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Chapter 1
Tegan Adams
“Doyou think this is what’s best?” Dr. Lynn asked. I could tell he was doing that reverse psychology thing that he loved to use so much. Although it has been proven useful in the past, it won’t work on me this time.
“I need to. For me, I have to leave,” I answered as I grabbed my purse from the base of the couch.
“Your parents just died a few days ago, Tegan.”
“I know. I was there.” I stood and held out my hand to shake his for the final time. There would be no returning to therapy. At least, not in Chicago.
He stood with me, his expression open and pleading. Somewhere in the background, a clock dinged; our session had officially begun. But I only came to say goodbye.
“Making rash decisions in the moment of grief is normal, but -”
“It’s not rash if I’m drowning. The only way to stop drowning is to get out of the water, Dr. Lynn.” I dropped my hand and shouldered my purse. “Goodbye.”
He rubbed his fingers over his goatee, and I don’t wait for any other protests before I’m out the door.
“Jesus. Shit,”I grumble as my car jostles me around, thanks to a particularly nasty pothole.
This part of Utah is nearly abandoned. It’s in the middle of nowhere. With a town of less than two thousand people, it sure feels like it anyway. And with roads such as these - riddled with potholes and no visible center and shoulder lines - it’s a miracle those two thousand people have stuck around.
Maples and firs hug the road, and up ahead, above the tree line, I can see the tips of subtle mountains. Thanks to summer, everything is lush green, and the birds swoop across the road to nestle in branches on the other side.
It’s a far cry from Chicago where the tallest thing in the city was a man-made building that always blotted out the sun. Here, I don’t even share the road with anyone. The only shadows are from the trees and the puffy white clouds that occasionally give a reprieve from the hot beams.
Still, even with the unfamiliarity, I’m glad Tori talked me into this. Well, she didn’t need to do much convincing. When my parents died, I was ready to leave. I had nothing left for me, and I wanted more than anything to run away from the life I carried. Besides, I was a grown-ass woman. I can run if I want to, despite Dr. Lynn’s warnings not to.
As soon as I see the mailbox with the faded address number I’ve been searching for etched haphazardly on it, I turn into the gravel driveway, relieved that I’ve finally made it to my destination. The driveway winds around the trees, and just like the road, the gravel drive has seen better days. Derek Wordon, the man whom I’m renting thisproperty from, said that it needed some work, but hopefully, the house is in better shape than the driveway.
My heart sinks when the house comes into view, however. “Wow,” I whisper in both awe and disgust.
I pull up to the one-story house, park beside a rusted truck, and shut my car off. The house is definitely worse than the driveway. The siding is wood, and the white paint is peeling off of it in layers like skin from a bad sunburn. It has a broken front window that’s taped off with what looks to be a plastic trash bag, and what was once surely a beautiful rock garden is now wild and beastly, unidentifiable growth.
“At least, the roof looks new,” I say to myself as I adjust my shirt over my wide stomach. I agreed to help fix the place up in exchange for cheaper rent, but I don’t know a damn thing about shingles.
I swivel my gaze to the rest of the property. Off to the right, squatting in the overgrown grass, I spot a metal shed. To the right of that is a barn that’s leaning to the side.
Stepping out of my car, I stand with the door hanging open, shielding my eyes as I squint past the shed and the barn. “Are those horses?” I whisper to myself. I hope I’m not expected to take care of them. Like shingles, I wouldn’t know what to do with them.
Keeping the horses in the pasture is a barbed wire fence that extends into the grove of maples at the top of the slight hill. But that’s not what pulls my attention. Inside the fence is a large patch of roses. From here, I can see their bright red buds in full bloom, but just like the rest of the property, it hasn’t been kept. The roses grow wild, pushing against the barbed wire that keeps them in and the horses out.
Hinges squeak. “Ms. Adams?”
I turn my head to the higher-pitched male voice, ownerto the man now waiting in the house’s doorway, and paste on a smile so fake that it hurts my cheeks. I shut my car door. “Mr. Wordon?”
He steps fully out of the house, and the screen door slams shut behind him. “How many times do I have to tell you? It’s Derek.”
My smile warms as I cross the tall grass and shake his hand. “I’ll only call you by your first name if you use mine.”
He puckers his lips as if it takes much thought to consider. “Tegan it is then.”
“That’s all I ask,” I say brightly as I give his hand one last squeeze before releasing his fingers and letting him go.
He chuckles a little, and it’s so girly that I can’t help but laugh with him.
Derek is not a handsome man. He’s thin with absolutely no muscle mass. On top of his head is a severe balding spot that he brushes hair from the side up and over to hide, and he wears glasses too big for his small face. The glasses make his nose look much larger than it really is. But he seems nice and I couldn’t give a shit what he looks like. He was kind enough to rent me this dump, and for a good price too, considering I’m between jobs.
