Chapter 9

Lauren

I watch Chase walk out of the McCormick Café and put down the magazine.

For a moment there, I thought he’d recognize me.

It’s a miracle he didn’t walk right over to me and take off my sunglasses, which look even more ridiculous than his, but I’m glad he didn’t.

I wipe the sweat from my brow and reach for my glass of freshly squeezed lemonade, take a gulp.

My disguise worked, but I still feel stupid, maybe more so than when I first put on my mother’s old scarf.

What on earth am I doing in this quaint little café in Billings dressed like an extinct movie star and acting like a poorly trained spy?

I almost gave up. When I got to Billings and realized how big the city was, I almost headed back to the ranch. When I couldn’t find any sign of Chase after an hour of driving up and down streets aimlessly like some lost, little girl, I was ready to quit.

But then Chase exited Dad’s truck and I steeled my nerves, followed him right into this café. I picked a table just a few feet away so that I could eavesdrop on whatever conversation he’d have.

I didn’t hear much, the women at the table next to me too noisy. All I heard was the name Elsa Donahue, who I’m guessing must be Chase’s mother. The obituary didn’t mention a wife, after all, and I’m relieved.

I set aside my feelings, though, try to keep my head straight.

Donahue, huh? So that is his real last name.

The guy Chase spoke to is busy on his phone. James. That was what Chase called him. He looks about the same age as Chase but he’s not as toned or as handsome.

Who is he? A friend?

If he is, then he must be someone Chase trusts because he came all the way here to meet him and he gave chase a phone. He definitely doesn’t look like a brother since his hair is dark and Chase’s is light, plus their features have completely different profiles, Chase’s sharper, more masculine. They could be cousins, though.

He may have all the answers I’m looking for. But I don’t have the courage or the conviction that it’s the right decision and while I’m still trying to build both, his phone call ends and he stands up.

Acting on instinct, I stand up and go after James. As he goes down the sidewalk, I walk behind him, keeping myself a short distance away, not too close as to arouse suspicion but not too far that I might risk losing him.

He slips into the driver’s seat of his Honda Civic. I look across the street at my car, but it’s too far away. I hail a cab, tell the driver to follow it, instead.

The driver, a man with silver streaks in his brown hair, hesitates but complies after I hand him a five-dollar bill.

The cab follows the blue Civic down Montana Avenue and across another street. I sit in the backseat, gripping my purse in my lap and holding my breath.

After a few minutes, the passing buildings beyond the window vanish, giving way to rows of cookie-cutter houses, each with a light gray facade, a dark gray roof, and a lone shrub on its tiny front lawn. The only difference is that some have pools in the front yard, kids splashing around in them. Others have grills while some have cars out in the driveway.

I thought one of these houses belonged to James but apparently, I’m wrong, the suburbs soon fall behind us, tall trees on either side of the road. The traffic disappears as well, along with all the noise. All that’s left now is James’ car and the cab heading down a winding, desolate road toward the mountains, the leaves of the trees rustling in the breeze.

Where are we going?

Finally, after countless turns, the Civic goes down a private road, paved still but smaller.

The cab stops.

“I’m not going there,” says the driver, shaking his head. “The Donahues won’t take kindly to anyone who trespasses on their property.”

My eyes grow wide. The Donahues?

I lean forward. “This is the way to the Donahue residence?”

The driver nods.

I look out the window but all are trees.

“Are you sure?” I ask.

“Sure as hell,” he answers. “I read about them all the time in the papers. They’re the richest family in Billings, maybe one of the wealthiest this side of the Mississippi. Surely, you’ve heard about them.”

I shake my head, my eyes still gazing into the distance. “No.”

Chase is from one of the wealthiest families in America?

“Well, are you going down or should I take you back to town?”

“Do you think you could wait for me?”

He turns to me, places his arm around the back of the passenger seat. “Listen, lady, I’ve got other places to be. If you need a ride home later, use Uber.”

Right.

I take a few bills out of my wallet and hand them to him. “Thank you.”

“Take care.”

I get out of the cab, standing by the side of the road as it turns around and drives out of sight. Then I take a deep breath, pull my scarf tighter around my head, and begin walking in the direction the Civic has gone.

There are only trees, and each minute feels like an eternity. The voice in my head which whispers that this is a bad idea grows louder. I’m about convinced, but when I’m about to turn back, a house waxes ahead.

