Page 9 of The Marriage Mistake

“That’s okay,” I said, grabbing my weekender bag containing my essentials from the back seat. “I’ll handle it.”

Jack ignored me and hit the latch to open the trunk. I blinked as he hauled my suitcase out like it weighed nothing. “This way,” he said.

“I can get that⁠—”

“We’ll put you in the dormer bedroom, if you don’t mind,” he said, glancing over at me. “I always whack my head up there, but that shouldn’t be a problem for you.” He flashed me a smile, and I narrowed my eyes at him. Was he insulting me for being short?

Before I could retort, the sound of smashing glass made us both jerk our heads toward the house. A second later, a young girl’s scream shattered the peaceful susurration of the trees around us. Jack dropped my suitcase onto the damp asphalt and started sprinting. “Darby!”

I righted the suitcase—my toiletries were in there, and I didn’t want conditioner leaking all over my clothes—and followed a little more slowly. I found an open side door at the top of three concrete steps and followed the sound of screaming. Creeping inside, I told myself that the pounding of my pulse was a ridiculous reaction, and everything was probably fine. The chances of encountering a serial killer were approximately one in 3.4 million, so this probably wasn’t a murderer on the loose. Hopefully.

“Darby!”

“Get it, Dad!” Another shriek.

“How the hell⁠—”

“My hair!”

“Open the window!”

“But that’s how it got in!”

I crossed the threshold to see a young girl standing on the kitchen counter, her face pointed at the other side of the room. Jack stood between her and the threat. My eyes bounced to his tense shoulders to the top of the refrigerator, where a gigantic raccoon was tearing through boxes of breakfast cereal. Jack approached, and the raccoon froze, its whiskers quivering.

“All right, my friend,” Jack said in a calm, low voice. “You’re lost. Time for you to go back to the forest.”

The kitchen tiles were littered with garbage. I traced the path the raccoon had taken by the carnage it had left in its wake. Through the window, it had torn into the fruit bowl and found the kitchen trash can. Then it had scrabbled up to the top of the refrigerator, where it now watched us with beady black eyes. It chittered, and Jack stopped his slow advance.

“Raccoons are nocturnal animals,” I said in the silence of the stand-off. “It’s strange to see one in the middle of the day.”

“It’s strange to see one in my damn kitchen,” Jack growled.

“It scratched me when I tried to get it outside,” Darby said, lifting her arm to reveal a deep red scrape.

“You’ll need treatment for rabies,” I told her.

Her eyes went wide with panic. “I have rabies?”

“Well, we don’t know that, but the raccoon is acting strangely and they’re a primary carrier of rabies.”

“Dad! I have rabies!”

“You haven’t got rabies, Darbs,” Jack growled, tearing his eyes off the raccoon for a bare second to glare at me. “Not helpful, Ember.”

“The mortality rate of rabies is one hundred percent once symptoms appear,” I protested, edging away from the animal and moving closer to Darby, who was staring at the scratch on her arm with a horrified frown. “There’s no sense downplaying the risk.”

“I’m going to die?”

“You’re not going to die!” Jack snapped, then he took another step toward the animal. “Go on. Get out of here. And that goes double for you, raccoon.”

“Funny,” I deadpanned.

The raccoon growled, sharp little teeth appearing.

“Maybe we should call animal control,” I suggested.

“Animal control is one guy called Harry who covers the whole county. By the time he gets here, the raccoon will have taken over the mortgage and made himself at home, and Harry will be halfway through his daily case of beer. We’re on our own.”