The Secret Diary of Helen Blackstone
Author: Michele Pariza Wacek
Date: 2018-04-17 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Historical Fiction; Paranormal; Mystery; Short Stories; Fiction; Horror
Description: In 1929, Helen Blackstone is forced to do the unthinkable—return to her childhood home. A place full of secrets and lies … where her mother had gone mad. Helen had hoped she had left those dark days behind her, but when her brother is threatened, she uncovers a shocking truth that changes everything …

Contents

1. The Secret Diary of Helen Blackstone
2. Copyright
3. May 15, 1929 — On the train
4. May 15, 1929 — In the carriage
5. May 15, 1929 — Night
6. May 16, 1929 — Morning
7. May 16, 1929 — Late morning
8. May 18, 1929 -- Night
9. May 19, 1929 -- Late morning
10. May 22, 1929 -- Afternoon
11. May 22, 1929 … Supper time
12. May 25, 1929 -- Afternoon
13. May 25, 1929, Midnight
14. May 26, 1929 -- Late morning
15. May 27, 1929 -- Evening
16. May 28, 1929 -- 2:03 am
17. May 28, 1929 --continued
18. May 28, 1929 -- Night
19. June 1, 1929 -- Afternoon
20. Author note
21. Chapter 1
22. Chapter 2
23. Chapter 3

The Secret Diary of Helen Blackstone

The Secret Diary of Helen Blackstone Copyright 2018 by Michele Pariza Wacek

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any matter or by any means, electronically or mechanically, including photocopying, recording, retrieval system, without prior written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in a review.

For information, address Michele Pariza Wacek, PO Box 10430, Prescott, AZ 86304 or info@michelepw.com

May 15, 1929 … On the train

“A brand-new diary for a brand-new start.”

That’s what Mrs. Johnston said to me, standing on the train platform as she pressed this little leather-bound blank journal into my hand. “A gift. For your years of loyalty and service."

I didn’t have the heart to tell her the thought of a diary made my stomach turn.

Mother had a diary. When I was a child, she would spend hours scribbling in it.

Hours and hours.

Until the day she went mad.

No, no, no. I’m not going to think about that now. Especially since with every clack of the train’s wheels, I crept that much closer to the place it all happened.

To Hell itself.

That’s enough.

I would never get through the summer if I allowed myself to entertain such fanciful thoughts.

Besides, didn’t I want to see my little brother again? And Father? It’s been almost five years since I’ve been back.

Of course I wanted to see them.

Time heals all wounds, after all. Just look at me, writing in this diary right now.

I almost threw it out after I boarded the train, but something (good manners, most likely), stayed my hand. I stuffed it deep into my bag, vowing to get rid of it one way or another (perhaps give it as a gift?), and turned my attention to my book.

But, the closer we got to Redemption, the more my thoughts kept straying back to the diary. I could feel my fingers start to itch, suddenly desperate to fill its blank pages with thoughts and feelings.

Maybe it will help me sort out how I feel about returning to Redemption. Right now, it’s such a jumbled mess in my head. I don’t think it would be smart or prudent to see Father feeling like this.

Maybe this diary isn’t such a bad thing after all.

Oh, the train is slowing down. My stop is coming up. I better get my things together. I’ll write again later.

May 15, 1929 … In the carriage

Oh, diary. Seeing my father again was worse than I imagined. This whole trip is worse than I imagined, and I’ve only just arrived.

My father was waiting for me on the platform when I got off the train. At first, I didn’t even recognize him. He had lost weight and his suit (at one time fine, now tattered and worn), hung on him. His face was pale and gaunt, and I could smell the whisky on his breath.

“Helen,” he said, his voice not exactly greeting. “You’re early.” It sounded like an accusation. He glanced down at his gold, tarnished pocket watch. “Your brother should be here shortly. We’ll wait for him.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice to speak.

As a child, my father had been an imposing figure, strong and handsome. The man who stood in front of me looked like a broken shell—a sad imitation of what my father once was. I didn’t want to see him like that. I wanted nothing to do with the stranger in front of me. Every part of me wanted to flee—to get back on the train and never come back to Redemption ever again.

Instead, I swallowed hard and forced my thoughts to my little brother. He would be almost a man now. It was hard to picture that; In my head, I still saw the solemn little boy with the big brown eyes that followed me everywhere I went. After Mother had gone mad, I had more or less raised him. Father spent his days working and his nights locked in his study. If it hadn’t been for Cook and Gertrude, I don’t know what would have happened to us.

I turned to scan for the incoming train and tried to ignore both Father sneaking a drink from the silver flask he hid in his coat and the stares from the crowd. Some people seemed surprised to see us, but others were openly hostile. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw more than a few people whispering to each other, their gloved hands covering their mouths, eyes bright with gossip.

It was hard to blame them. But that didn’t make it any easier to be the center of their sharp, hungry judgments.

“I’m here,” a surly voice from behind us said. I turned to see my baby brother, now taller than me, with a sullen expression on his face. His face was thin, all angles, with no hint of the chubby cheeks and baby fat I so loved. But his dark brown eyes, fringed with long lashes, were still the same.

“Edward,” my father said. “We didn’t see you get off the train.”

“It’s Henry now,” my brother said. “You know this. I’ve told you.”

My father’s face darkened. “Your name is Edward Junior. Henry is your middle name.”

“Henry is the name I go by now,” Henry said. His face mirrored the same stubborn expression I remembered all too well from when he was a child. Inwardly, I sighed. There would be no reasoning with him about his name. I’d best get used to calling him Henry.

He focused his attention on me, looking me up and down. “Hello, Helen. It’s good to see you.”

“Good to see you, too, Henry,” I said, mirroring his flat tone. I tried not to let it hurt that he sounded so cold.

“Helen? Edward? It’s so good to see you.”

I turned to see Aunt Esther. She was softer and rounder than I remembered, but her eyes were just like Mother’s.

“I had heard you two were coming home today, and I was hoping to greet you.” She shot Father a reproachful look as she leaned closer to kiss my cheek, smelling of lilies and honey. I caught my breath as a wave of homesickness crashed over me. She even smelled like Mother.

“Esther,” Father said stiffly.

Esther tipped her head slightly in acknowledgment. I found myself recalling how they barely tolerated each other when Mother was alive and were openly hostile after she was gone.

“Edward!” Aunt Esther turned to my brother. “You’re a man now.”

“I go by Henry,” he said, but his tone was much warmer than it had been before. A faint pang of jealousy washed over me. Why hadn’t he greeted me that way?

“Henry. A fine name. Your great-grandfather was named Henry.” She gave Father another unreadable look before kissing Henry on the cheek.

“Excuse us, Esther, but we must be on our way,” Father said, taking a quick, final glance at his watch before tucking it back in its pocket.

“Of course, I’m sure you must be exhausted after your trip.” Aunt Esther smiled at both of us. “Let’s plan a visit soon.”

“Yes, yes,” Father said hastily, gesturing for us to follow him while pushing Aunt Esther aside. She frowned at him before melting back into the crowd. “Shall we go? The carriage is over here.”

“Carriage? With horses?” I asked in disbelief. “When did we get horses?”

“What happened to the car?” Henry asked.

“Today we have a carriage,” Father said sternly, his tone indicating in no uncertain terms the discussion was closed. “Come along now.” He moved swiftly, leaving Henry and me to struggle with our bags.

“Here, Helen, let me help,” Henry started to say, but another voice interrupted, as a firm hand took my bag from me.

“I’ve got it. Hello, Edward.”

“Henry,” Henry said automatically.

I looked up to see James smiling down at me. His warm, honey-colored eyes pored over me, making my stomach feel all gooey and sticky. He reached up to push a hunk of dark brown hair off his forehead, which immediately flopped back into place. “Helen, it’s so good to see you.”

“James,” I acknowledged, ducking my head as a faint blush touched my cheeks. All I could think of was how he used to pull my braids when we were in school together. “It’s nice to see you, too.”

“Where have you been these past few years?” he asked, his steps matching mine, even though his legs were so much longer, as we followed Henry and my father. A part of me was glad he was there to help deflect some of the speculative looks, even if those looks had intensified with his arrival. “Rumor has it you’ve been working as a governess? In Chicago?”

“Yes,” I said, keeping my face carefully turned away so as not to look at him. There had been a time, in the not-so-distant past, when the thought of a Blackstone working as a governess would have been unbelievable. But, times have changed. Henry had been sent to school and I sent to work to help pay for that school.

“Are you back to stay? Or are you looking for another position?”

“Neither,” I said. “Henry has just finished school, and my father thought it would be appropriate for me to return for a visit.”

James’s forehead creased in a slight frown. “Oh, I had heard … well never mind.”

I glanced quickly at his face, wondering what he had heard, but his expression was politely blank. I didn’t have a chance to ask, because we had almost reached the carriage.

I had never seen this carriage before, nor the pair of sturdy plow horses hitched to it. With a sinking heart, I wondered if it was ours. The paint was peeling, a few of the boards were cracked. Clearly, it had seen better days. I had to be careful to not catch my skirt on an exposed nail as I stepped in.

What was going on?

As Henry joined my father on top to guide the horses, I was left alone with my thoughts.

While it was true that Father had struggled with his business ventures after Mother went mad, I had always assumed there was plenty of money, and that Father sending me to work was more of an excuse to get me out of Redemption.

Now, I wasn’t so sure.

I was so busy fretting about our financial situation that I barely registered the scenery outside until a familiar street caught my eye.

Oh, no. We couldn’t be going back there. Could we?

I pounded on the side of the carriage and stuck my head out the window. “Father!”

“What?” His question was brusque, like I was bothering him.

“Where are we going?”

“Home.”

“Home? What are you …”

“Helen. That’s enough. We’ll talk about it when we arrive.”

I put my head back into the carriage, stunned into silence.

We couldn’t possibly be going back there.

Back to that house.

The house where mother went mad.

The carriage is slowing down, I’ll write more later.

May 15, 1929 … Night

I can hardly keep my eyes open. I really should be in bed right now, but my thoughts are still swirling around so madly I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to sleep. Maybe if I write down what happened, I’ll finally start to relax.

Yes, I really am back in the house of my childhood. “The Mad House” is what all the locals called it. Mad Martha’s ghost still haunts it to this day.

How could he bring us back here?

He had promised to sell it.

He promised!

Instead, he refused to meet my eyes as he helped me out of the carriage. “Helen, it’s just the way it has to be for now,” he said, cutting off my protests.

“But … ”

“Enough,” he said.

Silently, I reached up to take my case from him. Once all the bags were off, he swung back into the driver’s seat.

“I’ll be back after I return the horses and carriage,” Father said to me. “While I’m gone, you can get supper ready. You’ll need to help out. Gertrude and Cook only come in four days a week now. They’re both too old to be here full time.”

“When will they be here?” I asked, letting his little lie slide unchallenged. If he was borrowing a carriage and we were still living here, then it wasn’t Cook and Gertrude’s age that kept them from working full time. However, I was anxious to see them both, and not just because I missed them.

“Tomorrow,” he said, taking a quick swallow from the silver flask in his pocket. “Your rooms are the same. I expect you can get yourself settled in properly before supper.” He scooped up the reins and clicked his tongue. The horses shifted their weight and began to plod away.

“Horses and carriage,” Henry exploded next to me. “If he had to borrow something, why didn’t he borrow someone’s car?”

“I have no idea,” I said, although privately I wondered if it was because of the alcohol on his breath. I wondered where he was getting it. This wasn’t Chicago with a speakeasy on every corner. Could he be making it? Oh, dear God, was there a still in our cellar? As a child, Father was constantly jumping into business opportunities. Men would visit at all hours of the day and night, sitting in his smoke-filled study drinking fine wine and brandy as they put together deals.

What bigger opportunity is there now during Prohibition than moonshine?

I pushed those thoughts away. Enough of that. Right now, I have enough on my plate.

“Well, that’s just great,” Henry snapped. “Just great.” He grabbed our bags and began to haul them across the yard.

“Henry,” I called out, but he ignored me, muttering to himself as flung the front door open and charged inside.

I followed slowly, wondering how bad the state of disrepair would be. I wasn’t much of a cook and was already dreading being in charge of the kitchen on days that Cook wasn’t here, but also being in charge of the cleaning? No wonder Father sent for me.

Luckily, my fears were unfounded. The downstairs was in much better shape than I had imagined, and I could feel myself starting to breathe easier.

I made my way to the kitchen and was relieved by what I found. The larder was stocked. Cook had even left a cold chicken and leek pie for me to reheat. Bless her.

I set about lighting the stove and preparing a simple meal that included buttered carrots and turnips to go with the pie before making myself a cup of tea. I was just sitting down to relax and enjoy it when I heard the quiet click of the front door. Father was home.

‘I’m in here,” I called out. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

No answer. Instead, I heard footsteps and the click of another door closing.

He must have gone into his study. I tried to swallow my disappointment. After Mother had gone mad, he had spent all his time in his study, ignoring Henry and me.