I walk faster, my heart pounding. Then it stops as my shoes skid to a halt on the pavement, my jaw dropping as my eyes grow wide behind my sunglasses. I lift them up to the top of my head, looking more carefully at the house in front of me.

No, not a house. A mansion.

Through the forbidding bars of the black iron gates, I catch a glimpse of a three-story stone mansion with a jade roof, twin opposing staircases leading up to the front porch. Arched, white French windows peek between colossal marble pillars, the largest one above the front door, dividing the house into the left and right wings. Each wing has a balcony on the third floor, its balustrades matching those on the staircases.

I close my mouth and swallow the lump in my throat.

This is where Chase used to live?

I rest my back against the trunk of the nearest tree.

I suspected Chase had a secret. After that visit from Detective Allen, I knew he wasn’t who he was saying he was. Still, it never crossed my mind that he’d be a billionaire. Rich, maybe, but not this wealthy.

My hand goes to my forehead, my head spinning as I try to digest my latest discovery.

Holy shit. The man I’ve been fantasizing about, the man who… I did all those dirty things within the woods last night… is a billionaire. He’s from a family of billionaires. Most likely, he’s never had to work a day in his life. Not until he came to Little Peace Ranch.

Why did he come to Little Peace Ranch?

His background may explain why he doesn’t know how to cook but it doesn’t explain his injuries or the obituary or why Detective Allen was looking for him.

What else is he hiding?

Back at the house, James’ car is parked beside a stone fountain centered around a sculpture of a grizzly bear. James isn’t inside the car, though, which means he must be inside the mansion.

I wait for him, for answers to my questions, braver now. After an hour, though, I begin to worry.

What’s taking James so long? Why isn’t he coming out?

I force myself to relax, taking deep breaths. Maybe James is having a long chat with Chase’s mother. Or maybe he’s looking for something Chase asked him to find and he’s having a hard time finding it. For Chase to come all the way to Billings in disguise, he must have wanted James to do something important for him.

Another hour passes. My worry increases, some of it turning into fear.

The fact that Chase was wearing a disguise means that he’s hiding from some people here in Billings and if he didn’t come here himself, it means he’s not sure he’s safe here. What if James isn’t, as well?

And if James isn’t safe here, if he’s made a mistake of coming here, then I…

A heavily built man all in black, including black sunglasses, strides from the house, and takes a position on the front porch.

I hide behind the tree and slip my sunglasses back on.

That man didn’t look like the butler.

Shit. What have I done? I knew this was stupid but only now does it sink in that I’m doing something dangerous.

What on earth was I thinking?

Seconds later, a vehicle trundles from the mansion, and the tall gates creak as they open to let it pass. I hold my breath and press my back against the tree trunk, desperately hoping to blend against it.

The vehicle passes – a black van with the words Renaissance Inc. on it, muffled sounds coming from inside.

I watch it go even as my curiosity is piqued. I can’t follow it on foot. Even if I can, I don’t have the courage. The hairs on my arms stand on end.

I’ve had enough of playing spy for a day.

I wait until the van’s out of sight, until the gates have creaked closed. I wait a few minutes more after, peeking to check if that man in black is still there.

He’s not.

There’s still no sign of James, either, but I’m done waiting. I start walking toward the main road, briskly, looking behind me every now and then. I can’t wait to get out of here.

Finally, I reach the main road. I pause to breathe but I’m not relieved yet. I take out my phone and book a car on Uber.

After what seems like an eternity of standing there, praying that no one sees me, the car comes. I slip inside and heave a sigh of relief, direct the driver to bring me back to Montana Avenue.

As the car heads back to the city center, I do a quick search on my phone, typing Renaissance Inc. Billings.

Something immediately comes up and when I click on the page, it tells me that Renaissance Inc. is the premier private facility for mentally disturbed people in Northwest America located right outside Billings. There’s an email address, but there isn’t anything else.

What would a van from a mental institution be doing at the Donahue mansion? And who was it taking away?

“You’re not from here, are you?” the driver, a man in his thirties with a double chin sticking out of his collared blue shirt, asks.

“What?”

“Well, you look like you came from the Donahue mansion, which means you’re either a friend of the family, which you don’t look like, or you’re a tourist who thought of taking some pictures.”

“Oh.” I lift my sunglasses slightly so I can wipe the sweat off the sides of my nose. “Yeah, I’m a tourist.”

“So, were you able to take pictures?”

“No.” I put my sunglasses back in place and sit back. “They wouldn’t open the gates.”

