Strangers We Know

Strangers We Know SUSPICIONS BOOK ONE AMANDA TRAYLOR FLORENCE & REYONOLDS Contents 1. One 2. Two 3. Three 4. Four 5. Five 6. Six 7. Seven 8. Eight 9. Nine 10. Ten Also by Amanda Traylor About the Author One I leaned back into the well-worn leather of my Churchill reading chair and closed my eyes, listening to the haunting compositions of Max Richter pervade my study. A crackling fire warmed the room against the biting San Francisco January outside. It had been a brutal week—the new normal it seemed—and I tried to relax. I tried to find solace in my overpriced bourbon and the soft cadence of the contemporary classical minimalism. Still, as I was most evenings, I was pervasively restless. Harry often teases (though I think he’s being serious) that my stress is what holds the very fibers of me together. That if I allowed myself a moment’s reprieve from the rat race of my over-committed, over stressed life, I’d simply crumble to pieces like shattered glass. After more than twenty years at my side, my jovial husband knows they very essence of me better than I know myself. Dr. Patel had assured me that there was nothing serious—Harry’s cancer hadn’t taken a turn. He was only run down. With the stressors we’d been under, Dr. Patel suggested a quiet weekend at a healing retreat would aid his recovery. I wasn’t one to buy into unconventional healing methods usually—I suppose running a cutting-edge pharmaceuticals company tends to steer you away from all the woo-woo stuff—but in this case, I was certainly willing to accept any and all suggestions. It might be my family’s money that kept this house going, but Harry was the rock that held our family together. I felt a tightness in my chest at the smallest flitting thought of this old house without his laughter. No, I couldn’t do any of this without him. He needed to survive. We needed him. I opened my eyes and looked about the formal room—once a drawing room for whatever great family built this house in 1920—during that bygone era of prosperity for San Franciscans before that great chasm of depression ripped the country apart and the world collapsed. Harry and I rarely sat in here anymore unless we were entertaining guests whose character matched its genteel self-importance. But there was something about its consistency that helped calm me. Now the only light came from the antique Tiffany lamp beside the baby grand piano at the other end of the long room, and, in spite of Max’s evocative melody, I was aware, as never before, of the sounds from the San Francisco street outside. The rush of wind, a car streaking past, the frantic piping of a ship’s whistle, a man’s voice, hoarse and furiously pontificating about face masks. Even up here in Pacific Heights, we didn’t escape the pandemonium of the city and something about the chaotic cadence of it all made me feel vulnerable, as though even in my own home, I couldn’t escape the disorder. My desire to escape to the country house was fiercer every day. I eyed my silent phone as my fingers twitched to snap it up and scan the news feed. I was terrified the story was going to break at any moment. I don’t know how I had let it come to this. People’s lives were in the balance, and I had been too distracted to notice. I had trusted the wrong people. But that didn’t matter to the public. My name was on the approval forms and that’s all the media would see. It all suddenly felt too much. Even Richter’s music was about to drive me mad as the piece reached a crescendo. I just wanted quiet. I wanted to pour a stiff scotch and sink into bed with a good book. I commanded the stereo system to turn off. I was met with the overwhelming soothing sensation of quiet. It was quickly broken by footsteps pattering down the old wooden halls. Shortly, Inessa’s blonde head peered through a crack in the study door. “Hello, Val,” she said, her Russian accent still as prominent as it had ever been. I think she held onto it purposefully. She was a tall, wiry woman with an ageless quality about her, although I was confident she was a few years older than I was. Her dark eyes were encased with the subtle lines of age, and her thin cheeks were pulled tightly against high cheekbones. Her short, wheat-blonde hair curled up like dried petals. She might have been pretty once, but she was the kind of woman who never gave herself much attention, dedicating her entire life to serving others. “Evening Inessa.” “Is there anything I can get for you before I retire?” “You do too much already.” She chuckled a pleasant, harp-like note. “I know how hard you work. Someone has to take care of you while you’re saving the world.” I smiled gratefully. Saving the world. If only our critics shared her sentiment. (ADD: a few hundred words about the company. Some scandal, tension) It wasn’t in her job description, but I was in that moment tempted to have her fetch me a nightcap. I smiled and shook my head. “No, thank you. We should both call it a night.” Inessa had been with us for nearly fifteen years now, since Zara was just a girl. She’d initially come to teach Zara piano, but now I wasn’t even sure what her job description was anymore. A Jill of all trades, I supposed. An invaluable member of the house, regardless. Always there to make sure things just happened. A second mother to Zara, really. I was aware of my own shortcomings, and she’d done well to fill in the gaps. It’s not that I didn’t want to be there more for Zara—but that’s the thing about working mothers, isn’t it? “Then, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll head to bed,”