Nothing had changed. I tried to drink my tea, but it tasted like tar in my mouth. I felt like a decade had melted away and I was right back to being the terrified little girl trying to make everything look fine on the outside while screaming on the inside.

I focused on the tasks in front of me. Setting the table. Putting the food out. Pretending that this was all normal.

As it turned out, I shouldn’t have bothered. Neither Henry nor Father joined me for supper. I ended up eating alone at the table, listening to the creaks and groans of the house.

They sounded like footsteps.

Were the stories true? Was Mother really haunting this house?

Enough. It’s time for me to go to bed. After a good night’s sleep, this will all look much better in the morning.

May 16, 1929 … Morning

Oh diary, I had the most disturbing dream last night. I dreamed of Mother. She was standing in the middle of the sitting room with her back to me, her hair swept back in an old-fashioned bun. Her shoulders heaved, as if she were crying.

“Mother, is that you?” I took a tentative step toward her. It couldn’t be her. It wasn’t possible.

Unless she was haunting the house.

She didn’t respond, her shoulders continuing to heave. I took another couple of steps closer. “Mother? Are you crying?”

Suddenly, she froze. She slowly straightened, her back still to me. “You again,” her voice growled, full of malice. “You know what you did. You stole from me. You ruined my life. Why can’t you leave me alone?”

“Mother,” I gasped. “It’s me. Helen. Your daughter.”

Mother whirled around, her face stricken. “Oh, my darling, Helen. Is it really you? You shouldn’t be here.” Her face darkened. “It’s not safe.”

“Father brought me,” I said.

Her face twisted. “Edward? Of course, he would. He never cared about anyone other than himself. Why would he care if his children were in danger?”

“Mother, you’re frightening me,” I said.

“You should be frightened,” she snapped. Then her expression shifted again. “Is your brother here?”

“Yes, he finished school.”

The color drained from her already pale face. She looked so young, it was hard to believe she was my mother. She didn’t look much older than me.

“Oh no,” she whispered. “Helen, you must protect him. You have no idea how much danger he’s in. Promise me. Swear to me.” Her voice was fierce.

“I p-p-promise, I’ll protect him,” I stuttered. Her beautiful face was in agony. I couldn’t bear to watch her in such pain.

“You must find what was stolen. Promise me, Helen.”

“I don’t understand. Find what? What was stolen?”

Her face was frantic. “Promise me you’ll find it.”

I didn’t know what to say. “I promise.”

Her expression softened. “You were always such a good girl, Helen. I know you’ll do the right thing. No matter the cost.”

I wanted to ask her what she meant, what cost she was talking about, but I found myself awake in my bed. The sun was rising, filling the room with a soft, golden glow.

What did the dream mean? Was Mother really haunting this house? It’s been years since I’ve thought about Mother, her soft hands, her scent of lavender and honey …

Her madness.

I must stop this thinking. I’m sure my dream meant nothing. It was probably just a reaction to me being overtired from traveling and the stress from being back in this house. I need to stop being so fanciful and go do something practical, like get breakfast started.

Although I do wish I didn’t feel so … off. Like something isn’t quite right.

Enough of this nonsense. I have things to do.

May 16, 1929 … Late morning

Diary, what a strange start to the day it’s been.

The house was quiet as I made my way down to the kitchen, so I assumed I was the only one up. I made myself a cup of tea and saw that most of the leftover chicken and leek pie, and all the vegetables, were gone. I felt such relief. Father and Henry must both have eventually eaten last night after I had retired to bed.

I boiled some eggs, made toast, wrapped both up to keep them warm, and set out butter and Cook’s famous raspberry jam. An easy breakfast that would keep no matter when Henry and Father got up, even if the toast ended up getting a little cold.

I was peeling an egg when Henry appeared at the door, his hair mused, his eyes still sleepy. “Morning,” I said. “Help yourself. Would you like tea?”

He nodded, sitting down and piling his plate with food.

“How did you sleep?” I asked, putting a cup in front of him.

I was expecting a noncommittal answer, but instead he smiled. This secret, sly smile.

I didn’t like it.

“Very well,” he said, buttering a piece of toast, his eyes gleaming with unspoken thoughts.

I settled back down in my chair, trying to keep my expression neutral as Mother’s warning from my dream flashed in my mind’s eye. “I’m happy to hear that. I didn’t sleep so well.”

I expected him to ask for more details, or at least acknowledge what I said, but his smirk just seemed to grow bigger as he shoveled toast and eggs into his mouth. “Got any bacon?” he asked, his mouth full. “I’m starving.”

“Maybe,” I said, getting up as if to look in the larder, although I already knew there was bacon there. I just didn’t want to cook it. “What about if I just boil some more eggs?” I was going to need more food anyway for Father.

He didn’t answer. Actually, he didn’t even appear to be listening to me his attention focused solely on his food and whatever was entertaining his thoughts. He even let out a little laugh.

I found myself slamming and rattling the pots and pans louder than I needed to, wanting his attention. Wanting him to ask me what was wrong. Why wouldn’t he talk to me? I was his sister. He hadn’t seen me in five years. Before he went to school, we were close. What had happened?

Henry continued to eat, oblivious to my antics in the kitchen.

The longer it went on, the angrier I became. How dare he? I was just about to confront him when Father shuffled in.

“Just coffee,” he said. It looked like he was dressed in the same threadbare suit he had worn yesterday.

“What about breakfast?” I asked. “There’s eggs and toast.”

“Coffee,” he said impatiently. He reached for a mug, his wrists looking painfully thin poking out of his suit, before realizing I had only made tea. “Where’s the coffee?” he asked, his voice sharp with disapproval.

I hurried to the larder to find the coffee beans. “I can make some now,” I said. “Why don’t you sit down while I …”

“Never mind,” he snapped. He put the mug down with a loud clunk on the counter. “I’ll be in the cellar. Call me when it’s ready. Do NOT come down.” He paused to glare at me. “Did you hear me? I’m talking to both of you. Do NOT come down to the cellar under any circumstances. Understand?”

“Yes, Father,” I said.

“Edward?” he asked, raising his voice.

Henry didn’t respond.

“Edward? Did you hear me?”

“My name is Henry,” Henry said.

Father’s eyebrows came together. “This is such nonsense. Answer me. Do you understand about the cellar?”

“Yes,” Henry said sullenly.

Father gave us both one final glance before removing a key from his pocket to unlock the heavy padlock across the cellar door. Dear Lord, there WAS a still in the cellar. I would have to confirm with Gertrude. He disappeared down the steps, closing the door with a firm click.

“This is nuts,” Henry muttered, getting up with a jerk. He left in a huff, leaving me alone with a pan full of eggs, a stack of toast, and a dirty kitchen.

What a start to my visit.

May 18, 1929 … Night

Oh diary, I know I haven’t written in a few days. It’s been just a flurry of activity as we get settled into our new routines, but now I can’t wait any longer. The strangest thing just happened and for the life of me I don’t know what’s going on.

But, first, I need to get you caught up. Cook and Gertrude have been Godsends. I don’t know what I would have done without them. The moment Cook saw me, she engulfed me in a giant hug. Oh, how I missed her hugs! She smelled like sugar cookies and fresh bread, so homey and comforting. She’s made sure I’ve had plenty of easy-to-prepare meals, so I would have no trouble putting hot, healthy meals on the table for the three of us.

Although, it didn’t seem like I should bother for Father. He never joins us. He spends all his time in his study or in the locked cellar. When I confessed my fears about what Father was doing down there to Gertrude, she shook her head, her lips pressed together tightly.

“Best not to think about it, pet,” she said.

My heart sank.

I do my best to prepare sandwiches and leave them for Father, worrying he doesn’t eat enough. I have no such worries about Henry. All he does is eat! On more than one occasion, it has occurred to me that if Father had been joining us for meals, we would have run out of food.

Yet, despite how much he eats, Henry still seems way too thin. Almost like he is losing weight (which is impossible, of course).

And he’s so pale. He has no color in his cheeks. I encourage him to join me outside, for a walk in the garden, or to even sit in the sun, but he refuses, instead spending all his time in his room.

What is he doing in there? If I didn’t know better, I would think he’s mooning over a local girl, what with that eerie, goofy smile on his face, but he never leaves his room.

Gertrude tells me not to worry, saying boys his age often act irrationally. But, I notice the concern in her eyes when she doesn’t think I’m looking.

What is going on?

At least I have Cook. And Gertrude. Not only to talk to (the days they don’t come I am terribly lonely), but between the two of them, they keep the house running smoothly. I am especially amazed by Gertrude. Despite her obvious elderly appearance with her tight iron grey curls and wrinkled face, she almost single-handedly keeps the entire house neat and tidy. And she does it all in just four days! I still have the day-to-day, although I talked Father into bringing in a woman to help with the washing twice a week (he grumbled about it, but I was insistent). Overall, maintaining the household isn’t nearly as taxing it I worried it would be.

But, maybe it would be better if I had more duties. As it is, it seems like I have too much time to fret, especially about Henry.

Maybe that was what had disturbed my sleep the other night. Nothing else makes any sense. All I know is one minute I was sound asleep and the next I was wide awake, the light of the full moon turning my room into a silvery grey.

The house was still and quiet. What woke me?

I had no clue.

At first I tried to fall back asleep, but I quickly discarded that idea. I was too awake. Perhaps a cup of tea would soothe me.

I slid out of bed, wrapped myself in my dressing gown, and eased myself out of my room. The hallway was dark, and all the doors were closed. Hopefully that meant Henry and Father were asleep.

As I drew closer to Henry’s door, I realized his door wasn’t shut after all. I reached out to close it, certain it was an oversight, but something made me pause and push it open a few inches to peer inside.

His room was empty.

Well, that didn’t mean anything. Maybe he had trouble sleeping as well and was in the kitchen getting something to drink.

I tied my dressing gown tighter around me as I hurried down the stairs, trying to push down a niggling sense that something was wrong. I was being foolish. It was nothing.

He wasn’t in the drawing room nor the kitchen. Where could he be? That feeling of “wrongness” grew bigger.

I found him standing in the middle of the sitting room, his back to me.

“Oh, my goodness Henry,” I said, pressing my hand to my heart. “You gave me such a fright. Couldn’t you sleep? Shall I make you a cup of tea?”

He didn’t answer. Just stood there silently.

I took a step closer. “Henry? Did you hear me?”

He didn’t respond.

I could feel myself getting angry. What was wrong with him? Why wouldn’t he talk to me?

“Henry,” I said firmly. “Answer me.”

He turned then, his profile grey in the moonlight. “I can’t find it,” he said.

“What?” I couldn’t possibly have heard him correctly.

“I can’t find it.”

“Find it? Find what?” I asked impatiently. “It’s the middle of the night for heaven’s sake. What are you looking for?”

“I can’t find it,” he said, and I could hear real fear in his voice. “If I don’t find it, I’ll be punished.”

“Punished?” I asked, completely bewildered. “What are you talking about? Did Father say something to you?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he started to walk forward, his limbs stiff and jerking.

I opened my mouth to ask him again what was going on, when it hit me—Henry must be sleepwalking. Betty, who was one of my wards, used to sleepwalk, and she looked just like him with those twitchy movements.

I took a few steps forward and put my hand on his arm. His skin was hot to the touch and I could clearly feel the bone sticking out. How could he still be so skinny with how much he ate? “Let’s go back to bed,” I suggested in a low, soothing voice.

“Where is it?” Henry muttered. “I must find it.”

I tugged at him gently. “Let’s go back to bed.”

He turned his face toward me, his blank eyes a cloudy grey in the moonlight. “You’re protecting her, aren’t you?”

I stopped myself from asking him what he was talking about, reminding myself he was asleep. “Henry, we should go to bed.”

His voice went up a notch. “You were always on her side, you know. Never on mine.”

“Whose side? What are you talking about?” Maybe I could humor him as I tried to lead him back to bed.

“She’s mad, you know. Quite mad.”

I froze. “Henry …”

“Stop calling me that. It’s not my name,” he hissed.

I recoiled from him, dropping his arm like he had burned me. “Henry!”

Suddenly, he started blinking, raising his hands to his face. “Helen? What …? Why am I here?”

Oh, thank the Lord, he’s awake. Sweet relief shot through my veins. “You were sleepwalking.”

He frowned. “Sleepwalking? I don’t sleepwalk.”

I went to take his arm. “It’s not important, let’s go back to bed.”

“No, that can’t be right,” he insisted. “I can’t be sleepwalking. That’s not what she said …” He clamped his mouth shut.

Instantly, my ears perked. “She? Who’s she?”

He lowered his eyes. “Nothing. No one.”

My hand squeezed his arm painfully. “Yes, it is someone. Who is it?”

He winced, refusing to meet my eyes. “It’s nothing. Just a dream. Let’s go to bed.”

“Henry …”

He shook off my hand and as he did, something on his arm caught my eye. I snatched it again. “Henry! How did you do this?” A long, jagged cut zig zagged across the delicate underside of his forearm. It had an angry, puffy redness to it that made me think it was infected.

