And Bob Ricci, telling me I was forbidden to be in the house and threatening my job? Yeah, fuck him. I didn’t respond well to bullying tactics.
So… I guess what I was trying to ask myself was, would it really be so bad if I hopped on over to take a look? Sure, I could just lie here naked with Jun, and really, who in their right mind would say no to that? But I was already awake and it’d take, like, twenty minutes, tops. What if the map reallywasgone? It could be important for Tillman to know, even though he’d likely just be angry. Deep down in his heart I knew he’d appreciate the tip when it became relevant. And besides all this, there was also the fact that I had to call Ms. Price in the morning and defend my job. What if she asked about the state of the home or Bob had been feeding her lies? What was I supposed to say? Make something up without having seen the third floor for myself?
I looked over my shoulder at Jun, gauged that he was deep into REM, and slowly eased out from his hold. I got to my feet, dressed in the dark, then grabbed my phone. I turned the flashlight on so I wouldn’t trip and fall down the spiral stairs in my attempt to sneak out, but I caught sight of Jun’s gun and holster on his suitcase, and it gave me pause. He hadn’t put it away before we fell asleep, although admittedly I did sort of sidetrack him.
I’d never held a gun before.
Not that I wanted to, but…Ghost Smith. Except he, er, Josh, was currently in jail. So the odds of going to the house and being attacked were pretty fucking slim to none, but those phone calls, telling me not to go back and that I’d be dead—Josh incarcerated or not, I didn’t want to take any chances and be caught with my pants down.
Jun was still sleeping. I hoped like hell he’d stay that way, because he would kill me for doing this. I slowly eased the weapon free from his holster, surprised at its weight. Jun wielded it like an extension of himself, but it felt too heavy to be of any use. That was okay, though. I wouldn’t have to fire it. Just having a gun would scare off any potential intruder.
Not wasting another minute, I hurried down the stairs and picked up my crappy Chucks from beside Jun’s shoes at the front door before tiptoeing to the back. I paused to dig out my Vespa keys from under a pile of junk on the unused dining room table, then fetched my helmet from where it sat on the washer. I slipped out the back door, juggling the handful of crap while stomping into my shoes and then putting my helmet on.
Safety first!
I pulled the seat up on my pink Vespa to stash Jun’s pistol among some week-old mail, a map, an extra hoodie, and a bag of Twizzlers I’d bought and forgotten about. What a travesty! I slammed the seat down, hoisted the Vespa off its kickstand, and walked it to the front of the house. I brought it to the street before I sat, turned the ignition, and made a quick getaway in hopes of not waking Jun.
In the middle of the night, I could get to the Smith Home in under five minutes easy. Speeding down the streets, the cool tropical breeze whipped through my clothes and sent shivers up my arms. The neighborhood was empty of the typical daytime madness, and despite being a town to party in, 3:00 a.m. was pushing it for most folks. The only traffic I encountered on the way to the house were a few chickens crossing the road—a joke that got old real fast, believe me.
I turned onto Whitehead Street, and the Smith Home seemed to almost emerge from the canopy of surrounding trees. It was kinda creepy at this hour. But hey, at least there were no lights on in the windows, or apparent shadows moving about the house. I rolled into the employee-only driveway, parked beside the gift shop, and cut the engine. I heaved the Vespa back onto its kickstand, grabbed Jun’s scary gun, snuck to the back gate, and let myself onto the property.
That strange bubble that seemed to encase the house was there once again as I walked along the dark paths in the garden. It’s not that it was quiet at three in the morning; it was like sound was simply unable to pass through the gate. It became muted. Faraway. Sometimes it almost felt like if I screamed, no one would hear me.
Weird, right?
I hurried up the front steps and crossed the porch, only to find the cops had put one of those stickers on the door that if you opened it, would cause a tear and they’d see someone had trespassed. I’m sure Tillman wouldn’t need more than one guess as to who did the entering either. I huffed and put my hands on my hips, about to cuss the detective out, but then I remembered the broken window latch around back. I’d already proven I could finagle my way in, so I went down the steps and circled the house to the opposite end.
This door had been stickered over too, but the windows? Sticker-free and Aubrey-size. I went to the corner window that looked into the parlor, shielding my hands around my face as I peered in. Totally pitch-black. I couldn’t make out a single thing inside. I took a deep breath, told myself not to be a scaredy-cat because I was Aubrey Grant and had once chased a pickpocket who was dressed like Batman off the subway, and shimmied the pane open.
I stuck my leg in first and then ducked my head inside. I held on to the frame and bounced back on one foot to carefully get my other leg inside while not bumping or breaking any nearby antiques. Standing in the parlor, I let my eyes adjust and breathing slow, and considered flicking on the lights. In fact, I should turn all of them on. Set this house ablaze in warm tungsten because I couldn’t shake off these damn heebie-jeebies. But if I did that, I might as well have been on the porch with a megaphone, proclaiming I was breaking and entering.
Just my phone’s flashlight it was, then. I followed the small beam out of the parlor and across the downstairs to peek into the dining room. Dark. Empty. Ghost- and intruder-free. I circled around to the stairs and started up. My palms were sweaty and Jun’s gun weighed about a thousand pounds in my hand, but I was fine. I could do this.
I had to take my house back.
Well, notmyhouse, but I digress.
Anyway, a gun would stop someone dressed like Ghost Smith. Unless… you know, there was still that little chance Ghost Smith was…a ghost. In which case a bullet wouldn’t do much. Fuck. I should have brought salt or something. That’s what they used onSupernatural.
By the time I’d reached the second floor, I realized my thoughts had detoured drastically from guns and intruders and ghosts and whatnot to being centered mostly on how hot Jensen Ackles was. I chuckled and then froze when I heard a creak that hadn’t come from my own steps.
I stopped breathing.
I didn’t move a muscle.
Be chill, I told myself.Be the Aubrey Grant you were at the beginning of the week.
I wasn’t afraid to stand up for myself.
I wasn’t a wimp.
I took all of life’s curveballs and carried on.
But most important, I wouldneverhear the end of it if I told Sebastian about this and admit I ran away before investigating. He was my junior, after all. I have to keep face with the kid.
Squaring my shoulders, I boldly walked into the master bedroom, flashing my phone in all of the corners and clearing it of any persons, physical or spectral. I did the same in the children’s room and concluded what I’d heard must have simply been the house settling. So onward to the third floor.
I walked up the second set of stairs, no longer trying to be quiet. The Smith Family Historical Home was my life, damn it. Someone could try to take it from me, sure. But they’d have to deal with me kicking and screaming the entire time.
