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 won’t have any peace until I’m sure, though.
So I keep my phone close and shove my feet into my boots, clomping down into the yard.
A quick circle reveals more nothing.
No one’s been in the backyard, either.
I’d be able to tell when you’d have to stamp down a path through the overgrowth to get anywhere but the worn trail between the back door and the storage shed.
Did I just imagine it? Or did I just have a narrow miss with an actual break-in?
Maybe I’m just being jumpy after all.
Call it stress, being back home, worrying about my mother, about my baby sister, seeing Grant again, unpacking all these frothing memories I’d hermetically sealed.
I’m so tired, and not just physically.
It’s no surprise if my brain keeps conjuring demons coming home to my doorstep.
I turn to let myself back inside, climbing up the back porch steps and—
Another rattle, this time from the shed’s direction.
I freeze, breath hitching, the air cold in my throat until it’s like I swallowed a fist of ice. Poised with one foot on the step above, I listen to the heavy silence.
This is silly.
...it’s probably just raccoons, right?
Possums. Mice. Bats.
Something normal and furry and annoying that goes thump in the night.
But I won’t feel okay until I make sure.
I’ll just check the shed, scare the critters off, and go to bed safe and sound.
With my breath rushing loudly in my ears and sweat icing my temples, I turn slowly and step back into the yard.
Every step down the path feels like an eternity. My fingertips are numb as I switch my phone over to flashlight mode.
Just raccoons, just mice.
And if it’s not, well...
I may be short, but I can kick a dude in the kneecaps—or a little higher, if I really need to.
The years spent lifting orthopedic patients early in my career would turn any girl into a beast.
Only, there’s no sign of motion when I stop in front of the shed. But what’s that?
Light?
Yeah. Just little flickers of light through the windows.
Someone’s in there.
Well, crap.
Crap, crap, shit!
Moving carefully, I peer inside the little window next to the door.
I’m expecting—I don’t know.
A teenage punk. Some creeper, or maybe one of the Jacobins doing whatever it is the Jacobins do when they stalk around the hills at night hunting and making moonshine and God only knows what else.
I’m definitely not expecting a little girl.
She’s small—no more than ten—and she’s rearranged all the old junk in the shed to make a little playhouse.
One that’s probably been there for a long time, considering the books and toys tucked on a shelf, and the nest of blankets and pillows she’s made for herself in there.
The light splashes from her bright-pink phone screen. It’s one of those kiddie things parents give their little ones that can only use certain apps and contact preset numbers.
She’s crying.
The light from the phone’s screen reflects off the bright streaks on her cheeks and shines off her tousled brown curls and soft brown eyes.
I have no idea who she is.
But I can’t ignore a crying little girl, especially not one hiding on my family’s property. So I pull the door open slowly, careful not to spook her.
“Hello?”
Her head jerks up.
“M-Miss Ros?” she gasps—then flinches back, shrinking against the wall. “Oh. Y-you’re not Ros or Miss Angela...”
“No, sweetheart.” I exhale softly.
So she knows my sister. Probably why she felt so comfortable sneaking into the shed.
I slip inside and hunker down, making myself shorter and keeping my distance so she won’t feel cornered.
“I’m Ros’ big sister, Ophelia. I came home to take care of our mom.” I hold my hand out. “What’s your name, hon?”
“N-Nell,” she stammers softly, then bursts into a wail so abrupt it makes me flinch, loud and keening as she flings herself at me.
I catch her with a gasp, rocking back with my arms full of little girl.
“Hey, hey,” I say, patting her back and wrapping my arms around her. “Hey, c’mon, Nell, it’s okay. Everything’s gonna be fine. Why are you in our shed, sweetie? Did you run away from home?”
“I-I wanna go hooome,” she howls, sobbing against my shoulder. “I-I want my Uncle Grant!”
What.
I freeze.
Her uncle... who?
No.
No flipping way.
Guess what?
Way.
It’s almost comical how some things never change in Redhaven.
Like the elder Faircrosses still having the same phone number, despite the fact that they don’t live there anymore. It wasn’t hard to get the relay going when I called to find them already frantic and on the hunt for Nell, only to loop Grant in with a gruff promise he’d be by in a few minutes to pick her up.
I’m so lost.
No idea what’s going on.
But by the time Grant’s patrol car skids into my driveway, I have Nell calmed down at the dining table, sitting with a cup of warm milk and honey.
She’s in her pajamas, her bare feet dirty. I’m just wiping them off with a wet towel when a heavy knock comes at the door.