He yanked it away, holding it awkwardly against his side. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing? Did you look at it?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” I snapped, all my patience dissolving into worry. “Let me at least clean it and bandage it for you. It looks infected.”

“I’m fine,” he insisted, backing away from me, still refusing to meet my eyes. “I’m going to bed.”

I ran after him. “Henry, stop. Stop shutting me out. Let me help you.”

He paused then, turning his head to look at me sideways. “No one can help me,” he said, his voice somehow both empty and desperate. “Don’t you understand? The evil that was done. Nothing can be done.”

Something about his tone, his expression, the hopelessness of it all, silenced me like nothing else he had said.

I watched as he turned and left the room. A few minutes later, I heard his footsteps on the stairs, heavy and wooden.

What was happening?

May 19, 1929 … Late morning

Oh diary, I didn’t think it could get any stranger than it already had, but I was wrong.

Over breakfast (after a sleepless night), I asked Henry again what had happened. I also wanted to get a better look at his arm, but he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt.

He chewed a piece of toast, refusing to meet my eyes. His face was all planes and angles, way too thin and pale, except for the bags and dark circles under his eyes. It hit me then—maybe last night wasn’t the first time he had sleepwalked. When was the last time he had slept through the night?

I was about to ask him again when he answered. “Do you think this house is haunted?”

My hand jerked, sloshing my tea onto the table. I had expected more denials, more insisting he was fine, not this. “That’s what they say in town.”

“What do you think?”

I focused on wiping up the spilled tea. “I think you were sleepwalking.”

His voice lowered. “Have you seen her?”

My cleaning slowed, then stopped. In my mind’s eye, I saw Mother in the middle of the sitting room, shoulders heaving with silent tears, telling me Henry was in trouble.

Is this what she meant?

“Mother is dead,” I said calmly, even though I could hardly breathe through the twisted knots in my stomach.

“Does that mean you haven’t seen her?”

It’s just a dream, I told myself. I couldn’t tell him about a dream. That would sound foolish. “Have you?”

“You just said she was dead. So, how could I have seen her?”

“Who died?” Father stepped into the kitchen, fixing both of us with his unblinking stare.

I lowered my eyes and concentrated on buttering my toast. “No one.” Henry got busy with his eggs.

Father’s eyes shifted suspiciously between us. “What were you talking about then?”

“Nothing important,” I said. “Coffee is on the stove for you.”

He studied us a minute longer before heading to the stove and pouring himself a cup. His hands trembled as he poured and he almost spilled, but he managed to catch himself and replace the pot before anything happened. “People talk about a lot of nonsense in town,” he said, stirring in milk. “I trust I raised both of you to have better sense than to listen to any of it.”

“Yes, Father,” I said.

Henry mumbled something that sounded like “yes.”

“Good,” he said, putting his spoon on the counter. “Because the last thing we need is to entertain any silliness in this house. We all should have better things to focus our attention on.”

“Of course,” I said.

Father took a sip of coffee and headed to the cellar. The moment the door clicked shut behind him, Henry was pushing himself out of his seat. “I’m done.”

“Henry, you haven’t finished your breakfast.” Not to mention we haven’t finished our conversation, I wanted to add.

“I’m not hungry,” he said, and left the kitchen before I could protest any more.

May 22, 1929 … Afternoon

Something is not right with Henry.

Despite eating a ton of food, he appears to be shrinking, every day dissolving into a bag of bones. The circles under his eyes seem permanent.

He refuses to let me examine him, but every day I see new marks on his body. Bruises. Cuts. Despite the heat, he continued wearing long sleeves to stop me from pestering him.

Clearly, there’s something very wrong, but I don’t know what it is or what to do.

But, the worst part was the stench.

It was yesterday when I began to smell it. Like something rotten. Fetid. At first, I assumed something had died in the house—maybe a rat or a mouse. I started searching all the nooks and crannies. Henry refused to let me in his room, said he would search it himself.

I found nothing.

The smell intensified. I asked Father to check the cellar. Henry still refused to let me into his room.

I got so desperate, I hid upstairs and waited for him to leave. I knew eventually he would end up in the kitchen grabbing a snack, because Cook was downstairs baking his favorite cookies and the sweet smell was battling the scent of decay and rot as to which would rule the house. The combination was making me slightly nauseous, but I suspected Henry would have a different reaction. I had a feeling the lure of freshly-baked cookies would wear him down at some point, I just knew it.

Finally! His door cracked open and out he came. As soon as he had descended the staircase, I hurried to his room.

The moment I opened the door, I started gagging and had to hold my handkerchief over my nose until I yanked a window open.

There were piles of clothes stained with blood and sweat on the floor. The bed reeked of body odor. I quickly stripped the bed and scooped up the pile. The sooner I got this in the wash, the better.

“Oh, my dear God in Heaven, that smell!” Gertrude was standing at the door, her hand over her nose.

“I know, I’ve got to get this washed. Can you put clean sheets on?”

“Of course.” She went to the linen closet to pull out new bedding. “Where is it coming from?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. There didn’t seem to be enough blood and sweat to have caused this bad of an odor. Was there a dead mouse in there too? I did a quick check in the closet and under the bed and I didn’t see anything. None of this was making any sense.

I took the soiled items down the stairs, trying to hurry past the kitchen before Henry saw me, but too late. I saw his eyes widen when he realized what I held in my arms. “What are you doing? Were you in my room?”

“Henry,” I tried to interrupt, to pacify him, but he was already on his feet, his pale face flushed an angry red.

“You can’t do that! You can’t go into my room!”

“But, Henry. The smell,” I tried to say. “Don’t you want clean clothes?”

“I don’t want clean anything,” he shouted, and stormed up the stairs. I heard him yelling at Gertrude to get out before he slammed the door. I could only hope she finished making the bed before he threw her out.

What was happening?

May 22, 1929 … Supper time

Oh diary. No one has shown up for supper and I have no appetite, even though the roast lamb, new potatoes, and buttered peas Cook prepared smell wonderful.

Henry has locked himself in his room. He refuses to come out or even talk to me. I don’t know what to do anymore.

Cook said little, simply giving me a quiet hug, before she left. Gertrude, however, hung back, adjusting a few knickknacks and pulling a couple of dead leaves off a houseplant.

“Did you need something?” I finally asked, looking up from setting the table.

Gertrude pressed her lips together. “He doesn’t look right,” she said. “You need to get into his room. Look at his eyes. He’s not well.”

I sighed, suddenly feeling exhausted. I pulled a chair out and sank down into it. “I think his arm is infected.”

“It’s more than that. He’s burning up with fever.”

It was true—his eyes had that glassy, feverish appearance. “I don’t know what to do. He won’t let me examine him.”

“You must!”

“What do you want me to do?” My voice had a sharpness to it I didn’t much care for, but my worry had taken over. “Break down the door?”

“If you must.”

I shook my head, my tiredness pulling on me again. “I’ll do what I can when he comes down for supper.”

“I don’t care for his looks at all,” Gertrude said, darkly. “He …” her voice trailed off, and she turned around to fetch her bag.

“He what?”

She gave her head a quick shake. “Just … don’t wait. The sooner you get him treatment, the better.” She slipped out of the kitchen, leaving me alone with my huge meal and unanswered questions.

What had she been about to say?

May 25, 1929 … Afternoon

Oh diary, I’m so exhausted I can barely keep my eyes open. It’s the first break I’ve had in days, but I need to get you caught up.

After Gertrude left with her haunting warning, I picked at my meal for hours. I was so sure hunger would eventually drive Henry downstairs, and I would finally have it out with him about the cuts on his body.

But he never came out.

It was nearly time for bed before I finally gave up and wrapped up the leftovers. I made myself a cup of tea, waited a little longer, and eventually retired to bed and fell into a dreamless sleep.

In the morning, I headed to the kitchen to make breakfast, only to discover that the leftovers hadn’t been touched. I had been sure Henry would come down in the middle of the night, but if he had, it didn’t appear he had eaten anything.

I made breakfast and waited.

Father came for his usual coffee, but no Henry.

I waited until I could bear it no more, and then I went up to pound on the Henry’s door.

No answer.

Desperate, I tried to get Father to help, but he told me to “Leave the boy alone, he’ll eat when he’s ready.”

But, I was done waiting.

Instead, I went out to the tool shed and found a crowbar, and eventually was able to pry open the door.

I nearly fainted at the sight that greeted me.

Henry was in bed, twisted in the sheets, covered with sweat, trembling and moaning. The terrible smell was back, even worse than before.

Was he dying?

I rushed in, calling his name, but he seemed to be barely conscious. I wretched open the window open, trying to get rid of that awful stench, before attending Henry.

As I peeled back the sheets, I got another shock. His body was covered in sores and angry, red welts. He was burning up with fever. And thin! His chest was shrunken and hollow, his bones protruding. He looked like a skeleton lying in bed.

Immediately I fetched water, clean sheets, clean towels, and herbs to help with the infection and the fever. He fought me, weakly, but I was determined. A shaken Father also went to fetch the doctor, who brought more medicine.

“He’s pretty sick,” the doctor, a short, portly man with thick glasses, told us after examining him. “Although I don’t think it’s life threatening. Yet. How did he get those cuts?”

I looked down at my hands, already red and chapped from trying to clean him earlier. How could I admit I had no idea what happened?

“We’re not sure,” Father said. “He snuck out of the house a few times, but he never told us anything. It must have happened then.”

I shot Father a grateful look.

The doctor didn’t look convinced, but he walked us through his treatment and said he’d check back in a few days.

Since then, I’ve rarely left Henry’s side. I’ve barely eaten, hardly slept. No matter what I do, how many cool cloths I wrap him or cool water or broth I force down his throat, I can’t get his fever to break. If anything, it’s getting higher.

Every time I look at him, all I see is Mother’s warning.

I can’t let him die. I can’t.

Gertrude was the one who forced me to take this break. She told me she would stay with him, and she insisted I eat something and take a nap. Cook made me a ham and cheese omelet, which I ate without tasting so I could hurry back, but Gertrude refused to let me in the room, telling me I needed sleep.

I don’t like being away from Henry. I keep feeling like something bad is going to happen if I’m not there. But, if I don’t sleep, Gertrude won’t let me be with him.

Maybe I’ll just close my eyes for a few minutes …

May 25, 1929 … Midnight

I dreamed of Mother.

She stood in the middle of the sitting room, her back very straight. She wore a high-necked white blouse and a long navy skirt. Something hung around her neck as well—something long and frayed looking—but I couldn’t quite make out what it was. Her shadow stretched out across the floor, dark and menacing.

“How could you?” she asked, her voice low. There was no mistaking the barely- veiled rage. “I told you to protect him!”

“I’m trying,” I said, my voice coming out high and young. “I’m nursing him around the clock.”

Mother took a step forward. She seemed to loom over me, a giant. Even her shadow had grown and stretched. I could feel myself cowering. “How could you be nursing him and yet be here now? You’re sleeping, aren’t you?”

“I had to take a break,” I whined, sounding more and more like my five-year-old self. "Gertrude forced me. I didn't want to."

“He never should have been allowed to get this bad,” she fumed, taking another step toward me. The thing around her neck bounced on her chest and I suddenly realized what it was.

A noose.

“Why didn’t you stop this sooner?” she hissed.

“He wouldn’t let him near me,” I cried. “I tried. Honest, Mother. I tried.”

“You. Didn’t. Try. Hard. Enough.” With each word, her voice grew louder and shriller until it turned into a shriek. She raised her hand and that’s when I saw the knife.

Dripping with blood.

“Mother is mad,” she snarled, and smiled. A truly dreadful smile.

Full of sharp, pointed teeth.

“No,” I screamed, covering my face. “No, Mother. Don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt me.”

I heard a sharp gasp and a clatter, like the knife had fallen to the floor.

“Oh, my dear Helen.”

I peeked through my fingers. There was my mother, her face horrified, beseeching me. “I’m so sorry, Helen. It wasn’t me. I … I don’t know how long I can hold it off. You must save your brother. You must.”

“Mother?”

“You must find it. Find what was stolen. It’s the only thing that can save you.”

“Find what? What are you talking about?”

Her face was anguished. “I love you, Helen. I’ll always love you. Don’t ever forget. No matter what happens.”

“Mother,” I screamed again, only to find myself in bed, my face covered with tears, my body soaked with sweat.

It was dark, so dark. And quiet.

Why was it so quiet?

Henry! I bolted up in bed. How long had I been asleep?

Mother’s warning echoing in my ears, I swung my feet off the bed. I was still wearing the same dress I had worn since I started nursing Henry. It was sticky with sweat and I longed for a moment to clean up and change, but I was too impatient. Something was wrong. I knew it. I could feel it.

I eased out of my room and hurried to Henry’s. His door stood open. Gertrude was sitting in a chair near to the bed, her head back at a peculiar angle, her mouth slightly open, a line of drool dripping down her chin. She was snoring softly.

The bed was empty.

For a moment, I could only stand there, gaping. Where was he?

He wasn’t … oh no. What if he was sleepwalking again?

