This was never a dream, never a nightmare I created, but something I built walls around as a psychological defense mechanism.
The papers prove it. The intake forms, my name scrawled in Mom’s handwriting. She tried to save me before it could harden into something permanent. I didn’t even make it past that first appointment. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t remember enough to explain. And after that, we never spoke of it again.
Mom must have hoped I would come to her when I was ready.
As for Parker Lane, I never saw him again. He simply disappeared, dissolved into nothing like mist. I don’t know what Mom did about him. If she went to the police. If she begged his mother to send him away. The papers don’t say. They stop here, at the worst part.
I don’t even realize that my back is against the dining room wall, my body sinking to the floor—my vision taken over by the darkest reminiscence.
I’m pulled from it all when I hear it again.
Knock, knock, knock.
39
AMELIA
My knuckles rap on the door of 749 Little Mountain Road. I take a few steps back, just far enough to glimpse the slope of Mom’s house peeking above the tree line at the end of the cul-de-sac. The sight sends a cold ribbon up my spine. The fact that Parker Lane could have been this close to us for the past five days makes my stomach twist, and when I imagine him that close to Mom, a shiver slides up my body.
He can’t be here,my mind insists.There’s no chance.
But the certainty wavered when I read the unassuming painted sign fixed above the mailbox: THEWICKERS. Just like the name on the Amazon package. Cale Wicker.
The only explanation I can make fit is that Cale must live here now—with Parker and Meredith. Perhaps he’s Meredith’s partner.
Or… this isn’t Parker and Meredith’s address at all, but rather Cale’s. And they split off after the move.
There are too many options for comfort.
I turn toward the rose-choked yard, standing on another charming porch—this one brick, a bit blasé. No marigolds, no rocking chair. Not the place anyone could enjoy morning coffee.
I wait, my fingers searching for my phone to text Imogen that I’ll be right home. But my pockets are empty. I freeze, picturing my phone on the passenger seat of my car, where I dropped it after putting the Lanes’ address into Maps.
Perfect…
My foot taps as my patience grows thin, bringing my hand up for another knock. There’s a light switched on in the house, just visible through the ornate beveled glass pane in the front door. Someone must be home.
Knock, knock, knock.Faster this time.
I consider turning around for my phone—maybe giving up altogether. I’ve knocked three different times now. Maybe no one’s home.
I’ll try the doorbell once, then I’ll go.
A reverberatingding-dongechoes inside.
I peer through the glass, my breath fogging against its surface. I can’t see any details, only light. But that light is suddenly obstructed as a soft blur drifts across it.
Someone’s coming.
The door creaks open, revealing a woman, her brunette bob threaded with gray. Her expression is combative, alert. There’s a nervousness that doesn’t last, replaced quickly by a stiff, unnatural smile. Like a mannequin.
“Hi,” I try, my voice pitching falsely bright. “I just moved up the street and I’m making my way around the cul-de-sac to introduce myself.” I thrust out my hand like a peace offering. “I’m Amber.”
The excuse and alias slipped off my tongue, unrehearsed.
She hesitates, glaring at my hand as if it’s a trap. Then, lightly, her frigid, thin fingers meet mine.
“M-my name is Pamela,” she stutters, her smile widening in such a way that I wouldn’t be surprised if it cracked her skin like porcelain.
