I wait in the warm car while Spooky Shit hauls two suitcases from the trunk—all my worldly possessions. Well, other thanthishouse of horrors and the plant business somewhere in town, which I’m not holding my breath about. Ninety minutes north of Manhattan with nary a Starbucks in sight, the entire hamlet of Graves Hollow is probably as dead as it sounds. Do they even have Wi-Fi here? Electricity? Indoor plumbing? These are the hard-hitting questions inquiring minds want to know.
Flinging myself out into the ruthless night, I peer up at the house again. Abandoned, that’s what it is. Just like the three sisters who once lived here.
The breeze kicks up, and I swear I hear the old girl moaning.
Relatable.
Still, thisisupstate New York. Birthplace of fall vibes. The property must be worth a pretty penny, even if therearedead bodies buried under it. Just adds to the historic charm.
“I don’t suppose you’re in the market for a house?” I gesture grandly at the place, like I’m trying on a new career. Murder-house real estate agent, at your service. “Superspooky, am I right?”
A quick shake of the head, then she makes the sign of the cross and hastily deposits herself back into the car.
Guess her devotion to “spooky shit” only goes so far.
Again, my shiver takes hold. She smirks at me with raised brows, but wisely keeps quiet about the walking-on-your-grave bit, and off she goes, my last chance at escape vanishing in the mist.
I open the app and double her tip anyway. Brendan’s credit card is still feeling generous, even if I’m not.
The house is dark and dreadful, watching me. A silent chill descends. My breath fogs in the air. Somewhere in the distance, an owl lets out an ominous hoot.
Realizing that this is the part of the movie where the ditzy blonde gets mauled by a hatchet-wielding werewolf maniac, I collect my bags and brace for re-entry.
“Inheritance,” I remind myself. “You’re doing this for the inheritance. Nut up, buttercup.”
I stomp up the crooked walk with as much nut as I can muster, considering I’m dragging two wobbly suitcases and tinkling like a goddamn wind-chime from all those mini-bar bottles. It’s a miracle I make it up the porch steps without breaking an ankle.
The front door is, predictably, locked.
Pressing my face to a grimy window, I finally spot some lights inside. Electricity after all! Well. That’s one mystery solved.
The warm glow is coming from the back—kitchen, I think. I can just make out the shapes of my sisters huddled at the table, a mess of paperwork spread between them, coffee cups in hand, their smug faces smugging, glossy hair glossing.
Those bitches totally started without me.
I’m just about to Hulk-smash the doorbell when the porch light blinks to life and three locks unlatch—click, click, clank. The door swings open, groaning on rusted hinges.
And there, waiting to greet me with a welcoming smile and a steaming cup of coffee of my very own, is…
No one. Absolutely no one.
A smart person would grab her bags and haul ass back home. Seeing’s how I’m both stupidandhomeless—winning combo to be sure—I forge ahead, hauling my crap over the threshold and hip-checking the haunted door shut behind me.
A pleasant, familiar scent floats on the air. Cinnamon, maybe? Candles? A memory flashes—a woman trimming herbs at the kitchen sink, humming contentedly. A curl of smoke rises from a tiny incense burner on the window sill. I can’t see her face. The image fades before I can fully pin it down.
Abandoning my bags, I make for the back, passing through rooms filled with a whole bunch of antique crap I can’t wait to sell, and then—bam. I’m standing in the kitchen archway, looking over what’s left of my family.
For a few heartbeats, I go unnoticed, Clorox Wipes all over again (minus the beaver shots). Then I clear my throat and both heads whip toward me with a gasp.
“Lizzy!” Kate cries, a happy grin breaking across her face. “Oh my god, you’re here!”
“Um… hi?” It’s all I can manage before she launches out of her chair, wrapping me in a rib-cracking hug. Rachel’s right behind her, a tentative smile hovering at the corners of her mouth—a rare display from my reserved oldest sister.
A warm and tingly sensation envelopes me, like slipping into a bubble bath.
Seeing them up close and personal again…God. I can’t possibly stay mad at them now.
But then Kate lets go and Rachel sniffs me and wrinkles her pert little nose and says, “Have you beendrinking? Jesus Christ, Lizzy,” and I realize that yes the fuck Icanstay mad.