I stumbled as I turned, clumsy in my haste. All I could see was the knife Mother held in her hand.

The knife that dripped with blood.

Nellie’s blood.

The night Mother went mad.

I hurried as fast as I could down the stairs, trying not to trip. I clutched my dress, trying to will my breathing to slow, to stop panicking. After all, he hadn’t hurt himself the night I had discovered him sleepwalking. There was no reason to think he had hurt himself tonight.

Although … I didn’t actually know when he had first cut himself.

No, I mustn’t think of such things. Right now, I had to find him.

As I turned the corner, I found myself wondering how Gertrude could have slept through Henry getting out of bed. She was right there! How did she not wake up?

Henry was in the middle of the sitting room, standing exactly where Mother had stood in my dream. But, unlike Mother, he was hunched over, his back to me, doing something I couldn’t see.

I slowed my steps, not wanting to startle him. “Henry,” I called out softly. “There you are. Shall we go back to bed?”

His movements didn’t stop. What on earth was he doing? It looked like he was sawing something.

“Henry?”

He turned so I could see a hint of his profile in the dark. “My name is not Henry.”

I swallowed. “Edward, then.”

“It’s not Edward either,” he snarled.

“Henry, what are you talking about?”

“This is all your fault. You were always on her side. Always. You were never on mine,” he hissed.

“Of course I’m on your side.”

“No! You never were.” He whirled around, his face twisted in rage.

I screamed.

He was holding a bloody knife.

“Henry. Why do you have a knife? Whose blood is that?”

“Don’t come near me,” he warned, brandishing the knife. Drops of blood flew everywhere. It dripped down his wrist and I saw the dark stain on his chest. I screamed again as the awful realization blossomed inside me.

“Henry. Are you cutting yourself?” Oh, my dear Lord in Heaven. What has happened to my sweet little brother?

“Why do you care? You hate me. You’ve always hated me.”

“What in the devil's name is going on here?”

Father was standing there, his grey hair sticking straight up on one side, his shirt wrinkled and stained. He looked like he had fallen asleep in his clothes.

Henry saw him, and his lip curled. “You,” he growled.

“Edward, what …”

“My name is not Edward,” he shrieked, momentary shocking Father into silence. “You always take her side. You never take mine.”

“Henry,” Father said at last. “Please, put down the knife. We can talk about this.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Henry exploded, spittle flying from his lips. “This is your fault. You. You brought her into our home. You did this. All of this.” He pressed the knife against his bloody shirt. I let out another shriek.

“No,” Father said, moving forward, holding his hands out. “You’re right,” he said, his voice suddenly broken. “This is all my fault. All of it. But, please. I beg you. Take me. Not my son. Take me.”

“It’s too late,” Henry sneered, pressing the tip of his knife down.

“No,” Father said, frantic, taking a few steps forward. “It’s not too late. I’m sorry. Do you hear me? I’m sorry. Just take me. Take me!”

Henry stopped, tilting his head and blinking. “Father,” he said, his voice so young and confused it nearly broke my heart. “Father? What’s happening? What …” Suddenly his eyes rolled up in the back of his sockets and he collapsed in a heap, the knife clattering against the floor.

May 26, 1929 … Late morning

I replaced the cool cloth on Henry’s forehead. He was calmer than before, but the fever still burned through him, and I was starting to worry how long his body could take it.

It took a while to get Henry back up to his room after he collapsed. Gertrude had been hovering in the shadows, watching everything, but she quickly swept in to help, and I’m grateful, because I’m not sure Father and I could have gotten him upstairs without her. Especially since Father was nearly useless. He seemed to be in shock, not moving unless directed, his eyes round and wild.

Gertrude helped me strip off Henry’s bloody nightshirt, clean him, and bandage him, before changing the sheets so we could tuck him into a clean bed. I stayed with him, trying to keep him cool and trying not to think about what happened.

Why would he hurt himself? Did this mean he was responsible for all his injuries?

Who would do such a thing?

Only a madman would do such a thing.

No. I couldn’t bear such a thing. Henry wasn’t like Mother. He couldn’t possibly be like Mother.

Gertrude placed a hand on my shoulder. “Cook is here, making breakfast,” she said. “You should go down. I can take over.”

I continued to concentrate on stroking Henry’s sweaty hair away from his forehead. “I didn’t think today was Cook’s day,” I said. Or yours, I thought, but I didn’t say that as it seemed impossibly rude.

“Your father asked us if we could be here more. To help.”

I bowed my head, feeling a rush of both gratitude and guilt. I shouldn’t need the help. He was my brother, after all. “Thank you.”

Gertrude squeezed my shoulder. “Best get down there so she can feed you. You must eat. You have to keep your strength up.”

She was right, even though I was loath to leave him. Especially after what happened the last time I left him. Nevertheless, I would do no one any good if I passed out from lack of food. I stood up and swayed, feeling a surge of dizziness. Gertrude grabbed my arm.

“Easy there, pet. Do you need to sit down?”

I closed my eyes briefly. “No, I’ll be fine. Just … give me a minute.”

She nodded and we both stood there in silence, staring down at Henry’s gaunt, emaciated body. “Why is he doing this?” I murmured to myself as my eyes trailed over the bloody bandages, not expecting an answer.

“Because he’s …” Gertrude began, then stopped.

I turned to look at her, but her lips were pressed tightly together, and her eyes were bright with fear.

“Because he’s what?” I asked, feeling that same fear go through me.

She shook her head. “I didn’t want to say anything,” she said, her voice dropping down to a whisper. “I’ve seen this before. My cousin’s child. She was just like this. Hurting herself, losing weight, burning up. That awful stench.”

“Really?” Hope bloomed in my chest. If someone else had this, maybe it was curable after all. “What was wrong with her? How did they cure it?”

“With an exorcism,” Gertrude said, refusing to meet my gaze. “She was possessed. By demons.”

I recoiled. “Demons? No, that can’t be true.” Henry stirred then, muttering to himself, his eyes rolling around in an unsettling way.

Gertrude nodded unhappily. “I’ve seen it myself. The look in his eyes. The smell. He’s possessed.”

“But …” I didn’t even know what to say. Is that what we needed to do? Bring a priest here? Oh, I didn’t think I could bear it—the gossip and talk in town.

Gertrude leaned closer, so she was whispering in my ear. Her iron grey hair tickled my neck and her breath smelled sour. “It’s this house, pet. Your mother, too.”

I gasped. Mother? Possessed? My head spun.

Gertrude nodded, fingering a chain around her neck. She pulled a cross out that had been hidden under her muslin shirt. “I thought after your mother, it had left. It had seemed like it. And, I couldn’t leave you two. You were my babies. Someone had to protect you. But, now …” she looked at Henry sadly. “Let me help you. We can cleanse the house. I can show you how to protect yourself and Henry.”

“I … I need a minute,” I said, taking a step back. My face was hot and cold at the same time, and the room was spinning. I felt like the walls were closing in.

“Of course you do,” Gertrude said. “Go find Cook. You need to eat. Then we can talk.”

I nodded once, then stumbled backwards out the door and into the hallway.

Although the last thing I wanted was something to eat, I didn’t want to be anywhere near Henry. Or Gertrude.

Demons? Possession? This couldn’t be real.

Somehow, I made my way down the stairs where Cook was humming to herself as she bustled about the kitchen.

“Go sit. I’ve got a cup of tea ready for you,” Cook said, waving me to a chair as she brought over a teapot and a mug. “I’ll have breakfast ready in a jiffy. Bread is almost ready.”

Not having the energy to protest, I sank down in a seat and took a sip of the sweet, hot tea. Oh, did I need that.

“I heard what happened. How are you holding up?” Cook asked as she dished up a huge plate of bacon, sausage, potatoes, onions and peppers.

“I don’t know,” I said, and then burst into tears.

“Oh dearie, there, there,” Cook said, hurrying over to bring me a dish towel.

“I’m … I’m … sorry,” I managed. I was horrified at myself, but I couldn’t seem to stop crying.

“You have nothing to be sorry about,” she said firmly, sitting next to me. “You had a tremendous scare last night. You haven’t been sleeping right or eating proper. I’m not surprised you’re crying.”

She put her arm around me, patting me until the worst of my sobs passed. She smelled like flour and yeast.

“Thank you,” I said, sitting back up and wiping my face off. I must admit, I did feel better.

“I’ll get your breakfast,” she said, heaving her bulk out of the chair. “Drink your tea.”

I drank obediently, watching Cook finish preparing my plate. She was so warm and solid and comforting. I felt safe in her presence. Would she really be still working here if she thought Mother and Henry were possessed?

“Can I ask you something?” I finally asked, trying to get my courage up.

“Of course, dear,” she said, bringing over a couple of plates towering with food. “Anything. I’m here for you and your brother. Whatever I can do to help.”

That statement steadied me. She wouldn’t just run out of here screaming if I shared what Gertrude told me, would she? I took a deep breath, breathing in the scent of fresh warm bread and bacon. “What do you know about possession?”

Her face immediately pinched in disapproval, and my stomach sank. Oh no, did I misjudge Cook? “You’ve been talking to Gertrude, haven’t you?”

I looked down at my plate. “Yes,” I said in a small voice.

She shook her head and pushed a fork at me. “Eat. Don’t listen to Gertrude. It’s all nonsense. Your mother wasn’t possessed by demons and neither is your brother.”

She sounded so matter of fact and down-to-earth, I could feel the stress and anxiety start to drain out of my body, leaving me limp and hollow. I picked up my fork and scooped up a bite of sausage and potatoes. It was delicious and suddenly, I was ravenous.

Cook sat there for a few moments, watching me eat, before speaking again. “Your mother …” here she paused, as if she was searching the words. “Well, I guess, if Gertrude is filling your head with this nonsense, you deserve the truth. You’re old enough. Your mother went mad.”

“I know that,” I said, my mouth full of food.

Cook gave me a dark look. “It wasn’t the first time.”

I stopped chewing, the food turning to a sodden lump in my mouth.

“Your mother … it’s your family, you see. Her mother went mad, an uncle. There were others, too. It wasn’t … it wasn’t like your mother. They weren’t …”

“Violent,” I said.

Cook looked relieved. “Exactly. They weren’t violent.”

In other words, they didn’t stab their maid to death before committing suicide by hanging.

I didn’t know whether to be relieved or not.

Cook patted my knee. “I know this may come as a shock. Your father was so upset after it happened. He made all of us swear to secrecy. You were both just children! He didn’t want you to worry. Especially since it was entirely possible both you and Henry would be fine. Your Aunt Esther is perfectly healthy. But, now …” she turned away and dabbed her eyes with her towel.

I took another bite of food, even though I was no longer hungry. But, I needed to eat.

Henry has gone mad. And, I had to figure out what to do about it.

May 27, 1929 … Evening

There’s been no change in Henry.

Gertrude brought up an exorcism again, but I declined to give her a straight answer, telling her I needed to bring it up with Father.

Was it madness? Or possession?

I didn’t know. All I knew for sure was that, while Henry wasn’t getting any worse, he also wasn’t getting any better.

I dipped the cloth in a bucket of cool water next to me to wipe his brow again. He muttered and shifted uncomfortably under my hand.

I sighed and laid my head down on the side of the bed. Maybe I needed to have Father bring the doctor back.

Henry’s mutterings grew louder, and I found myself listening to them.

“I can’t find it. Where is it? I have to find it. It was stolen, I know it was.”

I raised my head to look at him. Henry’s cheeks were flushed, and he seemed more agitated than normal. I reached out to stroke his brow to calm him, sure he was talking nonsense. His sweaty hair stuck to his forehead, but his mutterings quieted.

Nonsense, of course. But …

The first time I found him sleepwalking, he had been talking about finding something.

And, in my dreams, Mother had told me to find what had been stolen.

Could it be the same thing?

No, this is all nonsense. Mother wasn’t really talking to me; it was all a dream! And, my subconscious probably brought it up in a dream because Henry said it first.

Of course. That was all there was to it. There was no such thing as ghosts. Or hauntings. Or demon possessions. Cook was right. Madness was in our family. That’s all this was.

I need to stop all this foolishness and focus on one thing:, nursing Henry back to health.

May 28, 1929 … 2:03 a.m.

Oh diary. I just had a terrible revelation.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself. It all started with my dream.

I found myself in the darkness. Then I heard a match striking and the smell of sulfur. A lamp was lit, and I realized I was in the sitting room.

The lamp was adjusted, and I saw it was Mother. The light threw strange, distorting shadows against her pale, gaunt face. She blew the match out.

“He’s dying, you know.” Her voice was low and full of pain.

I tried to shield myself from the light. From the truth. “No, he’s stable.”

“He’s not stable. He’s getting worse.”

I shook my head fiercely. “He’s not.”

She sighed. The frayed ropes that were twisted into a noose shifted against her chest. “Helen, you’re not doing yourself any favors by lying to yourself.”

I wanted to protest—to scream at her. He was getting better, he was! But, I bit my lip and stared at the floor.

“Did you find it yet?”

“Find what?”

“What was stolen.”

