Page 9 of The House on Haven Way

If the bank can’t keep anyone in it, maybe they’ll tear it down. Will I get to “cross over” then?

I pause behind her chair. All my brothers are gone now. Mama. Pop. If I could just figure out how...

Not how to cross over.

How I died. I know it was murder, but what kind of poison? Was it meant to just make me sick, or make me die? Why did he do it? Was it really Harry? I trusted him. Never saw him even mildly upset until I threw him out of my house. Was it because he wanted Nancy for himself?

Did they ever catch him? Did he pay for it?

You’d think after all these years, my family would have let it slip once. Something about a trial. Or left a damn newspaper. Or said, “Poor Old Uncle Johnny... He was murdered here.”

No. They only ever said it was a sad place, and “Poor Johnny. Died so young. So sad.”

What does that mean? So sad he was murdered? So sad he died? Does that mean Harry Rogers got away with it?

And even if he did, what does it matter now? He’d pay for that in the afterlife. That’s outta my hands. He must be dead for now. So why can’t I leave and “cross over,” too?

I don’t know what to do about my predicament, but I know one thing.

This little human with wild gold-brown curls and tired eyes isn’t going to stay here.

She has to go.

September 18th, 2026

It will hit you one day. All at once.

That was my dad’s sage commentary as I kept fighting to fix myself and get better after the accident.

“If you don’t stop for a breather, you’ll crash,” he warned.

The crash arrived as soon as I put the milk away. It was the last of the items delivered by the DirectCart driver. I found my phone charger in my purse, filled my water again, tore the leg off of the rotisserie chicken, and collapsed on my bare mattress ten minutes later.

And slept.

And slept.

I had the strangest dream.

Doo-wop music. Ghostly gray eyes. A permanent frown on a handsome, old-fashioned face.

The next day, I putze around a little, unpacking this, calling for washer-and-dryer delivery and hook-up (thank you, Mr. Nigel and Hugo), and working my way through a legal pad to-do list.

Peacefully. Sweetly. With a playlist on (a Golden Oldies one, inspired by my dream), wearing nothing but a tightly tied bathrobe, a bonnet, and my spa slippers. I drink as much pumpkin spice chai as my kidneys will allow. I nibble cheese, grapes, and cold chicken.

“God! This is the life!” I shout, and I don’t know if I’m praying or just really excited to feel something like freedom after eight years of a rat race that I sometimes thought would kill me and a car accident that almost did.

Honey calls. “You busy as hell?” she asks.

“No. No, I’m not. I don’t start school until January. I have my investments to live off of. I don’t have rent. I’m living like a hermit, and I love it. This is how people should live, you know. If people lived like this, they’d live happier. I bet the incidence of heart attacks and strokes would go down.”

“Oh, you drank the Mountie version of the Pine Kool-Aid.”

“Mounties are the Canadian Royal Mounted Police, Honey. That’s a whole different thing. And I haven’t even been out of my house.”

“No ghosts yet? No creepies and crawlies from the ‘neighbors’?”

“Nope. Not a one. It’s nothing but good vibes and looong naps.” I grin. “I’m going to take my laptop back to bed, pop some microwave popcorn, and binge mindless trashy television. I don’t even need the cable guy. Everything just streams. And I don’t need a television—laptop.” I kick my feet. “I’m living simple. And all the money I’m saving—”