Tessa sits up fully, the remnants of her champagne buzz fading. Jane Shepherd only gets snippy when something is on her mind.
The late hour, the liquor, and now snark. A trifecta that has all of Tessa’s alarm bells ringing.
“Whoa. Not judging, just surprised, that’s all,” she says carefully.
“I’m sorry,” Jane replies a moment later. “I didn’t mean to snap. I’ve been a little under the weather lately.”
Concern knits Tessa’s brows together. “Have you seen the doctor?” she asks, suspecting the answer.
“It’s nothing to worry about, sweetheart, and that’s not why I called anyway.”
“All right,” Tessa says slowly. Her mind is racing with possibilities, none of them good.
“It’s about my birthday,” Jane says finally.
That’s the last thing Tessa expects, but a far cry from the potential disasters she’s been imagining.
“Mom, if you’re not up to it, we can postpone until you feel better. Reservations can be changed. I may have to call in a few favors to trade out the theater tickets, but that’s not the end of the world.”
“I’m not postponing, Tessa. I’m not coming.”
It takes a moment to process the full implication of her mother’s words.
“But . . . why?” Tessa asks, taken aback by the wave of hurt that washes over her. “We always . . .”
“Not anymore,” Jane says, her voice bristling with determination.
Tessa is speechless. She casts her gaze around her apartment. It’s neat, tidy, and very, very solitary. Most of the time that’s okay, but the week her mother spends with Tessa in the city brings a warmth into the space that sustains her.
It’s little enough to ask, especially since Margot has her the rest of the year.
The thought is so selfish that Tessa determinedly pushes it away. She’s a grown woman, not a jealous child.
“This year, instead of me coming to you, I want you to come home to Linlea,” Jane says.
A cold sliver of fear pierces Tessa at these words.
“This has gone on long enough,” Jane says. Her voice has a practiced rhythm. She’s rehearsed this. “It was a mistake to allow you girls to continue this ridiculous estrangement, and I should have put a stop to it years ago.”
Tessa stands, wraps her arms around herself, and paces her apartment, an attempt to stave off the sensation of being cornered. She counts her breaths—one, two, three—a trick that sometimes holds the anxiety at bay, but it has little effect.
“I can’t do that, Mom. You know I can’t,” she says quietly. “Please don’t ask me to.”
Jane is silent for a moment. Tessa stops breathing altogether, hoping her mother will reconsider.
“I’m not asking, Tessa. I’m telling you. I expect you here. One week, at home, with your family. Your entire family.”
Unconsciously, Tessa reaches to her throat. She grips the brass key on a gold chain her mother gave her the day she left. Tessa knew then she wouldn’t be back for a very long time, if ever.
Jane had slipped the chain with the small key from around her own neck and placed it on Tessa’s. It was the first time she could recall seeing her mother without it.
“I’ve had this for as long as I can remember,” Jane said with a soft smile. “I’ve never known what it unlocks, but I suppose the mystery is part of the appeal. Take it with you, Tessa. Let it remind you that you always have a home to come to, no matter how far life takes you.”
Even as her mother said the words, Tessa wondered if that was true.
“Mom, I can’t come home. Not if Margot’s going to be there.” Her sister’s name catches in her throat.
“You can. You will. And so will your sister. This is coming to an end.”
“You act like any of this is up to me. It’s not.” Tessa’s hands are trembling, and she wonders if another drink might not be such a bad idea. “She doesn’t want me there.”
“How would you know? The two of you haven’t spoken since you were eighteen.”
“I know because we haven’t spoken. She doesn’t want me there!” Tessa takes a deep breath, forcing her voice into a reasonable tone. “And I don’t blame her. Would you want to see the person who almost killed you?”
But even the truth, as inelegant and painful as it is, doesn’t deter her mother.
“That’s an excuse you’ve hidden behind for far too long, sweetheart. You’re going to have to do better than that.”
3
The next morning Tessa’s head is pounding. She’d like to blame the champagne, but suspects it stems more from her mother’s unsettling ultimatum.
After a restless night, she drifted to sleep in the early hours of the morning only to jolt awake gasping for breath. She was falling, her sister’s name stolen from her lips by the wind rushing past. It’s a dream she’s had many times.
But that isn’t how it happened. It wasn’t Tessa who fell.
She squints at the coffeepot, presses a few random buttons, hoping for the best, then fumbles in a drawer in search of a bottle of aspirin.
There’s a mountain of work waiting in her office. Contracts to look over for the upcoming project, production notes to file for the previous one. Phone calls to make and appointments to keep. Tessa’s not up to facing any of it.
Her mother has turned on her. Turned on her and her sister both. Ironically, the person Tessa would most like to talk to about that, the one person who would understand, is Margot.
She sighs. Twisting off the cap of the bottle, she palms two white pills and washes them down with water from the tap. It’s not the first time she’s ached to hear her sister’s voice. It won’t be the last.
Her phone buzzes, vibrating its way across the kitchen counter. Tessa groans and briefly considers tossing it into the East River. But the satisfaction of watching it hit the water, even in her fantasies, is swept away by the same sensation of falling that overwhelmed her dreams.
She turns and checks the number. It’s not Margot. Of course it’s not. The logical part of her stopped expecting that years ago, but she’s yet to convince her heart.
Tessa presses the button to accept the call.
“Morning, Anne,” she says, with a forced brightness that she doesn’t feel.
Tessa’s false cheeriness is wasted. The greeting is barely out of her mouth before her assistant says in a strained voice, “Have you been online yet?”
“No, I just got up. Why?”
Anne pauses. “You might want to sit down.”
The video is shaky is Tessa’s first inane thought, and the last coherent string of words she’s able to pull together as two minutes and seven seconds of deepening horror play out across her computer screen.
When Oliver Barlow’s face comes into focus, she gasps. How long has it been since she’s seen him? A year? More? His face is gaunt and pale. Prominent cheekbones stand out above a scruffy, unkempt beard. Locks of greasy hair frame red-rimmed eyes.
It isn’t the face of a free man, living his best life. It’s the face of a prisoner of war.
“My name . . .” His raspy voice breaks, and he stops to lick his lips. His gaze darts at something unseen behind the camera, then he starts again. “My name is Oliver Barlow. You think you know me, but you don’t.”