I jerked my head up to look at her. “Nothing was stolen. That’s just Henry’s rantings. It’s nothing.”

Mother leaned forward. “Is it?” Her eyes were shrouded in darkness, but I could see her teeth gleaming in the lamp. Were they pointed? No, they couldn’t be.

“Of course it is.”

“You may want to check your diary,” Mother said. “You might discover something … interesting.”

Something cold and uncomfortable stirred inside me. I had a sudden urge to burn my diary. (Sorry, diary.)

“All right,” I said. “I’ll humor you. What was stolen?”

“Protection.”

That wasn’t helpful. “How can protection be stolen?”

“She took it.”

“Who?”

Mother sucked in her breath in a hiss, baring her teeth. I jumped back with a cry. They were pointed. Sharp and pointed and way too many of them.

“Nellie,” she snarled. Barley-contained rage vibrated off her, while her voice whispered of darkness and madness.

I jerked away and found myself in bed, sticky with sweat, my voice hoarse with suppressed screams. I put my hand on my chest to try and slow my breathing.

Nellie. The maid she stabbed to death.

Was that why she killed Nellie? Because she thought Nellie stole something from her?

But, how do you steal protection from someone?

As I pondered this, I suddenly remembered what Mother said about my diary. I stumbled out of bed to find it, quickly paging through it.

At first, I couldn’t figure out what the Mother in my dream was trying to tell me.

I paged through more slowly, reading the entries, trying to piece it together. Although maybe there wasn’t anything to piece together because there wasn’t anything to find.

And, that’s when I saw it.

My dream about Mother happened BEFORE I found Henry sleepwalking.

Henry’s rantings couldn’t have influenced my dream … because my dream had happened first.

May 28, 1929 … Continued

Oh diary, I had to take a break. I was so shocked at what I had found, I could do nothing but pace my small room.

Finally, I decided a cup of tea was in order to quiet my mind. I silently padded out of my room, only to see Henry’s door standing ajar. Heavens, I had forgotten all about Henry! Gertrude was supposed to be watching him, but what if she had fallen asleep again, and he was wandering the house hurting himself?

I hurried to his room, panic blooming in my chest. But, my worry was misplaced. Henry was still in bed, and Gertrude was awake and tending to him.

She turned to me when I appeared in the doorway. “Pet, couldn’t you sleep?” One hand was stroking the cross that hung between her breasts. Since she told me about possessions and exorcisms, she had stopped hiding it under her blouse.

I forced myself to control my ragged breathing, willing my heart to slow down. “Bad dream,” I said. “I don’t know if I’m going to be able to sleep anymore. Do you want me to take over?”

She shook her head. “I’m fine. Why don’t you get yourself some tea? See if that will help you get some sleep. You need to rest. You’re running yourself ragged.”

I knew she was right, but the idea of going back to sleep and maybe seeing Mother and all her teeth again sent a new wave of shudders through my body. “I’ll try the tea,” I said, taking a few steps back. But, then I remembered Nellie, and what was stolen.

“You used to live here with us, didn’t you?”

Gertrude nodded as she pressed a fresh cloth against Henry’s flushed face. “Years ago, when you were small, and your mother needed the help.”

Translation: when Mother was going mad. But, I ignored that. “Where did you sleep? It wasn’t down here, was it?”

“No, pet. It was on the third floor. We all slept up there.”

Of course. Now, I remembered. In the attic.

They all slept in the attic.

Including Nellie.

May 28, 1929 … Night

I yanked open the door to the cellar. The rickety wooden steps seemed to disappear into darkness.

Into the pit of hell itself.

Taking a deep breath, I held my candle up and began to descend.

It felt like it had taken forever before Gertrude and Cook left. As the steps to the attic were right next to Henry’s room, I didn’t feel like I could easily slip upstairs without them noticing.

Once up there, though, it didn’t take me long to find what was stolen. While searching for a hiding place, I realized one of the floorboards was loose. Prying it up revealed a hidden compartment and nestled within was a locket.

Mother was right. As soon as I saw, I knew it was the Thing.

The cellar steps were loose, squeaking under my feet. I kept waiting to hear the roar of Father, demanding to know why I had disobeyed him. But only silence greeted me.

I found Father sitting in his chair with his back to me, almost out of range of a single lit lamp on the floor. Deeper in the cellar, I could see an outline of a still to make moonshine, hunched over like a crouching beast. Everything smelled like whiskey; it felt like the cellar had been drenched in it.

“What are you doing down here?” Father asked, but his voice sounded tired. “I told you never to come down.”

I moved to face him, although a part of me didn’t want my back to the shadow of what looked like a squatting creature. “We need to talk.”

Father squinted when I shined my lamp into his face, and I was shocked at how red his eyes were, and how drawn and grey his face was. “Who is taking care of Henry?”

“He’s fine,” I answered shortly. I had tied him to the bed using soft clothes. It wasn’t my proudest moment, but I couldn’t leave him unattended, and this conversation couldn’t wait. “On second thought, he’s not fine. He’s dying.” The words were bitter on my tongue.

Father flinched like I had struck him. “I’ll fetch the doctor.”

“We’re beyond that point. I need answers.”

“I’m not a doctor.”

“I don’t need those kinds of answers.”

He sighed, a deep sigh that seemed to tear through his body. “What do you need to know?”

‘What happened to Mother?”

“You know what happened to Mother. And how is this going to help Henry?”

“Humor me. What happened to Mother?”

“She went mad. She got a kitchen knife, killed Nellie, then hung herself.”

“But, why? Why did she do it?”

“How would I know why someone goes mad?”

I was silent for a moment. I could feel the rage starting to build inside me, so deep I could feel myself almost shaking.

“Do you want Henry to die?” I asked, keeping my voice low, to control my scream. “You’re not answering my questions.”

“I’m trying to.”

“No! You’re not. You’re not telling me WHY.” I paused to gather myself, feeling at the edge of losing control. “Gertrude says this house is possessed. That Mother was possessed when she went mad and now Henry is possessed. She thinks we need an exorcism. But Cook says madness runs in our family. That Mother wasn’t the only one who went mad. Either way, we need to get Henry help. What we’re doing isn’t working, and I don’t know what we should be doing.”

He took a deep breath and finally met my eyes. His eyes were watery and trembling? and I wondered if he was drunk. “Madness does run in your mother’s family. Cook is right. I knew it when I married your mother. She …” his voice broke for a second, but he took a breath to collect himself. “She told me she didn’t want to marry me because of the madness,” he said, his voice near a whisper. “But, I told her it didn’t matter. I loved her so much and I was sure we could beat it. Not everyone in her family went mad. Esther isn’t.” He looked away. “But, I was wrong. Oh, God, was I wrong.”

I found myself blinking my own tears away. At least now I knew. I knew I carried the seeds of madness within me, and now I knew how to help my brother. Thank God I had had this conversation with Father before I had called in a priest. “So, maybe we need to call a different doctor, one who …”

Father held up his hand and something in his face silenced me. “Cook is right, but so is Gertrude.”

I gaped at him. “What? How can they both be right?”

“It’s not … I don’t know if it’s a demon or a possession. But, there IS something malevolent. When I …” he swallowed hard. “You have to understand. At that time of my life, I was brash, full of myself, sure the world was my oyster and I was going to conquer it. My businesses were booming, and I had just gotten engaged to the most beautiful woman in town: your mother. I wanted to build a house, but not just any house. A mansion. A palace. And, I needed land.

“The man who owned this land, he was sick. Dying. And, his son wasn’t much older than me, but he was … slow. And I took advantage. I saw an opportunity to get this land for practically nothing and … I took it.”

My hand crept up to my neck, almost as if I was trying to protect myself from the words he was saying. I suddenly didn’t want to hear it at all. I wanted to turn and flee up the stairs and go back to nursing Henry.

Who was dying. And would likely die if I wasn’t strong enough to listen.

“When his mother, the man’s wife, found out what I had done, she came to me. She begged me to give the land back, or to at least pay fair market value. They were destitute, you see. They had no money, no way to earn money, and nowhere to go. But, I refused. I behaved much worse. I brushed her off. Told her it wasn’t my problem. Walked away. So, later, she came back.”

“But, she wasn’t alone. She brought her mother with her, who was rumored to be a witch.

“She put a curse on me. Said I would be stuck here, my family and I, and we wouldn’t ever be able to leave. We would die here. Horrible deaths. And, there would be no way out because we couldn’t leave either. We would be trapped. Doomed. Until the family line died out.”

“I, of course, didn’t believe in any of that kind of nonsense. So, I went ahead and built my house and brought your mother here to live. We had you, then Henry, and then …”

He didn’t have to finish. I knew the end.

Mother went mad.

He swallowed. “Anyway, that’s why we stayed here after. I was afraid of the curse, afraid of what would happen if we did leave. As you both grew up and nothing bad happened, I thought maybe I could send you away. Maybe it would be enough if I stayed here and you both went somewhere else. So, I sent Henry to school and you to work. And, for a few years, everything seemed to continue as normal. Maybe I had beaten it. I had found a loophole.”

He paused to rub his forehead. “Henry didn’t graduate. He was expelled.”

My eyes widened. “What happened?”

“He had threatened another student with a knife. It wasn’t the first time. Henry had been getting more belligerent, losing his temper, even bullying some of the younger kids.

“He denies it all, of course. But, the headmaster felt like he couldn’t keep Henry there anymore; he was becoming a danger to his schoolmates. Not that it would have mattered. I would have brought him home regardless. As soon as the headmaster contacted me, I knew it was the curse.”

“The curse,” I said, pushing the words through numb lips. “Is that why you called me home?”

His ashamed expression was all the answer I needed.

I thought about Henry, tied to a bed in his room, barely conscious, burning with fever. I remembered my dream, where Mother told me I had to make the difficult choices to save Henry. In my heart, I knew he couldn’t stay in this house another day. I could feel the lump in my pocket, heavy and somehow warm, and just like that, I knew what to do. “We have to get Henry out of here.”

Father’s expression turned to shock. “How can you say that, Helen? It’s the curse.”

“The curse is killing him,” I said grimly. “We can send him to Aunt Esther. She’ll take him.”

“But, he has to stay here!”

“I’ll stay,” I said. “You and I will stay. For the rest of our lives. I will not marry. I will not have children. I will take care of this house and this land. And, before I leave this earth, I will make sure it is passed on to the right person in a fair and just manner.”

There was a low rumble, almost like thunder, although the day had been clear and sunny without any signs of clouds. I felt a distinct shift in the energy, like something had changed.

Or, maybe, my deal had just been accepted.

Father stared at me, his face horrified. He had felt it, too.

“But … Helen,” he stuttered.

“Shhhh,” I said, putting a hand on his shoulder and bending down to kiss is forehead. “It’s as it should be. This is what needs to be done.”

I straightened, feeling somehow taller and stronger than I had before. I turned to go, but then realized I had one last question.

“What’s this?” I asked, pulling the locket from my pocket and dangling it in the light. The gold, tarnished by age, still seemed to sparkle.

Father frowned. “That’s your mother’s locket. Where did you find it?”

I put it back in my pocket. “Just laying around.”

“Really? How strange,” Father mused. “She had been ranting it had been stolen right … well, before. I was sure she had just misplaced it. I had forgotten all about it. How did you know?”

“I was just curious,” I said, and left the cellar.

June 1, 1929 … Afternoon

I stood quietly in the hallway, breathing deeply to keep myself from crying as I listened to Henry pack.

The night I learned the truth, I left Father in the cellar, tears streaming down his grey, wrinkled cheeks, and went directly to Henry’s room, putting the locket around his neck. Almost immediately, his breathing slowed, and he relaxed into sleep.

A real, healing sleep.

For myself, I didn’t sleep a wink that night. I remained by his side, watching him, feeling a mixture of relief, love, and dread.

This. This is why.

I can bear this. For him.

Once the sun crept above the horizon, everything happened very quickly.

Henry awoke, famished and weak, but himself again. Cook and Gertrude had just arrived and Cook happily made him a huge breakfast. He ate every bite and fell back into a deep, healing sleep.

Aunt Esther stopped by around lunch time, wanting to see how we were doing. Of course, she would be delighted to take Henry. I, too, was welcome to stay with her as well.

I politely declined.

The rest of the morning turned into a flurry of organizing and packing and laundry.

It was for the best.

“I’m ready, Helen,” Henry said, standing at the door. He still looked weak and way too thin, but I could see the beginnings of a healthy glow in his cheeks.

I swallowed my tears and forced a smile. “Perfect timing. Aunt Esther should be here shortly.

He nodded, then looked down, shuffling from one foot to another. “You could come with me?” His voice was hesitant.

How I wished I could! I could feel my tears threatening to spill over. “Father needs me here. I’ll be fine.”

He nodded, still looking down. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know I was mean to you when we arrived. I was angry, but it wasn’t your fault. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

A tear slid down my cheek. “Apology accepted,” I said.

He shuffled forward and hugged me. I squeezed him tightly, breathing in his scent. My baby brother. He’s going to live. That’s all that matters.

