Page 6 of Crashing Tides

She thrusts her hand at me in greeting, her grip firm enough to hurt. “Dominic Morgenstern, I presume.” Her voice makes my name sound melodic instead of like something from one of Mom’s old, dog-eared paranormal romance novels. “How lovely to meet you.”

“Um, hi,” I manage. My voice is still rough with sleep. What time is it? Birds are chirping, the sun is high in the sky, and I’m standing at the door barefoot, wearing a pair of torn basketball shorts and a formerly white undershirt with a spaghetti stain on the chest. Behind me, Bruce is going ballistic, yapping his little brains out, his few remaining teeth bared.

“My name is Orea,” she says. Her grin reveals pointed teeth. “I’m here from Halea University. You made an inquiry last night?”

“That was fast.” This feels like a trap. Still, I step out onto the porch, closing the front door behind me so that Bruce can’t finally earn that bite record he’s been threatening for the last fifteen years.

And, if I’m being honest Mom’s house is way too messy for guests. Especially guests as well-dressed as Orea, who would surely be horrified by the chaos hidden behind the screen door.

But she’s disappointed at this, her uncannily beautiful lips turning downward. “Oh, can’t I come in?”

I haven’t had coffee yet. The cogs in my brain squeal as they turn, but fail to produce any useful thoughts. “Um, OK.” If she’s here to talk about Mom, I should let her in.

I can’t help but think that I must look like a cave troll, leading her into a den of bones and decay when she belongs somewhere just as beautiful and ethereal as she is.

“So is this your home, or your mother’s?” Orea asks, looking all around, feigning interest in the defunct cuckoo clock and Mom’s numerous shoe racks. Bruce yells at her ankles, expertly dodging her every step between snarls.

I bend to pick him up and he screeches in my face.

“It was my mom’s,” I answer, scratching at the back of my head, self-conscious, trying to pretend like I’m not holding a chihuahua who may or may not rip my face off. “I’m trying to get it cleaned up, but it’s… not easy.”

“Oh, no,” says Orea, and her face falls, like she’s actually sad. “I’m so sorry to hear about your mom.”

I can barely remember what I wrote in that email, if I’d merely mentioned her death or fully detailed her diagnosis. “She’s better off now,” I say, and mean it. “She was really, really sick.”

Orea nods with big, sympathetic eyes. “Well, I’m here with some documents for you, and a few other things as well.”

“Do you guys always make house calls?” I lead her into the kitchen and put Bruce outside, where he starts snarling at the neighbor’s dog on the other side of the fence. Then I set about making coffee.

Orea has already seated herself at the kitchen table. “Only on special occasions,” she says brightly. She ignores the dirty plate and empty cereal box beside her with an aura of practiced grace. I’m quick to stuff them into an overflowing trashcan.

This is worse than opening the door for a cop. Somehow, I can’t stand knowing that this fae woman thinks I’m a slob.

But I am. Mom’s house was my disastrous inheritance. Now that I’ve quit my old office job and started picking up shifts at a local restaurant, it’s a lived-in disaster. Even Gretchen’s occasional visits haven’t made a dent in all the clutter and paperwork. For fuck’s sake, it’s like Mom saved every piece of paper she could possibly find. Like she wanted to live in a tinderbox.

Maybe she wanted the house to go up flames. Maybe, like the little voice in the back of my mind insists, she was hiding something so sinister that she’d rather lose the house than risk being discovered.

But there are better ways to hide things. If Mom lived inside the world’s most disorganized filing cabinet, it was the result of a mental disorder, not whatever deceit I’ve attributed to her.

I sit down across from Orea and conceal a yawn with my hand. “What’s the occasion?”

“Well…” She bends to rummage in her bag. It’s made of leather, so sleek and smooth that I suspect it cost more than my entire couch. I’m immediately, irrationally jealous.

As a rule, I don’t date rich guys. One, because they’re rude and entitled, and two, because I’m jealous and insecure. I grew up poor. I want money. I love feeling financially taken care of, even spoiled, but I’m too proud to accept it. Toys can be taken away at a moment’s notice, and I hate that kind of manipulation. Every rich asshole I’ve ever dated has tried that move.

I never stick around long enough for them to try it again.

Maybe there’s some fae in me after all, because I’ve never had a hard time landing a date. People tell me I’m magnetic. Apparently, it doesn’t matter if you’re awkward and broke if you’re also hot. I’ve been seduced into the backseats of expensive cars, rooftop patio parties, and glamorous hotel rooms, caught up in a whirlwind of money and affection and manipulation. It got so bad that one of my college roommates asked if I was planning on dropping out, at which point I stopped dating for a little while, because he was right about one thing: I went on a lot of dates with a lot of shitty men. I wasn’t focused on anything else. At some point, I was going to end up in trouble.

More trouble that I’d already gotten into, that is.

Looking at Orea’s bag, I’m transported back to that world, instantly uncomfortable.

Back at Mom’s, I’ve been shielded from the reality of my old life. The suburbs are slow and predictable. Bruce and Jolene keep me on a somewhat regular schedule. I drink more than I probably should, but I’m not going out all the time, either. At work last week, a guest wearing a Rolex hit on me. I politely told him I wasn’t interested and threw the receipt where he’d scrawled his phone number into the trash on my way to the parking lot.

I was so fucking proud of myself.

Orea reveals a cream-colored folder. Embossed in gold are the words Halea University. Beneath, there’s the gilded emblem of a tree, twisted and gnarled. She slides the folder across the table; I open it with shaking fingers.