Gingerly picking up the phone, she took a steeling breath before pressing Mom and listening to it ring, half praying for voice mail.
“Hello, sister,” Neale’s voice singsonged through her mother’s phone, crushing her voice mail hopes. Her younger sister still lived with their parents. She was purportedly pursuing a performance art career, but as far as Dylan could tell, she was mostly waitressing and watching her father’s collection of obscure German films.
“Hi, Neale. Is Mom there?”
Dylan felt Neale’s dreamlike thought process floating through the line before she spoke. “Not sure. I think she and Dad are installing something in the front yard.”
“So she’s in the front yard.” Dylan had learned to appreciate that her younger sister consistently sounded high. Half the time she was, but that was beside the point.
“Yeah, she is. Did you want to talk to her?”
Dylan fought the urge to say no and leave a message with Neale. But there was a good chance Neale would forget. And if she didn’t give the message directly to her mother, there was a shot she wouldn’t be able to get into the house without setting off an alarm. Her father regularly left the door unlocked because he didn’t like carrying keys on his walks, which had prompted her mother to install a keypad lock. Unfortunately, her father still didn’t lock the door most of the time, and every resident of the house habitually forgot the code. It meant her mother constantly changed the door code, resulting in a lot of false alarms and angry police officers.
“Yeah, if you wouldn’t mind grabbing her for me.”
“Mkay,” Neale said, setting the phone down with an audible clunk.
A few seconds later, Dylan heard her mother shout something at her father, then pick up the phone.
“Prodigal daughter, is that you?” Dry humor and a slight accent dripped through the receiver.
“You have two of those, Mom.”
“I know it’s you, Dylan. Billie would have called collect.” Bernice Delacroix was always direct, which was painfully off putting to most people. She was also brooding, artistic, and the exact opposite of a Canadian stereotype. Sometimes Dylan wondered if her mother fed the image so she wouldn’t have to speak with her collectors. Then again, she even treated the dog with direct disdain, so Dylan was pretty sure it was just her temperament.
“Good point.”
“So what can I do for you? I know you like to call with a purpose.”
Ignoring the jab, Dylan began, “I’ve been assigned—”
“Hang on. Henry, do not put that there! I want it front and center.” Dylan held the phone away from her ear as her mother shouted instructions to her father. Sighing heavily, Bernice continued, “Your father, I swear. You were saying?”
“I’ve been assigned to Technocore, and I was hoping to stay with you and Dad. You know, not waste company dollars and such. I arrive Friday morning.” Dylan said this as quickly as possible. Announcing her intentions tasted like cough syrup. She was beginning to regret letting Nicolas talk her out of renting a place in Seattle. It was easy for him to say their condo budget wasn’t worth the price of city rent. He wasn’t the one who had to live with her family.
“Technocore, huh? You’re working for those corporate fascists now?” Bernice labeled any company large enough to need an HR department “fascists.”
“Yup. And I want to stay under your roof while I screw over the little man.”
“Very funny. Of course you can stay. Your room is always here when you need it. I’ll text you the door code so you can let yourself in. See you soon, sweetheart.” As gruff as she was, her mother always used endearments when getting off the phone. It was as if she wanted to tell her children she loved them but despised the sentiment too much to say it, so she stuck with pet names.
“Thanks, Mom.” Setting the phone down, Dylan looked at her suitcase with less trepidation. As far as Delacroix family communications went, that phone call had been downright pleasant. She pulled on her pajamas and shut off the lights, deciding not to wait up for Nicolas, who from the sound of it was going to continue berating his associate for a while.
CHAPTER TWO
Dylan got out of the rental car and wondered, again, if she should have leased a place. The house was completely different and exactly the same. Glaring at her from the dead center of the yard was an eight-foot-tall tiger clutching a beach ball. Her father liked to let each piece “live in its space” before installing it at its final home, either in a collector’s sculpture garden or in some corporate lobby. When she was young, her father had sold a massive replica of the Marty McFly shoe to developers, who’d placed it in front of the football stadium in honor of the team’s new digs. Once someone like Paul Allen or his representative purchased a piece, a lot of other people wanted one, and her father had no problem taking advantage of that. Dylan secretly hoped the Tiger was for an investment banking firm.
“Welcome home,” Dylan whispered, pulling her suitcase toward the house and trying not to get her heels caught in the weeds growing between the paving stones that led to the front steps. She could hear the dog’s whines through the bright-teal front door as she tapped the new code into the panel. She had just enough time to pull her suitcase through the door before being pummeled by excited leaps and licks from the perro de presa, whose mass shoved her into the corner, effectively knocking her over.
“Okay, Milo, down. I love you too. No. Stop. I’m covered in dog hair and—oh God, you licked my teeth!” Dylan said, shoving the dog away and toeing off her heels before trying to stand. Milo happily slurped at her slacks and hands, leaving a big wet imprint on the side of her leg as she surveyed