He let go and moved to go down the staircase, but then he hesitated. “Oh, I almost forgot.” His hand went to the locket and he fumbled at it, trying to take it off.

I touched his hand. “Keep it,” I said. “It’s protection. Don’t take it off. Here.” I tucked the locket under his shirt. “Like that.”

His fingers touched the bulge it made under his shirt. “Lockets are for girls.”

“That’s why you wear it under your shirt.”

He smiled faintly, his fingers gripping it. “Are you sure?”

I nodded. “You need it. Just … it belongs to the house. So, when you don’t need it anymore, make sure it’s returned.”

His eyes locked with mine, and in their depths, I realized he knew. Maybe not all of the particulars, but he too had been visited by Mother. He knew what had happened. He knew the price I was paying.

“I promise I’ll take good care of it,” he said.

“That’s all any of us can do.”

His eyes continued to hold mine. “Thank you,” he said softly.

I couldn’t speak. My emotions overwhelmed me. Instead, I hugged him again before turning away. He paused for a moment, and I thought maybe he was going to say something, maybe beg me to leave with him, but then I heard him slowly make his way down the stairs.

I didn’t see him off. I told Gertrude I had a blinding headache, but as soon as I was well, I would of course stop by and visit.

I knew I never would.

Eventually, I pulled myself together to come down for a cup of tea. Cook and Gertrude had left early. Henry’s illness had taken a toll on all of us, and I knew they needed their rest. Cook had left a roast for supper, but the thought of eating made me ill.

There was a knock at the door. Was it Henry? Had he forgotten something?

But, no. It was James. I hadn’t seen him since the day on at the train station. It felt like years, but really, it had only been a couple of weeks.

My heart hurt at the sight of him.

“Hello Helen,” he said, holding his hat in his hands, looking nervous. “I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.”

“Actually, you have,” I said, wrapping my arms around myself. “I have a bit of a headache.”

His eyes widened. “Oh! Please accept my apologies. I can come another time.”

“It’s fine, James,” I said. I told myself it was kinder to nip this in the bud, as much as I didn’t want to. I pushed myself to continue. “You couldn’t have known. What can I help you with?”

“It’s just … I just …” he stuttered, staring at his shoes. “I was hoping it would be acceptable if I called on you one of these days. When you’re well of course,” he said, his voice in a rush.

I was silent. A damp breeze brushed against my face. From far off, I heard the low growl of thunder.

I knew I would have to come to terms with the price I had paid, but I had hoped it wouldn’t be so soon.

Think of Henry, I told myself. He’s worth it. But, in that moment, in the hollow pit of my stomach, it didn’t feel like enough. I could see my empty and lonely life unfold in front of me, devoid of the happy laugher of children, the love of a man.

I felt my fist clench. In that moment, I hated Father and what he had done to us.

To me.

Not that it mattered. There was no going back now. I made a commitment and I would honor that commitment.

“I’m sorry, James,” I said sadly. I am sorrier than you know, I thought. “But, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Goodbye.”

I took a step back, and shut the door firmly in his shocked and hurt face.

And I started my new life.

Hi there!

I hope you enjoyed reading The Secret Diary of Helen Blackstone as much as I enjoyed writing it!

If you’d like to learn more about the story of Mad Martha and Nellie, you may want to check out the first book of the Secrets of Redemption series called It Began With a Lie. (In fact, if you turn the page, you’ll get a sneak peek).

Also, if you’re looking for more fun things to read while you wait for the next book launch, I’d love to invite you to visit my blog at MPWNovels.com. I write about my journey as an author, provide book reviews AND you’ll have a chance to meet Riley.

Whose Riley, you ask? Well, she’s my fictional alter ego who is a ghost hunter. (Think Bridget Jones decides to hunt real life ghosts.) You can even listen to podcast of Riley (called “The Adventures of Riley Longhill: Ghost Hunter!”)

Remember, it’s all happening at MPWNovels.com

Happy reading!

Michele

Keep reading for an exciting preview of It Began With a Lie —

The first book in the Secrets of Redemption series.

It Began With a Lie

Chapter 1

"You're right. It's perfect for us. I'm so glad we're here," I said, lying through my carefully pasted-on smile.

I tried to make my voice bright and cheery, but it sounded brittle and forced, even to me. I sucked in my breath and widened my smile, though my teeth were so clenched, my jaw hurt.

Stefan smiled back—actually, his mouth smiled but his dark brown eyes, framed with those long, thick lashes any woman would envy, looked flat … distracted. He hugged me with one arm. "I told you everything would be okay," he whispered into my hair. His scent was even more musky than usual, probably from two straight days of driving and lack of shower.

I hugged him back, reminding myself to relax. Yes, everything is going to be okay. Remember, this move represents a fresh start for us—time for us to reconnect and get our marriage back on track. It’s not going to happen overnight.

His iPhone buzzed. He didn't look at me as he dropped his arm and pulled it out of his pocket, his attention already elsewhere. "Sorry babe, gotta take this." He turned his back to me as he answered the call, walking away quickly. His dark hair, streaked with silver that added a quiet, distinguished air to his All-American good looks was longer than normal, curling around his collar. He definitely needed a haircut, but of course, we couldn't afford his normal stylist, and not just anyone was qualified to touch his hair.

I wrapped my arms around myself, goosebumps forming on my skin as a sudden breeze, especially cool for mid-May, brushed past me—the cold all the more shocking in the absence of Stefan's warm body.

He has to work, I reminded myself. Remember why we're here.

I remembered, all right. How could I forget?

I rubbed my hands up and down my arms as I took a deep breath, and finally focused on the house.

It was just as I remembered from my childhood—white with black shutters, outlined by bushy green shrubs, framed by tall, gently-swaying pine trees and the red porch with the swinging chair. It sat all by its lonesome in the middle of a never-developed cul-de-sac, the only “neighbors” being an overgrown forest on one side, and a marshy field on the other.

Okay, maybe it wasn't exactly the way I remembered it. The bushes actually looked pretty straggly. The lawn was overgrown, full of dandelions going to seed, and the porch could definitely use a new paint job.

I sighed. If the outside looked like this, what on earth waited for me on the inside?

Inside.

I swallowed back the bile that rose in the back of my throat. It slid to my stomach, turning into a cold, slimy lump.

The house of my childhood.

The house of my nightmares.

Oh God, I so didn't want to be here.

Stefan was still on the phone, facing away from me. I stared longingly at his back. Turn around, I silently begged. Turn around and smile at me. A real smile. Like how you used to before we were married. Tell me it's going to be okay. You don't have to leave tonight like you thought. You realize how cruel it would be to leave me alone in this house the first night we're here, and you don't want to do that to me. Please, tell me. Or, better yet, tell me we're packing up and going back to New York. Say this was all a mistake; the firm is doing fine. Or, if you can’t say that, say we’ll figure it out. We'll make it work. We don't need to live here after all. Please, Stefan. Please don't leave me alone here.

He half-turned, caught my eye, and made a gesture that indicated he was going to be awhile.

And I should start unpacking.

I closed my eyes. Depression settled around me like an old, familiar shawl. I could feel the beginning of a headache stab my temples.

Great. Just what I needed to complete this nightmare—a monster headache.

I turned to the car and saw Chrissy still in the backseat—headset on, bobbing to music only she could hear. Her long, dark hair—so dark it often looked black—spread out like a shiny cloak, the ends on one side dyed an electric blue.

Oh, yeah. That's right. I wouldn't be alone in the house after all.

Chrissy closed her eyes and turned her head away from me.

It just kept getting better and better.

I knocked on the window. She ignored me. I knocked again. She continued to ignore me.

For a moment, I imagined yanking the door open, snatching the headset off and telling her to—no, insisting that—she get her butt out of the car and help me unpack. I pictured her dark brown eyes, so much like Stefan's, widening, her pink lip-glossed mouth forming a perfect O, so shocked that she doesn't talk back, but instead meekly does what she's told.

More pain stabbed my temples. I closed my eyes and kept knocking on the window.

It's not her fault, I told myself for maybe the 200th time. How would you act if you were 16 years old and your mother abandoned you, dumped you at your father’s, so she'd be free to travel across Europe with her boy toy?

I squelched the little voice that reminded me I wasn't a whole heck of a lot older than said boy toy, and started pounding on the window. Stefan kept telling me she was warming up to me—I personally hadn't seen much evidence of that.

Chrissy finally turned her head and looked at me. "What?" she mouthed, disgust radiating off her, her eyes narrowing like an angry cat.

I motioned to the trunk. "I need your help."

Her lip curled as her head fell back on to the seat. She closed her eyes.

I had just been dismissed.

Great. Just great.

I looked around for Stefan—if he were standing with me, she would be out of the car and helping—a fake, sweet smile on her face, but he had moved to the corner of the street, still on the phone. I popped the trunk and headed over to him. Maybe I could finally get him to see reason—that it really was a dreadful idea to leave the two of us alone in Redemption, Wisconsin, while he commuted back and forth to New York to rescue his failing law firm. “See,” I could say, “She doesn't listen to me. She doesn't respect me. She needs her father. I need you, too. She's going to run wild with you gone and I won't be able to deal with her.”

Stefan hung up as I approached. "The movers should be here soon. You probably should start unpacking." Although his tone was mild, I could still hear the underlying faint chords of reproach—what's going on with you? Why haven't you started yet? Do I need to do everything around here?

"Yes, I was going to," I said, hating my defensive tone, but unable to stop it. "But there's a problem I think you need to deal with."

His eyes narrowed—clearly, he was losing his patience with me. "What?"

I opened my mouth to tell him about Chrissy, just as her voice floated toward us, "Can I get some help over here?"

I slowly turned around, gritting my teeth, trying not to show it. Chrissy stood by the trunk, arms loaded with boxes, an expectant look on her face. The pain darting through my head intensified.

"Rebecca, are you coming?" Stefan asked as he headed over to his charming daughter, waiting for him with a smug expression on her face, like a cat who ate the canary. I took a deep breath and trudged over, the sick knot in the pit of my stomach growing and tightening.

What on earth was I going to do with her while Stefan was gone?

Chrissy threw me a triumphant smile as she followed her father to the house. I resisted the urge to stick my tongue out at her, as I heaved a couple of boxes out of the trunk.

Really, all the crap with Chrissy was the least of my worries. It was more of a distraction, than anything.

The real problem was the house.

The house.

Oh God.

I turned to stare at it. It didn't look menacing or evil. It looked like a normal, everyday house.

Well, a normal, everyday house with peeling paint, a broken gutter and a few missing roof shingles.

Great. That probably meant we needed a new roof. New roofs were expensive. People who had to rescue failing law firms tended to not have money for things like new roofs. Even new roofs for houses that were going to be fixed up and eventually sold, ideally for a big, fat profit.

Would there be any good news today?

Again, I realized I was distracting myself. New roofs and paint jobs—those were trivial.

The real problem was inside the house.

Where all my nightmares took place.

Where my breakdown happened.

Where I almost died.

I swallowed hard. The sun went behind a cloud and, all of a sudden, the house was plunged into darkness. It loomed in front me, huge and monstrous, the windows dark, bottomless eyes staring at me … the door a mouth with sharp teeth …

"Rebecca! Are you coming?"

Stefan broke the spell. I blinked my eyes and tried to get myself together.

I was being silly. It was just a house, not a monster. How could a house even BE a monster? Only people could be monsters, which would mean my aunt, who had owned the house, was the monster.

And my aunt was dead now. Ding, dong, the witch is dead. Or, in this case, the monster.

Which meant there was nothing to fear in the house anymore. Which was exactly what Stefan kept telling me back in New York, over and over.

"Don't you think it's time you put all this childhood nonsense behind you?" he asked. "Look, I get it. Your aunt must have done something so dreadful that you've blocked it out, but she's dead. She can't hurt you anymore. And it couldn’t have worked out any more perfectly for us—we have both a place to live rent free right now, while I get things turned around. And, once we sell it, we can use the money to move back here and get a fresh start.“

He was right, of course. But, still, I couldn't drop it.

“Why did she even will the house to me in the first place?" I persisted. "Why didn't she will it to CB? He was there a lot more than I was."

Stefan shrugged. "Maybe it was her way of apologizing to you all these years later. She was trying to make it up to you. Or maybe she changed—people said she was sick at the end. But, why does it matter why she willed it to you? The point is she did, and we really need it. Not to mention this could be a great way for you to finally get over whatever happened to you years ago."

Maybe. Back in New York, it had seemed so reasonable. So logical. Maybe the move wouldn't be a problem after all.

But, standing in the front yard with my arms filled with boxes, every cell in my body screamed that it was a really awful idea.

"Hey," Stefan whispered in my ear, his five o'clock shadow scratching my cheek. I jumped, so transfixed by the house that I hadn’t even realized he had returned to me. "Look, I'm sorry. I should have known this would be rough for you. Come on, I'll walk in with you."

