Chapter One: The Bailey News
It wasn’t supposed to move. The cat statuette glared back at me, its robotic purr unexpectedly echoing through the Bailey estate. Though only a mere spattering of charcoal paint, its mouth hissed me a warning.
“Interactive art,” Mr. Bailey droned on, his monotone melting into the lightly air conditioned air, “is meant to be touched only by the owner. Understand, Ms. Lyell?” I nodded solemnly, disgusted by the toy’s unnatural attempt to mimic a tabby’s meow.
“Very well then, Ms. Lyell, Karen and I must head out.” He wrapped himself in a thick December jacket and patted my shoulder awkwardly as a goodbye.
“Remember, Georgia is on a juice diet and Virginia can only have one cherry popsicle,” Mrs. Bailey reminded me.
“Sure thing, ma’am.”
“Oh and Georgia must be in bed by eight. She has a soccer game tomorrow and needs plenty of rest.”
“Yes, Mrs. Bailey.”
“Also, Virginia can’t wear her tiara anymore. It’s undignified for an eight year old.”
“Okay.”
“And--” The door graciously slammed shut on her reminder. Snatching up a quick sigh, I turned around and faced the children. Georgia, bloated with a well-fed self-esteem and apple juice, met my gaze with an uninterested yawn. Virginia, older but not much wiser, simply continued the arduous task of licking her popsicle.
“So, do you girls want to watch a movie?” was the only question my lethargic mind could shove to my lips. Unexpected smiles sprang up on their faces and they simultaneously plopped down on the alluring leather couch. I selected High School Musical to dance across their lavish plasma screen TV and left the living room to grab some snacks for the movie.
My phone buzzed at the exact second the microwave finished its polka with the popcorn, and I snatched it up desperately.
Still @ Rich House? New Year's Eve Party starting soon, Danny had eloquently texted.
Ya, sorry Danny, can’t go. See you in 2020, I replied. He shot back a frowny face and I sighed again as I poured the popcorn into a bowl. It honestly wasn’t that bad, this temporary exile at the Bailey mansion. The walls were covered with framed old newspapers, cheesy headlines like “Game Over For Atlanta Arcade” and “Say Sayonara To Sunnydale Soccer” waltzing in front of my eyes as I strolled to and fro. I set the bowl of popcorn down for V and G, before deciding to continue my exploration of their artsy estate. Peeking into the lives of rich, I practically squealed when, lo and behold, a retro Pac Man machine winked at me from inside V’s bedroom. My fingers practically pranced across the controls with childish delight as I played for five, ten, okay fifteen minutes.
If the Baileys ask, I’ll just say I was dusting V’s room, I decided, remembering how quickly their wallets awoke last time I performed the roles of babysitter and maid. A creak launched me out of my retro reverie and I quickly plastered a calm smile onto my face.
A tabby kitten, a twin of the statuette downstairs, glared at me from the hall.
“When did they buy you?” I mused aloud, looking across at the hissing hooligan. Just another Bailey accessory. New was always being replaced by newer.
The furry fiend had something tangled in its fur and, cautiously stepping towards it, I noticed the glint of a diamond ring. Oh God, if Mrs. Bailey found out--
I lunged at the kitten to snatch the ring. Fortunately, the cat was weighed down with even more exhaustion than I was and merely emitted a low hiss at my intrusion.
“Thank God,” I muttered, wiping a wispy hair off the ring. The diamond caught the cherry light from an odd light fixture and I rolled my eyes at the lengths the Baileys went for art.
My feet led me down the familiar path to Mrs. Bailey’s room. The glass ring holder lounged just where I’d left it last time, and I carefully arranged the diamond among its brethren. Though it had only been a week, the number of rings had nearly doubled, practically spilling over the side of the dish. Oddly, a recent headline itched at my thoughts: “Druid Hills’ Tiffany and Co. Destroyed in a Fire”.
Well, as the Baileys very well proved, the world ran on luck. A mere three years ago, the Baileys were holed up in a scummy apartment in downtown Atlanta. Lucky investments, Mr. Bailey boasted. Good fortune in the workplace, Mrs. Bailey bragged.
So now they coasted through life, riding the smooth currents of his investments and her odd news stories. Even tonight, they would waltz home with yet another shiny journalism award, drunkenly celebrating the extraordinary work of the oh-so-dedicated Mrs. Karen Bailey.
There had to be a crack, a flaw. A trickle of imperfection must exist in their perfect life. I yanked open a glossy drawer to find a vast collection of empty Tiffany boxes. Of course, they’d keep those reminders of their wealth.
With the help of a handy bobby pin, another drawer unveiled a box of matches and a lighter. Smoking to escape her luxurious reality. Never would have suspected that from Mrs. Perfect.
Drawer three revealed a diary.
“What a cliche!” I slurred my words, exhaustion gnawing at my brain. The words spun before my eyes, but I still caught phrases like “election” and “alternative facts” and “make it look real.”
“What are you doing?” V whispered timidly from the doorway. I instantly flung the book back onto the counter. Her thin lips trembled and she picked absent-mindedly at her knuckle.
“I was just cleaning, honey,” I lied in a sugary tone. “Your mom has so many books that I thought it’d be nice to organize them.” I paused for a second and raised my eyebrows. “Why aren’t you watching the movie?”
V scratched her knuckle harder, and I noticed her clenched hand strangling a leather journal.
“I got bored and started writing fairy tales, just like Mommy,” she explained.
“Honey, your mom doesn’t write fairy tales. She works for the Atlanta Journal.”
“No, Mommy told me she writes fairly tales.” V twisted a strand of her hair anxiously. “But when she explains it, she calls it something else. Fake news? Fake facts?”
“Alternative facts?”
“Yeah, that’s it.” I shoved down a wave of nausea and tried to steady my shaking reality.
“Honey,” caution and hesitation perched on my lips as I spoke, “what does Mr. Bailey, I mean your dad, do for a living?”
“He’s a treasure hunter.”
“A what?”
“He looks for treasure at online markets,” V replied. “Sometimes he finds riches online. Sometimes he helps Mommy by finding them in real life and bringing them home. That’s how I got my tiara.” She grinned, awakening her crown from its slumber in her pocket. “Real diamonds are so pretty.”
Deep breath. In and out.
“Are you sure about this, Honey?” She nodded and I gulped. The ruby lights glared down at me now and a familiar jingle rang in my mind. Keep your home safe, it’ll be alright, if you buy our camera light delight.
They were a bestseller around Emory University. The campus grew incredibly safe under those watchful crimson eyes. Many nearby Druid Hills residents even discussed buying such fixtures themselves.
V asked once, twice, maybe even three times if I was okay. I smiled and assured her everything was swell. Hand in hand, we strolled back downstairs, and I lifted Georgia off the couch and into her soft, silky sheets.
V said she’d go right to bed and told me to lay down on the couch: “Oh, don’t worry, Mommy and Daddy won’t mind.”
As I sank into a comfortable position, I tried to remember why I was clutching my phone. Something odd about the lights twinkled in my thoughts, but the pillows were so comfortable.
I awoke to two sets of angry eyes. Mrs. Bailey held a familiar book in her fisted hand.
“We need to talk.”