The driver chuckles. “Of course, not. The Donahues are a snobby bunch. They like keeping things to themselves. Then again, all rich folk are the same, I guess.”

I say nothing, putting my phone back in my purse.

I keep quiet for the rest of the trip, listening to the radio. The car goes through the suburbs once more, the pools and grills now hidden away, more cars in the driveways. Soon, we’re back at the city center, the sound of cars, of kids playing in the park, of people chattering on the sidewalks, and of music streaming from the shops strangely providing me with a sense of comfort and security.

“Thanks,” I tell the driver, paying him once we get to Montana Avenue. “Good day.”

“Take care.”

I walk to my car, pay my parking ticket, and drive off. A farm girl like me can only take so much of the city.

My thoughts fly ahead to home. I left a note for my father but he must still be worried about me, and cross, especially after last night. And what about Chase? Is he back at the ranch already? Is he looking for me?

I look out the window, noting that the sky is already blushing.

I step on the gas. Gotta get home before dark.

Just as I’ve passed the city limits of Billings, though, the sign for Renaissance Inc. appears.

The voice inside my head tells me to drive past it. Another tells me I might as well check it out. I still haven’t learned anything new about Chase, after all.

I listen to the latter, deciding I don’t want to go home empty-handed. I turn my car down an unpaved road, which is lined with a row of white fences and flanked with vast, deserted fields on either side.

The road stops at another mansion, grand like the Donahues’ but older, wooden, the Renaissance sign creaking from its iron chains as it sways in the breeze. The windows, though large, are covered in bars and dark curtains and only a few lights upstairs are on.

I grip my steering wheel and swallow. Am I really going to enter this place?

I square my shoulders. I’ve let James slip through my fingers before. I won’t let that happen again.

Taking a deep breath, I get out of the car and climb up the front steps. The front door is open, the screen door unlocked. I push it open, walking down the hallway and entering the first room on the left. It looks like an office, a nurse behind the desk, her eyes fixed on the computer screen in front of her and fingers furiously tapping the keyboard.

I take off my sunglasses and clear my throat.

“How can I help you?” the nurse asks without looking at me.

I sit on one of the chairs in front of the desk, fingers fumbling with the hem of my blouse. “I’m here to see a patient. Last name Donahue.”

The nurse stops typing, staring at me.

“What did you say?”

“Donahue,” I repeat. “I’m here to see…”

“We have no patient with that last name.” She continues typing, eyes back on her screen. “Also, visiting hours are almost over and you can’t visit without an appointment.”

“I won’t take long.”

She looks at me, an eyebrow raised. “Ms…”

“Cole,” I supply with the first last name that popped into my head.

“Ms. Cole, let me say it one last time. There is no patient named Donahue at this facility.”

I wrap the cotton around one of my fingers. “I…”

“I suggest you go home, Ms. Cole.” She sits back in her leather chair. “We’re very busy here.”

And very rude.

I stand up. “I understand.”

I walk out of the office. Just as I’m about to go out the front door, though, an alarm sounds throughout the house, a red light flashing on the wall. The nurse from the office rushes out, running down the hall.

This is my chance to find out if she was telling the truth.

I walk past the office, and to the stairs which lead up to the second floor. I climb them. The alarm blares, so no one will hear my footsteps.

I hit the top of the stairs and enter a sitting room.

The sky is purple now, the lights in the room off. But I make out the crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, coated in cobwebs.

Porcelain dolls stare from a shelf on the wall, their lifelike glass eyes weighing me from beneath curved lashes. What a place, damn. Creep-factor five thousand.

Clutching the front of my blouse, I walk down the hall that’s dimly lit with yellowish bulbs, the floorboards creaking beneath the carpet. I pass by the first set of doors, the one on the left closed but the right one open, the light on.

I pause to look inside, my nostrils catching the strong scent of disinfectant. My eyes grow wide as they rest on the hospital bed with thick leather straps, a tray of syringes, vials, and tools beside it. I step back, a hand clamped over my mouth as I let out a gasp.

The voice in my head that was discouraging me earlier screams louder, telling me to leave the place now.

Still, I continue, my shaking fingers grazing the dusty walls. The next door is also open but slightly, the lights off. I push it wider and grimace: there are cobwebs on the ceiling and a layer of dust on the furniture.

Doesn’t anyone clean here?