He rubbed my arm and smiled at me—a real smile. I could feel my insides start to thaw as all those old, exciting, passionate feelings reminiscent of when we first started dating swarmed over me. I remembered how he would shower me with red roses and whisk me off to romantic dinners that led to steaming, hot sex. He made me feel like a princess in a fairy tale. I still couldn't fathom how he ended up with me.

I met his eyes, and for the first time in what seemed like a long time, I felt the beginnings of a real smile on my lips. See, he does care, even if he doesn't always show it. This is why the move was the perfect thing for our marriage; all we needed was to get away from the stress of New York, so we could rekindle things. I nodded and started walking with him toward the house. Over her shoulder, Chrissy shot me a dirty look.

The closer we got to the house, the more I focused on my breathing. It's going to be okay, I repeated to myself. It's just a house. A house can't hurt anyone. It's all going to be okay.

An owl hooted, and I jumped. Why was an owl hooting in the daytime? Didn’t that mean someone was going to die? Isn't that what the old stories and folklore taught? My entire body stiffened—all I wanted to do was run the other way. Stefan hugged me closer, gently massaging my arm, and urged me forward.

"It's going to be okay," he murmured into my hair. I closed my eyes for a moment, willing myself to believe it.

We stepped onto the porch, Chrissy impatiently waiting for Stefan to unlock the door. He put the boxes on the ground to fumble for his keys as I tried hard not to hyperventilate.

It's just a house. A house can't hurt anyone.

After an eternity that simultaneously wasn’t nearly long enough, he located the keys and wrenched the door open, swearing under his breath.

His words barely registered. I found myself compelled forward, drawn in like those pathetic moths to the killing flame.

I could almost hear my aunt excitedly calling, "Becca? Is that you? Wait until you see this," as I stepped across the threshold into the house.

It was exactly like I remembered.

Well, maybe not exactly—it was filthy and dusty, full of cobwebs and brittle, dead bugs lying upside down on the floor with their legs sticking up. But I remembered it all—from the overstuffed floral sofa where I spent hours reading, to the end table covered with knick-knacks and frilly doilies, to the paintings lining the walls. I found myself wanting to hurry into the kitchen, where surely Aunt Charlie would have a cup of tea waiting for me. It didn't feel scary at all. It felt warm and comforting.

Like coming home.

How could this be?

Stefan was still muttering under his breath. "I can't believe all this crap. We're going to have put our stuff in storage for months while we go through it all. Christ, like we need another bill to worry about." He sighed, pulled his cell phone out, and started punching numbers.

"Dad, what do you mean our stuff is going into storage?" Chrissy said, clearly alarmed.

Stefan waved his arms. "Honey, look around you. Where are we going to put it? We have to put our things into storage until we get all this out of here."

"But Dad," Chrissy protested. I stopped listening. I walked slowly around, watching my aunt dashing down the stairs, her smock stained, arms filled with herbs and flowers, some even sticking out of her frizzy brown hair, muttering about the latest concoction she was crafting for one of the neighbors whose back was acting up again …

"Earth to Rebecca. Rebecca. Are you okay?" I suddenly realized Stefan was talking to me, and I pulled myself out of my memories.

"Sorry, it just …" my voice trailed off.

He came closer. "Are you okay? Are you remembering?"

There she was again, the ghost of Aunt Charlie, explaining yet again to the odd, overly-made-up, hair-over-teased, forty-something woman from the next town that no, she didn't do love potions. It was dangerous magic to mess around with either love or money, but if she wanted help with her thyroid that was clearly not working the way it should be, that was definitely in my aunt's wheelhouse.

I shook my head. "No, not really. It's just … weird."

I wanted him to dig deeper, ask me questions, invite me to talk about the memories flooding through me. I wanted him to look at me while I spoke, really look at me, the way he did before we were married.

Where had it all gone wrong? And how could he leave me alone in a lonely, isolated and desolate house a thousand miles away from New York? Sure, Chrissy would be there, but the jury was still out as to whether she made it better or worse. The memories pushed up against me, smothering me. I needed to talk about them, before they completely overwhelmed and suffocated me. And he knew it—he knew how much I needed to talk things through to keep the anxiety and panic at bay. He wouldn't let me down, not now, when I really needed him.

Would he?

Chapter 2

The empty coffee pot mocked me.

It sat on the table, all smug and shiny, its cord wrapped tightly around it.

I had been so excited after unearthing it that morning—yes! Coffee! God knew I needed it.

The night before had been horrible, starting with the fights. I ended up in the living room, where I spent the night on the couch, a cold washcloth draped over my face in a feeble attempt to relieve the mother of all headaches.

Several times, I’d have just dozed off when the sound of Chrissy’s footsteps would jerk me awake, as she paced up and down the upstairs hallway. I couldn't fathom what was keeping her up, so finally, after the fourth or fifth time of being woken up, I went upstairs to check on her. She must have heard me on the stairs, because all I saw was of the trail of her white nightgown as she disappeared into her room. I stood there for a moment, wondering if I should go talk to her, but the stabbing pain in my head drove me back downstairs to the safety of the couch and washcloth. I just couldn't face another argument then, in the middle of the night.

She must have decided to stay in her room after that, because I finally drifted off, only waking when the sun shone through the dirty living room window, illuminating all the dust motes floating in the air.

Coffee was exactly what I needed. Except … I had no beans to put in the coffeemaker. Not that it mattered, I realized after digging through the third box in frustration. I didn't have any cream or sugar either.

Well, at least my headache was gone, although what was left was a weird, hollow, slightly-drugged feeling. Still, I'd take that over the headache any day.

I sighed and rubbed my face. The whole move wasn’t starting off very well. In fact, everything seemed to be going from bad to worse, including the fight with Stefan.

"Do you really need to leave?" I asked him again as I followed him to the door. He had just said goodbye to Chrissy, who had immediately disappeared upstairs, leaving us alone. I could see the taxi he had called sitting in the driveway and my heart sank. A part of me had hoped to talk him out of going, but with the taxi already there the possibility seemed even more remote.

He sighed. I could tell he was losing patience. "We've been through this. You know I have to."

"But you just got here! Surely you can take a few days—a week maybe—off to help us unpack and get settled."

He picked up his briefcase. "You know I can't. Not now."

"But when? You promised you would set it up so that you could work from here most of the time. Why can't you start that now?" I could tell his patience was just about gone, but I couldn't stop myself.

He opened the door. A fresh, cool breeze rushed in, a sharp contrast to the musty, stale house. "And I will. But it's too soon. There are still a few things I need to get cleaned up before I can do that. You know that. We talked about this."

He stepped outside and went to kiss me, but I turned my face away. "Are you going to see her?"

That stopped him. I could see his eyes narrow and his mouth tighten. I hadn't meant to say it; it just slipped out.

He paused and took a breath. "I know this whole situation has been tough on you, so I'm going to forget you said that. I'll call you."

Except he didn’t. Not a single peep in the more than twelve hours since he had walked out the door. And every time I thought of it, I felt sick with shame.

I didn't really think he was cheating on me. I mean, there was something about Sabrina and her brittle, cool, blonde, perfect elegance that I didn't trust, but that wasn’t on Stefan. I had no reason not to trust him. Just because my first husband cheated on me didn't mean Stefan would. And just because Sabrina looked at Stefan like he was a steak dinner, and she was starving, didn't mean it was reciprocated.

Worse, I knew I was making a bigger mess out of it every time I brought it up. The more I accused him, the more likely he would finally say, "Screw it, if I'm constantly accused of being a cheater, I might as well at least get something out of it." Even knowing all of that, I somehow couldn't stop myself.

Deep down, I knew I was driving him away. And I hated that part of myself. But still nothing changed.

To make matters worse, it didn't take long after Stefan left before things blew up with Chrissy. I asked her to help me start organizing the kitchen, and she responded with an outburst about how much she hated the move. She hated me, too—her life was ruined, and it was all my fault. She stormed off, slammed the door to her room, and that’s how I ended up on the couch, my head pounding, wishing I was just about anywhere else.

Standing in the kitchen with the weak sunlight peeking through the dirty windows, the empty coffee maker taunting me, I gave in to my feelings of overwhelm. How on earth was I ever going to get the house organized? And the yard? And my aunt's massive garden? All the while researching what it would take to sell the house for top dollar, and dealing with Chrissy? My heart sank at that thought, although I wasn't completely sure which thought triggered it. Maybe it was all of them.

And if that wasn't difficult enough, I also had to deal with being in my aunt's home. Her presence was everywhere. I felt like an intruder. How could I do all of this, feeling her around me? How could I be in her home, when she wasn't? It wasn't my house. It was Aunt Charlie's. And I wasn't even sure I WANTED it to feel like my home.

Because if it did, then I would probably remember everything.

Including what happened that night.

The night I almost died.

God, I felt sick.

I needed coffee. And food.

Maybe I should take Chrissy out for breakfast as a peace offering. We could get out of the house, which would be good for me at least, and then go grocery shopping before coming home to tackle the cleaning and organizing.

I wanted to start in the kitchen. It was Aunt Charlie's favorite room in the house, and I knew it would have broken her heart to see how neglected and dingy it had become. When my aunt was alive, it was the center of the home—a light, cheery place with a bright red tea kettle constantly simmering away on low heat on the stove. Oh, how Aunt Charlie loved her tea—that's why the kettle always had hot water in it—she’d say you just never knew when a cup would be needed. She was a strong believer that tea cured just about everything, just so long as you had the right blend. And, surprise, surprise, you could pretty much always find the right blend outside in her massive garden, which I had no doubt was completely overgrown now. I didn't have the heart to go look.
I could almost see her, standing in that very kitchen, preparing me a cup. "Headache again, Becca?" she would murmur as she measured and poured and steeped. The warm fragrance would fill the homey kitchen as she pushed the hot cup in front of me, the taste strong, flavorful, and sweet, with just a hint of bitterness. And, lo and behold, not too long after drinking it, I would find my headache draining away.

I wondered if I would still find her tea blends in the kitchen. Maybe I could find that headache tea. And maybe, if I was even luckier, I would find a blend that would cure everything that ailed me that morning.

With some surprise, I realized just how much love encompassed that memory. Nothing scary. Nothing that could possibly foretell the horror of what happened that dreadful night.

Could my aunt actually be the monster?

My mother certainly thought so. She forbade any contact, any mentioning of my aunt even, refusing to allow her to see me once I woke up in intensive care following the stomach pump. She refused her again when I was transferred to a psych unit, after becoming hysterical when I was asked what had happened that night.

My mother blamed my aunt.

And, I, in my weakened, anxious, panicked state, was relieved to follow her lead. Actually, I was more than relieved—I was happy too.

But sitting in that kitchen right then, I felt only love and comfort, and I began to question my choices.

My mother had been completely against us moving back here, even temporarily. At the time, listening to her arguments, I had chalked it up to her being overly protective. Now, I wondered. Was that it? Or was something deeper going on?

Chrissy chose that moment to stroll into the kitchen, her hair sticking up on one side. She was wearing her blue and red plaid sleep shorts and red tee shirt—the blue plaid almost an exact match to the blue highlight in her hair. Staring at her, something stirred deep inside me—a distinct feeling of wrongness … of something being off—but when I reached for it, I came up empty.

She leaned against the counter and started checking her iPhone. "How sweet, you’re being domestic."

I shook my head—that off feeling still nagged at me, but I just couldn't place it. I really needed coffee. Coffee would make everything better.

She tapped at her iPhone, not looking up. "Anything to eat in this God-awful place?"

I sighed. Maybe I should be looking for a tea that would cure Chrissy.

Chapter 3

Chrissy wrinkled her nose. "What a dump."

She said it under her breath, so neither the bustling waitresses nor the other customers could hear. But I could. I gave her a sharp look, which she ignored.

We were in what I thought was a cute little diner called Aunt May's. It felt friendly and familiar and had a respectable number of customers in it for a Monday morning. In fact, on the drive over, I had been amazed at how bright and cheery the town was—it was almost like I had expected to see dark, grimy, stains tainting the buildings, the streets, even the deep green grass. Instead, the sun shone down on clean, well-kept houses and cute stores complete with maintained lawns and pots of colorful flowers.

Chrissy clearly wasn't impressed by any of it.

She poked at her menu. "Do you think anything here is gluten-free?"

I sighed, flipping over my coffee cup. "You'll have to ask."

Chrissy made a face and stared darkly out the window.

Despite the inauspicious start, she seemed to be in a better mood. Well, maybe “better” wasn't quite the right word— “subdued” was probably more accurate. It was almost like our fight had drained vital energy from her, leaving a shell of her former self.

The waitress appeared, coffee pot in hand. "Are you two visiting for the summer?" she asked as she filled my cup. I shot her a grateful look. She looked familiar with her dark, straight hair cut in a chin-length bob and Asian features. Japanese maybe. Brown almond-shaped eyes, narrow face, and petite body. But I couldn't really place her. Maybe I had run into her years ago, while visiting my aunt.

"No, we just moved here," I said, pulling my coffee toward me, doctoring it with cream and sugar.

The waitress raised her eyebrow at me. "Really? Where?"

"Charlie, I mean Charlotte Kingsley's house."

