Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
I’m glad she doesn’t push me away when I tuck her in and smooth her wild hair back from her brow. The minimal fussing, that’s not too bad of a sign.
We’ll probably be cool by morning.
Once I’m sure she’s asleep, I settle on the sofa to finish up my case reports.
Usually, there’s not much to report on, but we’re in the thick of the last tourist season with a dead body. Between the suicide and two pairs of hikers getting into fistfights over prime camping spots and six different cases of shoplifting, I’ve got my hands full.
It’s after midnight by the time I make up my mind to turn in for the night.
Only, as I stand, stretching my back until my spine pops, a sharp sound clatters out front.
That icy weirdness of cold fingers scraping the back of my neck hits again.
I tense, instinctively taking a careful sidestep as I edge toward the door.
When I peer out the front window, there’s—nothing.
Predictable as hell.
But what else?
The motion sensor lights on the front porch aren’t on, either.
Just in case, I crack the door, always aware of my service pistol hanging in its holster from the coatrack. No bullets in there, certainly. I always take ’em out when I come home in case Nell ever gets curious. Still, I’ve got a clip in my pocket and I can have that gun locked and loaded in under five seconds.
Don’t think I’m gonna need any action tonight, though.
There’s nothing out there at all.
Not even a shadow twisting in the night.
Probably just raccoons or foxes, fucking with garbage cans on the curb for scraps.
They always get a little hyperactive when the tourists move in and there’s more trash around, more junk food thrown out. Night scavengers love a good feast.
Sighing until I relax, I close the door—but just in case, I trudge upstairs to peek in on Nell.
When I ease her door open, her bed looks flat.
Those cold fingers choke me as I bolt into the room, flipping the light on in a panic.
Sure enough.
Sheets thrown back.
Her backpack’s missing from the hook on the back of the door.
“Nell?” I call, racing out into the hall. Bathroom door’s still open, only she’s not in there, fuck fuck fuck. “Nelly-girl, where are you?”
No answer.
Nothing as my drumming heart becomes a block of black ice.
Fuck my life.
Nell’s run away.
Again.
4
SHE’S THE ONE (OPHELIA)
I’m amazed the house hasn’t changed in all this time.
Yet everything feels so different and that’s even more remarkable.
Sure, it’s the same split-level ranch house where I spent the best and worst years of my childhood.
Same pale-grey siding and cheerful bright blue trim.
Same covered front porch and big back deck.
The familiar overgrown backyard my mother let go wild during her last battle with cancer, only to declare later that she liked it better that way. Mom grew back tough as a weed, so she wasn’t going to cut down her weeds when they grew big and tough, too.
The last time I was here, the house was full of life and sound.
My mother, my little sister, Grant storming in and out whenever he pleased.
Up until that night he told me to run and never come back again.
Tonight, as I unpack and stuff my clothes away in my childhood bedroom, now turned into a guest room dotted with so many of my old things tucked away lovingly in the closet, it hits me.
The house is too still.
And I have no flipping clue where my sister is.
Ros barely said hello before she was gone.
Not a word about our mom, her eyes too bright, her smile too wide, way more interested in whoever she was texting than in saying hello to the big sister who probably feels like a stranger to her, considering I left Redhaven before she was grown.
And Mom... she’s at the medical center on the edge of town.
The only patient in their little three-bed cancer wing.
I haven’t been to see her yet.
I need to brace myself to see her like that again.
So for now, it’s just me.
Me and Ethan’s ghost.
He’s not dead.
He’s not.
I’ve repeated that unlikely mantra for what feels like ten lifetimes.
But every time, it sounds more desperate, more draining to believe something I know isn’t true.
I still remember the day I turned on the TV and Redhaven was plastered all over national news. It was even trending on Twitter and half a dozen true crime podcasts.
Rich, weirdo philanthropic family, bad seed, serial murders, the kind of thing that gets crime buffs panting with excitement. I wouldn’t be surprised if half the fall tourists are here hoping to get a glimpse of the Arrendells or dig around the Jacobin farm for more evidence.
Good luck with that.
Sniffing around the Jacobins is a good way to end up limping out of town with your butt full of buckshot.
I doubt there’s any evidence left, anyway.