I cover my mouth with a handkerchief as a sneeze tickles my nose, but the folded square of fabric falls from my fingers. I kneel down to pick it up and dust it off. I straighten and blink, then jerk back.

The word HELP is scrawled along the wall behind the door. In blood.

I get out of the room as fast as I can, leaning on the wall with a hand on my chest, which feels tight as I struggle to breathe.

That’s it. I’m leaving.

I go back in the direction I came from, but a woman’s soft sobs stall my steps.

Against my better judgment, I turn around and continue down the hall. I hold my breath, adrenaline pumping through my veins, preparing me to flee or fight, my senses heightened.

The sobs grow louder. They’re coming from the room at the end of the hall, the name on the clipboard by the door saying Donahue.

Jackpot.

I knock on the door. “Mrs. Donahue?”

She doesn’t answer. She’s still sobbing.

I place my hand on the doorknob, twisting it. It turns, the door opening with a soft click. I step inside, finding the room lit by a lone table lamp. This room is dusty, cobwebs everywhere, but no blood.

The walls are bare, actually, and so is the room. The only pieces of furniture are an old rocking chair, the round table with a lamp, the closet, and the single bed with pale blue sheets.

Beside the bed, there’s a woman sitting on a rug on the floor, her arms wrapped around her legs, which are folded against her chest.

I kneel in front of her. “Mrs. Donahue?”

She lifts her head, her blue eyes meeting mine through the veil of straw-like hair. This can’t be Chase’s wife.

She’s much older than him and looks a lot like him.

His mother?

I swallow the lump in my throat. “Are you Mrs. Donahue?”

She nods, fingers wrapping around the diamond-studded pendant of her necklace.

I study her face more clearly, noting the rings under her eyes. My chest grows even tighter.

This is the face of a woman who’s been through hell.

I reach for the pouch of tissues in my purse, pulling a sheet out and handing it to her.

She gets it, blowing her nose.

“Who brought you here?” I ask her.

“Terrence,” she answers, her voice trembling like mine. “The house belongs to him now. Everything belongs to him now.”

I don’t recognize the name but take note of it.

“What happened?”

“I’ve lost everything.” She sniffs. “First, I lost my husband, then my son. I have nothing left.”

“Your son?”

“Chester.”

My breath catches, another lump forming in my throat. So she is Chase’s… Chester’s mother.

And she thinks he’s dead?

“Mrs. Donahue, Chester isn’t dead,” I tell her.

Her eyes grow wide.

“I don’t know who told you he was dead, but I saw him today. He’s alive. He’s working at a ranch in Big Timber.”

“Chester? Alive?” Her hand touches her chin, her eyes flickering with hope.

“That’s right.” I give her a weak smile. “I’ve met him. He’s doing fine. He’s…”

Mrs. Donahue’s hands grip the front of my blouse. “You’re lying.”

What?

I shake my head. “I swear I’m telling the truth, Mrs. Donahue. Why would I lie? I…”

“You’re lying!” She pushes me toward the floor as she rises to her feet, towering over me. “How dare you talk about my son? How dare you speak as if you know him? How dare you act like he’s still alive?”

“But he is.” I scramble to my feet. “Mrs. Donahue, your—”

“My son is dead!” she bellows, throwing her hands to her sides. “He’s gone!”

I step back, shaking my head in disbelief.

Why? Why won’t she believe me?

“Mrs. Donahue…”

“My son is dead!”

She picks up the table lamp and hurls it into the corner. It explodes, shards sparking off in every direction.

“He’s dead! He’s been taken from me! My baby was taken from me!”

She collapses to the floor, her hands gripping her hair. She sobs, hiccups, sobs again.

Footsteps track down the hall.

I step back against the wall, staying still as three nurses enter the room. One of them throws her arms around Mrs. Donahue and the other removes a syringe from her pocket.

The third, the same nurse from the office spears me with anger. “What have you done?”

I gulp. “I…”

“Get out!”

She grabs my arm, dragging me down the hall and down the stairs all the way to the front door. She throws me on the front steps then shuts the door with a bang, so loud the front windows rattle and the sign beside it shakes.

I pick myself up, dusting my knees and running to my car, starting the engine as soon as I’ve slipped into the driver’s seat.

I drive away, and the creepy mansion fades in my side mirror. My hands shake on the steering wheel, my knuckles as pale as my face. A tear trickles down my cheek, and I brush it off.

I thought I’d find answers. I thought I’d discover Chase’s secrets. Instead, I’m more upset and confused, more lost than ever.