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The street feels quieter and smaller than I remember—maybe it’s just because I’m used to the big city streets. But also homier. If memory serves me, the bookstore is just down the street. There’s one lamp post on each street and trees line the sidewalks.
Chase fumbles with the keys, reminding me of a realtor who’s never been to a house before as he tries every key on the chain and struggles to get the door open.
Strange. I just saw him whip out pucks without blinking. But give him a set of keys to his own home in the dark and he’s a total klutz.
“Need some help there, hotshot?”
He grumbles but pushes the door open.
It’s pitch black when we step in and it takes a minute for Chase to find the light switch.
But when he finally does, I see why he’s acting like he hasn’t been here in a while. This is not a place lived in. At least not in the last few months. The sofa is covered with plastic. Boxes are piled up on the side of the living room. And there’s a musty scent.
“Sorry, it’s not the Plaza.”
I don’t respond to that. This is not just far from the Plaza Hotel; I could have likely found a motel with better accommodations.
“It’s a cute house.”
He clears his throat. “The bedroom is just down the hall here.”
“The bedroom?”
“It’s a one-bedroom cottage.”
“Oh. Well, I can sleep on the couch. I’m not picky really.”
He smirks as he yanks the plastic off the furniture, and I jump when something lunges out.
“What was that?”
Chase grabs a broom nearby and stabs at the jumpy reptile, guiding it toward the front door before opening it. “It’s a frog.”
“So uh…you said something about a bedroom?” I squeal.
“Through here.” He marches to the hall behind the kitchen and I follow him. My backpack hanging off one shoulder.
“Why does it look like no one’s lived here in months?”
He runs his fingers through his hair and sighs. The action making me feel guilty because God, he looks tired. “Because no one has.”
“This…isn’t yours?”
His shifts his gaze away. “It was my brother’s.”
“Did he move?”
“He died,” he says flatly.
“Oh. I’m so sorry.” I glance around uncomfortably. “It must have been fairly recent.”
“Yep.” He pulls down the covers. “The sheets are clean, but I wouldn’t use that top comforter. Also, you might want to let the water run in the bathroom before you use the sink or shower.”
A chill runs down my spine. I feel like a homeless person being offered a hostel. “Why did you bring me here?” I ask, feeling cold and unwelcome.
“You need a place to crash, right? This is the only vacant bed in town.”
I nod. “Right. Thank you. And I’m sorry for your loss, I don’t—which one of your brothers—”
