Chapter 1
Callie
Over two years later.
I step out of my aunt’s black Mercedes-Benz and look at my new home.
Trees. An insane amount of trees surround the cottage made of bare cedar slats and stone. Looking back the way we came, there’s a winding dirt road that eventually makes its way to a paved highway.
Birds chirp and skitter among the maple, fir, and pine trees. A breeze shakes their leaves, and there’s a slight crunch of dirt under my aunt’s sensible pumps. They’re the only sounds for miles.
Isolated. Alone. No neighbors to hear me scream.
I shiver. “He’s gone,” I mutter under my breath. “The bastard is in prison two states away.”
Gritting my teeth so hard my jaw aches, I close my eyes and take deep calming breaths of clean Oregon air.Who needs an oxygen bar when you have a claustrophobic forest surrounding your house?After a few deep breaths, my rattled heart begins to slow down to human levels.
I jump when I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I have to stop myself from immediately smacking it away. I look up into my aunt’s soft brown eyes that glisten with unshed tears. Mildred Volkov. I didn’t know this woman existed a week ago, and yet she’s standing here crying.
She pulls me into a hug and whispers into my hair, “It’s going to be okay. I promise.”
In her heels, she’s about a half a foot taller than my 5’3”. She’s warm and soft and smells like roses.
I stand there stiff and unyielding, arms at my sides, unsure of what to do. I can’t remember getting a hug that wasn’t for show. Maybe my mother held me, but I was a toddler when she died, so if she did, it really doesn’t help me now.
I stomp down on the rage that’s found new fuel since I learned of this woman. A stranger that tells me she’s my mother’s sister.Where the fuck were you when my father was turning me into the human torch?Fun fact: my hair grows back along with everything else.
She didn’t know,logic tries to remind me.Your father is a psychopath. He kept you away from anyone that might help. It’s his fault, not hers.
She lets go before I can attempt to soften in her arms and turns toward the house.
“It’s not so bad,” she proclaims. “It came fully furnished, so no heavy lifting.”
There’s a subtle lilt of a British accent to her voice, a finishing touch to her overall well put together self. No wrinkles in her black slacks or chic white blouse. Not a blonde hair out of place from her french twist, despite the early flight from Phoenix, the six hour layover in LAX, followed by the long drive from the airport to our new home here in Twin Cedar Pass, Oregon. Her perfection is unnerving, and I resist the urge to kick dirt onto her shoes.
I walk around the car and grab my two duffels and backpack from the trunk, or the boot, as my aunt likes to call it. Carrying one in each hand, the duffels drag on the ground as I walk towards the deck that surrounds the house, my aunt already walking up the few steps to the front door.
Large windows bookend the door, allowing an easy view into the entry and living room. I peek inside since there’s a distinct lack of curtains or blinds. Wood floors. White walls. At least the chocolate brown L shaped couch looks overstuffed and inviting. A throw made up of autumn colors hangs over the back, encouraging people to curl up and stay awhile.
My aunt reaches under the welcome mat, pulls out two keys and hands one to me. I shove it into my jeans pocket.
“Trusting lot,” she says with a smile and raised brow.
When we enter, the first thing I notice is there are a lot of windows, but thankfully not a french door in sight.
The kitchen is left of the door. Cedar wood cabinets and a stone counter run along two walls, one side ending with a stainless steel fridge. There’s a well lacquered oak table that seats four sitting off to the side with a view out of yet another window.
“In case you forgot there were trees outside,” I mutter.
We both stand there awkwardly taking the place in. It’s smaller than my father’s house, but I’m pretty sure that’s in its favor. It smells like Pine Sol and fresh paint and has a kind of rustic, cabin feel to it-- minus any animal heads and/or pelts. Also in its favor.
“I have a few calls I need to make,” my aunt announces suddenly, heading back towards the front door. Her heels make a sharp click on the hardwood floors. “Why don’t you go find your room and start unpacking? I believe all the bedrooms are upstairs.”
I freeze, my knuckles turning white from my tightening grip on my duffels.
“Is there a basement?” I ask, my voice strained.
“No, darling,” she says softly, looking at me with knowing eyes, before walking out onto the deck, “there isn’t a basement.”