The waitress set the coffee pot down. "Becca? Is that you?"

Something inside me seemed to twist in on itself, hearing that name out loud. I'm not Becca, I wanted to say. Becca's gone. It's Rebecca now.

At the same time, I found my brain frantically searching for a wisp of something, anything, to give me a hint as to who this waitress was. "Uh …"

"It's Mia—Mia Moto. We used to hang out, remember?"

I blinked at her and suddenly, it was like the dam opened—memories crashed down into me. I sucked in my breath, feeling physically jolted by the impact. "Mia! Oh my God, I hardly recognized you!"

She laughed in delight and held out her arms. Somehow, I found myself on my feet, swept up in a giant bear hug—impressive, considering how tiny she was. She smelled spicy, like cinnamon and coffee.

"It's so great to see you," Mia said, when we finally separated. "I mean, after that night, we were all so worried, but the hospital wouldn't let any of us visit you."

"Yeah, well, my mom …" I fumbled around, not really sure what to say. The truth was, I hadn't wanted to see them. I had become hysterical again, when one of the nurses said I had visitors. And, until that very moment, I had never even considered how it must have looked from their point of view. They were my friends; they cared about me, and I had almost died. Of course they would want to see me. I felt sick with shame.

"I can't believe it's you," I said, changing the subject. "Who else is still here? Is …"

"Daphne's still here," Mia interjected. "In fact, she's still living in the same house, right by you. She moved in after her mom got sick to help her out. I know she'd love to see you."

"And I'd love to see her too," I said, jolted again by how much I really did miss hanging out with Mia and Daphne.

"And Daniel is still here, too." Mia continued. "He's engaged now."

A rush of conflicting feelings started swirling through me at the sound of his name, anger being the most prevalent. "I'm married," I said shortly, smiling at the last second to soften my tone.

Daniel. God, I had totally forgotten him, too. For good reason, considering he had not only stood me up, all those years ago, but he also had then ignored me completely .... like I didn’t even exist. Talk about painful. Snapping back to reality, I turned my attention back to Mia. "In fact, this is my stepdaughter, Chrissy."

Mia turned her 40-thousand-watt, infectious smile on Chrissy. "Great to meet you, Chrissy. Make sure you ask your stepmom where all the hot places are to hang out." Chrissy's lips twitched upward in a semblance of a smile, and her “nicetomeetyoutoo” almost sounded friendly.

I elbowed Mia. "I don't know if that's such a good idea."

Someone near the kitchen yelled Mia's name, but she waved him off. "We definitely need to catch up."

"Yes," I agreed, sliding back into my seat. "I'm really surprised you're here. I thought you would be long gone—California, right? Stanford? Law school?" I had vague memories of Mia going on and on about being the next Erin Brockovich. She had nearly memorized that movie, she had seen it so often.

Mia's smile slipped. "Well, yeah. It's complicated. After that night … you … Jessica …" her voice trailed off and she pulled out her order pad. "I better get your order."

Jessica.

It felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room. I could hear Chrissy asking about gluten-free options, and not getting the answer she wanted, but it seemed like the conversation was taking place outside of the bubble I was trapped in, as I could barely hear anything but a warbling echo.

Jessica. How could I have forgotten about Jessica?

Mia, Daphne, Jessica, and me. We were the four amigos that summer. The four Musketeers. Hanging out at the beach, the mall, at my aunt's house (because she was by the far the coolest of all the adults we had to choose from).

Until that night, when Jessica disappeared ... and I ended up in the hospital, broken, mentally and physically.

I rubbed my eyes, the faint wisp of a headache brushing my temples like a soft kiss. I realized that while my memories from that summer were finally returning, that night was still a total blank. Actually, the entire day was a black hole. I didn't even remember taking the first drink, one of many that would put me in the hospital, having to get my stomach pumped, followed by a complete and utter nervous breakdown.

"Becca?" Mia asked, pen poised on her pad. "You okay?"

I reached for my coffee cup, glad to see my hands weren't shaking, and tried on a smile that felt way too small. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just still recovering from moving."

Mia didn't look like she completely believed me, but I could tell she needed to get back to work. I ordered the American breakfast—eggs, bacon, fried potatoes with onions and peppers, and rye toast—even though I was no longer hungry. I knew I had to eat. I had barely eaten anything the day before, and if I didn't start eating, I would probably trigger another headache. I figured chances were decent I’d get one anyway, but at least eating something would give me a fighting chance.

Along with the lack of gluten-free options, Chrissy also voiced her displeasure around the coffee choices, wanting a mocha, or latte, or something, made with some other type of milk than, well, milk from a cow, so she ended up with a Coke. I restrained myself from pointing out that soda was probably a lot less healthy choice than something with gluten or dairy in it. Ah, kids.

She blew the paper off the straw and plopped the straw in her soda, then pulled out her iPhone. "Who's Daniel?"

I didn't look at her as I added a little more sugar to my cup, and carefully stirred. "Just a guy I knew from back when I would visit during the summer."

"Hmmm," Chrissy said, lifting her head from her iPhone to narrow her eyes at me. "Sounded like more than that."

"Well, it wasn't," I snapped. Chrissy looked up at me in surprise, one eyebrow raised. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that I was the grown up.

"Sorry, I didn't sleep well last night. All your pacing kept me awake." Oh, great, Rebecca. Fabulous apology right there. Maybe I just should have just cut to the chase and said “Sorry, not sorry.” I tried smiling to soften my words and turn it into a joke.

But, Chrissy was frowning at me. "Pacing? What are you talking about? I slept like the dead."

I stared at her, that sense of “wrongness” I felt in the kitchen that morning rushing through me again. "But, I mean, I saw you …" my voice trailed off as images flashed through my mind.

The white nightgown disappearing into Chrissy's room.

Chrissy standing in the kitchen wearing her red and blue sleep outfit.

I rubbed my temples, the coffee turning into a sick, greasy lump in my stomach. Oh God, I hoped I wasn't going to throw up.

Chrissy was looking at me with something that resembled concern. Or maybe it was alarm. After all, I was the only adult she knew within 1,000 miles. "Are you okay, Rebecca?"

I reached for my water glass. "Yeah, I'm fine. It's an old house. Old houses make all sorts of noises. I'm sure that's what kept me awake."

Chrissy didn't look terribly convinced, but she went back to her iPhone. She was probably texting her friends about how I was losing it. Or worse … texting her father.

I drank some water to try and settle my stomach. I was being ridiculous. Old houses make all sorts of creaks and groans and can sound exactly like footsteps, which is what kept waking me up last night. And as for what I saw … well, clearly, I hadn't seen anything. Just a trick of the light, or the moon, or something. And with the pounding of my head, I really wasn't paying that close attention.

I just needed to get some food in my stomach. And hopefully, some decent sleep that night. Then I could forget about all the house nonsense. Stefan and I could laugh about it … assuming he finally got around to calling me back, that is.

Okay, I so didn't want to go down that road. Instead, I sat back in my seat, sipped my coffee, and watched Mia top off the cup of a cute guy who looked like a contractor, laughing at something he said. I still had trouble believing Mia was waiting tables at the diner. Of all of us, she was bound and determined to get out and never come back. I remembered how driven, how passionate she had been about all the injustices in the world, and how determined she had been to right them. She was going to be a lawyer and fight for everyone who couldn't help themselves. What had happened?

A couple of older, neatly-dressed women sitting at a table next to us were staring at me. They wore nearly identical pantsuits, except one was baby blue and the other canary yellow. Their half-eaten food sat in front of them. Taken aback at the open aggression in their eyes, I looked back at them, wondering if I should know them.

Were their stares really directed at me? Did I do something in my youth my traitorous memory had yet to reveal? Maybe they were actually looking at someone sitting behind me. I turned around to look, but no one was there. When I swiveled back, their identical gaze looked even more antagonistic.

I dropped my eyes, only half-seeing the paper placemat covered with local advertising, feeling a growing sense of unease in my belly. They didn't look familiar at all. Who were they? And why me?

"Why did the waitress call you Becca?" Chrissy asked, startling me. For once, I was glad she was there to distract me, even though part of me instantly wanted to scream at her to stop calling me that.

"It was my nickname," I said, willing those older women to get up and leave. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw them lean toward each other, whispering, hostile eyes still watching me. I adjusted my head until I couldn't see them anymore.

Chrissy went back to her iPhone "It's cute. Better than Rebecca."

I ignored the twist of pain inside me and put my hand on my heart. "Wait. Did I just hear an almost compliment there?"

Chrissy rolled her eyes. "I'm just saying. I think I'll call you Becca."

"Don't," I said, before I could stop myself.

Chrissy looked surprised. And, if I didn't know her any better, a little hurt. "What, only people you like can call you Becca?"

Cripes. I could have smacked myself. Why on earth wasn't there a manual out there on how to be a stepmom to a daughter who is only fifteen years younger than you?

"That's not it," I said, stalling for time as I tried to put the feelings that had swamped over me into words. "It just … it just triggers bad memories. That's all." I cringed—I sounded so lame, even to myself.

Chrissy gave me a withering look as she furiously pounded on her iPhone. I opened my mouth to say something—I had no idea what … something to bridge the gap that yawned between us—but Mia's voice interrupted me. "Daniel! Look who's here! It's Becca!"

I closed my mouth and turned to look. A police officer was standing at the counter watching Mia fill up a to-go container with coffee. Could that be Daniel? I searched the room, but only saw only a handful of people finishing up their breakfast. It had to be him.

I looked back at the cop. Broad shoulders and dark blonde hair—Daniel. Mia glanced at me and winked. I made a face back at her.

He turned. He was older of course, but yes, it was most definitely Daniel. He wouldn't be considered traditionally handsome—not like Stefan with his almost pretty-boy looks. Daniel's face was too rugged, with sharp cheekbones and a crooked nose. But his lips were still full and soft, and his eyes were still the same dark blue. I found myself suddenly conscious of my appearance. I hadn't taken a shower in two days, and I was wearing an old, faded New York Giants tee shirt. I had scraped my unruly mass of reddish, blondish, brownish hair back into a messy ponytail in preparation for a full day of cleaning and organizing. But I quickly reminded myself that I was being silly. I was a married woman, sitting with my stepdaughter, and he was engaged.

Besides, he had made it more than clear years ago he wasn't the slightest bit interested in me.

"Becca," he said coming over, his face friendly, but not exactly smiling. "Welcome back to Redemption." It didn't sound much like a welcome.

“Thanks," I said, mostly because I couldn't think of anything better to say. Instinctively, I reached up to smooth out my hair, since as usual, a few curly tendrils had escaped and hung in my face. "Not much has changed."

He studied me, making me really wish I had taken an extra five minutes to jump in the shower and dig out a clean shirt. "Oh, plenty has changed."

"Like you being a cop?"

He shrugged slightly. "Pays the bills."

I half-smiled. "There's lots of ways to pay the bills. If I remember right, you always seemed more interested in breaking the law than upholding it."

"Like I said, things change." He lifted his to-go coffee cup and took a swallow, dark blue eyes never leaving mine. "I take it you're still painting then."

I dropped my gaze to his chest, feeling a dull ache overwhelm me—the same pain I felt when I heard the name Becca. "As you said, things change."

"Ah." I waited for him to ask more questions, but instead, he changed the subject. "So, how long are you staying?"

I shrugged. "Not sure. We've actually moved here."

His eyebrows raised slightly. "To Charlie's house? You aren't selling it?"

“Well, yes. Eventually. That’s the plan. But, at least for the foreseeable future, we’ll be living in it.” I sounded like an idiot. With some effort, I forced myself to stop talking. Why on earth did I share so much detail? How was this any of his business?

He looked like he was going to say something more but was interrupted by a loud snort. The two pant-suited women both scraped their chairs back as they stood up, glaring disgustedly at all of us before heading to the cash register.

"What's with them?" Chrissy asked. I had forgotten she was there.

I shrugged, before remembering my manners and introducing Chrissy to Daniel. I made a point of gesturing with my left hand to flash my wedding ring.

His head tipped in a slight nod before looking back at me. "Will you be around later today? I'd like to stop by and talk to you."

There was something in his expression that made me uneasy, but I purposefully kept my voice light. "What on earth for? I haven't even unpacked yet. Am I already in trouble?"

The ends of his lips turned up in a slight smile, but no hint of warmth touched the intense look in his eyes. "Should you be in trouble?”

I let out a loud, exaggerated sigh. "Why do cops always answer a question with a question?"

"Occupational hazard. I'll see you later." He dipped his chin in a slight nod before walking away. I noticed he didn't give me the slightest hint as to what he wanted to talk to me about. That sense of unease started to grow into a sense of foreboding.

"Well, for an old friend, he wasn't very friendly," Chrissy said.

I sipped my coffee. "That's for sure."

She smirked. "He was pretty cute, though. For an old guy, I mean."

Man, she did have a knack for making me feel ancient. But, unfortunately, even that didn't distract my mind from scrambling around like a rat in a cage, worrying about what he wanted to talk to me about.

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