And then I shoved that thought aside and wrote myself a note to fire my private investigator.
Tout de suite.
Chapter 7
The Texts
Chloe
Two days later, I had somewhere to be, and I needed to get into my red Evoque and get there, but instead I was sitting at my desk at the store, torturing myself by scrolling through a variety of text strings.
Text string one, Matt.
Me, five days ago: We need to speak.
Also me, four days ago: I think you know by now, you can’t avoid me forever.
And he did. He knew I’d fly to Indiana, if I had to, just to get in his face and put an end to this grudge he was holding.
Another me, yesterday: At least tell me how things are going at Purdue. Sully says you’re neck deep in studies. But your sister would like to hear from you directly. Are you all right?
Point of note, Sully was in his final year at Purdue, and before we even knew Sully, Matt had been accepted in veterinarian school there, ditching his final year of med school in LA to switch medicines. He’d started his first semester there just days ago. Boon for him, he knew someone there. Bummer for him, I’d checked (daily) and the weather there was so far from what it was in LA, it wasn’t funny.
It was a ballsy move (these not unknown for Matt to pull) that fortunately didn’t make either Mom or Dad angry at him.
They wanted him to be happy.
I did too.
I also wanted him to talk to me.
Another point of note, all those texts from me, even if there were days in between, they were back-to-back.
Matt hadn’t responded.
Still.
Text string two, Sasha.
Me, five days ago: You know you can’t hold a grudge.
Nothing from Sasha for two whole days.
I was rather proud of myself for having patience through those days before I tried again.
Me: I have Free People samples.
Sash: Really?
Important to note at this juncture that this was evidence of the advantages of a little white lie.
Me: No. But we need to go to lunch or have coffee or go eat cupcakes, do something SatC or we’ll lose our sister cards.
Sash: I’m up in Prescott. Next week?
Like it was harder for her to schedule me in her nothing than it was for me to schedule her into my whirlwind life in the Valley of the Sun.
Me: Tuesday. Breakfast Club at the Biltmore. Ten o’clock.
Sash: Yippee!
Me: [gif of Marie from the Aristocats rolling her eyes]
Sash: [gif of humongous teddy bear blowing a kiss]
Although I was upset (and let’s face it, aggravated, he really needed to get over himself) at my estrangement with Matt, I was happy Sasha was moving on.
However, the person I’d want to talk to about the file I got from the mysterious R would be Matt. That said, I would never in a million years (at this juncture) talk to him about it, what was in it, how I got it, and how it seemed Uncle Corey was still up to his bullshit machinations beyond the grave and how creepy that was even if it might also be a boon.
It also came with more emotions about Uncle Corey, ones I battened the hatches down on tightly because I was not going to go there.
But I needed to talk to someone about it, and not Mi-Young because…well, it was family stuff.
I trusted her implicitly.
Even so, it didn’t need to be said this ran deeper.
In other words, I was weighing the options of talking about it to Sasha.
However, she seemed…fragile somehow. Her usual breezy, cheery self that was her even when she wasn’t all boho but instead preppy and overachieving was still in place. She was the quintessential sunny California girl, no matter what clothes she wore.
It just seemed like a façade now.
She knew I had designs on helping Dad find some happiness (okay, plotting toward that).
But that file was something else.
The last text string was, you guessed it, with Judge.
He’d started it.
Judge, not long after our conversation: Hanging up. Uncool.
I’d ignored that.
The next morning, from Judge: Ghosting. Even more uncool.
Point of note, I prided myself on my iron will. To my recollection, of my nearly quarter of a century on this planet, I’d worked tirelessly to fortify it, starting in kindergarten, when my bestest, best, bestie Brittany was being bullied by that little fucker, Andrew. He’d push her over. She’d cry. The teacher would be all touchy, feely, let’s-discuss-our-actions, on both parts, even Britt’s, when she did nothing but be cute and shy and an easy target, and our teacher wanted this discussion when we were five.
As I saw it, the actions were, he pushed her because he was a spoiled little shit, she fell down, and it made her cry.
Even though I knew my parents would lose their minds, when I’d had enough, I did what I had to do.