So I’ll quit, she thought. I’ll quit work. I’ve got a pretty decent nest-egg saved up. I think it might work.
It was an irresponsible thought and it scared her. She figured she could work for one more month, maybe get another case or two under her belt. She’d likely have to tell Anderson and those over him about her condition if she hoped to have any sort of financial assistance—and that was yet another thing she wasn’t completely informed on, either.
Rachel did her best to shut those thoughts out, trying to focus on Paige and Grandma Tate. It worked for the most part, and she was able to make it through the rest of the evening as happy and as normal as she could. Yet, when Paige retired to bed and she was about to tell Grandma Tate just how tired she was, her grandmother stopped her.
“Everything okay, Rachel?”
“Yeah, just tired. That drive and then all of your games…it does a number on a girl.”
“You sure? I may be old and quickly coasting to the Great Beyond, but my brain is pretty sharp, still. I mentioned Peter twice today and both times, Page got quiet for about ten minutes, Sort of sad. So, I ask again…is everything okay?”
“Oh, yeah. He’s been working a lot and the last case I was on sort of took it out of me. We’ve been bickering a bit here and there, more than usual. I thin Paige has just picked up on it.”
It’s amazing and sad how good of a liar you are, she told herself.
“I think Paige might be a little scared of me,” Grandma Tate said.
“How so?”
“Not of me, really. Just…she’s aware that I’m going to die soon, so she’s treating me like I’m made of porcelain. Have you gone in deep on what exactly is wrong with me?”
“Not too deep,” Rachel said. And for a moment, she felt as if someone were tearing her heart out. it was almost like she and her grandmother were talking in code about her own condition. “We’ve talked about what cancer is and how aggressive it can be, but that’s about it.”
“Do you think it might help her a bit if she hears some of it from me?”
“I don’t know. But you’re more than welcome to try having that conversation with her tomorrow.” Secretly, though, it was the last thing Rachel wanted. She knew it was foolish, but she couldn’t help but think that the more Paige knew about Grandma Tate’s condition, the more likely she was going to be able to see right through her deceptions. “How about you?” she added. “Are you doing okay?”
“I am. Honestly, the worst part of it seems to be psychological. I feel like I’m supposed to be more upset that I was dealt this hand. But right now, I just don’t care. I’m sure that will change as my health worsens, though.” She shrugged and looked to the hallway behind Rachel. “Go on and get some sleep. I’ll be up for another hour or so yet.”
“Oh, well then I can keep you company.”
She shook her head and smiled. “No. I love you, dear, but you look like death walking.”
Rachel knew it was just euphemism for “you look tired” but it stung, nonetheless. It felt like Grandma Tate knew something, as if their cancers had telepathically linked them and Grandma Tate just knew. The feeling slid away, though, and Rachel retired to bed. As she brushed her teeth in the guest bathroom, she looked into the mirror and that comment rang over and over in her head.
“You look like death walking.”
The alarming thing was that with the recent events with Peter and Alex Lynch’s morbid gift, she was starting to feel like it, too.
***
Rachel woke up to the sounds of Paige giggling and the soft murmur of Grandma Tate’s voice. She could also hear the faint hiss of water running in the kitchen sink, and a beeping noise she thought might be the microwave. With no bedside table in the guest bedroom, Rachel grabbed her phone and saw that she had somehow managed to sleep until 8:00 a.m. Apparently, her daughter and grandmother were making breakfast.
She got dressed and ran through her morning routine—always an odd feeling in someone else’s bathroom, even if it was a family member’s house. She hurried out to the kitchen, lured in by the smell of frying bacon, cheesy eggs, and coffee.
“Hey, it’s Mommy!” Paige said. She was standing on a little footstool, helping Grandma Tate scramble a pan of eggs. “Hey, Sleepyhead!”
“Hey yourself, little chef.” She then looked to Grandma Tate apologetically. “Sorry for sleeping in.”
“Oh, shut your mouth. When was the last time you slept in past seven?”
“It’s been a while,” Rachel admitted as she fell in to help them with breakfast.
They ate breakfast together, with Grandma Tate asking Paige limitless questions about school, her pee-wee soccer league, and the sort of music and movies she was interested in. Rachel rarely spoke up, not because she was uninterested but because she wanted to make sure the two of them got in all of the conversation possible. She watched the ease with which Grandma Tate spoke to Paige, as if the death that was rapidly coming to claim her wasn’t even on the radar. It made her envious, but it also solidified her decision not to tell Grandma Tate. She had her own hell to worry about in the coming months. Why make it harder with the news of her granddaughter also being taken out of the world far too early?
After breakfast, the three of them ventured out into the little cluster of flowerbeds along the backside of the house, just below the patio—the very same patio on which Grandma Tate had revealed her cancer to Rachel less than two weeks ago. Grandma Tate showed Paige how she pruned back certain bushes, how to tell when it was time to add new potting soil to the flowers, and then had her pick a small bouquet to put on the kitchen table. Paige enjoyed every single moment of it, particularly because it was the rare occasion where she was actually allowed to get her hands filthy.
After a game of Go Fish on the patio, Rachel snuck inside to make lunch. Grandma Tate had tried to take the duty, but Rachel insisted; she wanted her to have as much alone-time with Paige as possible. Besides, lunch was going to be nothing more than ham and cheese sandwiches, potato chips, and cut-up strawberries. It wasn’t going to be a taxing process.
Yet, as Rachel was cutting the tops off of the strawberries, her phone began to buzz in her front pocket. She put the knife down and reached for the phone right away, her heart telling her that it must be Peter. He caller display, however, showed a different number. It was one she was overly familiar with and, though it instantly caused her some unease, she answered it anyway.
“This is Gift.”
“Agent Gift, it’s Director Anderson. How are things going on your end? I hope you’ve managed to find some solace after the last few days you’ve had.”
Solace, she thought. That’s hilarious. And he doesn’t even know about how things are going with Peter.
“I don’t think I’d use the word ‘solace,’ sir. Have there been any leads or connections made into who may have broken into my house and placed a dead squirrel in my daughter’s room?”
“We do, in fact, have a few leads. And once things have settled and we have some more answers, I’ll invite you into that case. As of right now—”
“I know, sir. I’d be too close to the case. Look, I really do appreciate you calling to check in on me, but I’m visiting with my—”