laugh. She’d been holding a book, now clutched in front of her heart, like a shield. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

That was because she wasn’t supposed to. And she wasn’t supposed to be here, in Bel’s room, in her safe space.

Bel dropped her backpack to the floor with a heavy thunk.

“What are you … ?” she began, unsure how to end that question, because What are you doing here? went much deeper than just her bedroom.

“Sorry,” Rachel said, feet shuffling on the carpet. “I was looking for a book, Carter said you’re a big reader. I thought I could borrow one. Hope you don’t mind.”

Bel did mind, and right this second, she didn’t know how to pretend otherwise. Rachel had thrown her off, being where she shouldn’t, heart thudding against Bel’s ribs, fight-or-flight fast.

Rachel held up the book in her hands, spinning it so the jacket flapped like trapped wings. “This is a good book,” she said. Bel recognized the green of the cover: The Memory Thief. It was one of her favorites, had been all her life. “One of my favorites,” Rachel said then, stealing that from her as well.

“It’s OK,” Bel said. “Bit boring in the middle.”

Rachel glanced down at the book, fingers running over the sharp corners and ridges of once-folded pages. “Did someone give you this book, or … ?” she said, stilted, trying to make conversation. Maybe Bel had thrown her off too.

“No, I bought that copy a few years ago. Grandpa used to read it to me when I was a kid, I wanted to read it again myself, as not-a-kid.”

“That’s sweet.” Rachel slotted the book into the empty space on the shelf, recompleting the row. “That your grandpa used to read to you.”

“He started when Dad was in jail, for your murder,” Bel said, finding her footing again, stepping forward.

Rachel nodded, chewing on her secret thoughts alone, face guarding them closely. “I should go visit him, Charlie’s dad.”

“He probably won’t remember you much,” Bel said, scoring points where she could. “He’s forgotten who me and Carter are, and we’ve always been here.”

Rachel chewed harder, the inside of her cheek, then she blinked, changing her face. “You just missed her; Carter was here. She’s very sweet, isn’t she? Couldn’t stay for dinner, but she helped me set up my new phone, actually. All done, just have to practice using it.” She moved her hands behind her back, hiding them, a click in her shoulder. “I know you were too busy yesterday. But it’s done now, anyway, and she put your number in for me.”

Thanks, Carter.

“I’ll text you, so you have my number,” Rachel continued. “You can call me anytime. You know that, right? Anytime.”

“Sure,” Bel said. Anytime, just not the last sixteen years, the years people tended to need their moms most.

Bel stepped forward again, clearing the doorway. She wanted Rachel to leave, though she wasn’t sure her bedroom would ever feel safe again now, Rachel’s mark left behind on everything she’d touched and looked at. How long had she been snooping around in here? Had she sat on the bed? Had she opened the nightstand drawer, or the closet? Had she found Bel’s collection of stolen things?

“I’m filming my interviews the next two days,” Rachel said, finding something else to say, another reason to stay.

“Cool.”

“I called Ramsey, actually, tried out my new phone.” She rubbed one eye. “He had an idea, for us to have a big family meal on Friday night, the whole family: us, Jeff, Sherry, Carter, my mom, your grandpa too, and the caregiver. What’s his name again?”

“Yordan.”

“Yordan. Ramsey will organize caterers to come in, so we don’t have to cook. You can help me pick the menu if you like. They’ll film the dinner for the documentary. That’ll be fun, won’t it? All of us together again.”

Fun wasn’t the word Bel would have gone with. But at least the house would be busy, full of voices, not this uncomfortable give-and-take alone with Rachel.

“Will be nice to have everyone around.”

Rachel smiled at her. “We could ask for anything. Steak? Paella?”

“Dad doesn’t like shrimp. Got food poisoning one time.”

The smile faltered on one side. “How was your extra-credit thing?” Rachel asked.

“Yeah, fine.”

“Ramsey mentioned that he saw you today, after school,” Rachel said.

Fuck. Bel might have caught Rachel in some of her lies, but she was about to catch her back. Unless Bel thought fast.

“Oh yeah, I went into the hotel,” Bel said, making it up as she went. “I had five minutes before the meeting, and I remembered I’d left my scrunchie there when I filmed my interview. Went to check if it was in lost and found.”

Convincing enough. No holes, unless Rachel really went looking.

Rachel nodded. “Any luck?”

“No, no luck.”

Ramsey wouldn’t have told Rachel what they talked about, right? That Bel was onto Rachel, starting to unpick her lies. No, he wouldn’t, Bel could tell from the light in his eyes; he’d seen opportunity in Bel’s suspicions. And he couldn’t be taking advantage of her if she was actually taking advantage of them. Using them to document any evidence she found, a permanent record. Scratching each other’s backs, using Ash to do it.

“Will your dad be back for dinner?” Rachel asked, finding something new to say, which meant Bel must have convinced her, covered her own tracks.

“He normally gets home earlier than this,” she said.

“It’s lasagna tonight. Store-bought. Didn’t have time to make it,” Rachel said, almost guiltily. “Do you like lasagna?”

If Bel had to answer one more time whether she liked something or not, she might just scream.

The front door slammed below.

“Hello?” Charlie’s voice rang out. “Kiddo?”

Thank fuck for that.

Dad was home, and that was good, because it wasn’t really home without him.