Page 15

My heart and head feel lighter—all because of a stack of books. I race downstairs, grab my bulky pack, and return it to Dad’s old room. My room. I hang my funeral clothes in the bathroom, hoping the steam from my morning shower will loosen their wrinkles. I change into my sweats and rest on the old, creaking bed, but my eyes refuse to close. My head files through a million different memories and new realities.

A tightness forms in my stomach, and then it’s growling once more, reminding me I haven’t eaten. My head won’t quiet if I’m starving.

It’s so silent—too silent. I flip on the kitchen light and open every single cupboard, searching for anything edible. I smack each cupboard closed, just to dispel the quiet.

My search for food is unsuccessful though. Amelia’s left me a bottle of water and half a box of vegetable crackers. I push myself up onto the countertop, sitting there, swinging my legs and eating my stale crackers.

Before the quiet and darkness can drown me, I storm through the house, turning on every single light I can find. Somehow, killing the darkness brings the lonely space back to its normal size. “Hey,” I say, staring at the shelf below Amelia’s petite TV. “Are those…” I step closer. “Yep, photo albums.” Four brown memory books sit side by side, the ones she left to Earl. I wrangle all four at one time and carry them back to my room upstairs.

Flipping page after page, I search the black-and-white photos of each book. After two albums and not recognizing a soul, I scan the third book until I spot a photo of three boys. One tall, towheaded boy and two brunettes—all with the same slender nose. Dad, Earl, and Red. I slide the picture from its sleeve, holding it closer. Even here, Dad stands apart from his brothers, his smile nothing like theirs. I can’t help but think of what he told me—that his mother had separated him from his family, from his brothers. Why would Amelia do that? Why would she⁠—

Cur-lunk! I jerk, my gaze locking on the bedroom door. My heart sprints with the foreignness of this place. But I did not imagine that thunk.

A noise downstairs.

This time, the unknown racket isn’t my grandmother. I don’t even have my eleven-year-old courage to move me forward. Regretting every word I said to my father, I pray he’ll come back and rescue me. Only my pride isn’t going to let me call him—not just yet. It will need to be a miraculous rescue.

I close my eyes and force my logic to kick in. Get your head out of a story. Dad’s words, not mine, ring in my head. I’m in a foreign home, with foreign sounds. It could be the house settling, the heater turning on, or something else perfectly plausible. With my phone clutched in one hand, I creep over to the door.

“See, everything’s fine,” I say, standing at the top of the stairs, waiting for something to happen. When nothing does, I compel my feet forward. Quietly, I step toward the entrance of the dining room—where I saw Amelia all those years ago. But the ghost of my grandmother hasn’t come to haunt me. Everything sits just as I’d left it. “Whew.” Yes, the house is settling and I am overreacting. I pull another bottle of water from the fridge and take a long swig.

“Ah-hem.”

I whirl, sloshing water all over the kitchen linoleum. “Bwaa!” I scream, throwing my hands out, ready to karate chop anything near me.

A grown man, his arms crossed, his face scowling, stands across from me. What the⁠—

I jerk backward until my waist hits the edge of the countertop. In an instant, I have searched and snatched up the only weapon I see, a paring knife from the sink. Amelia must have left it there. I hold it out, and the man takes one step away. I don’t care that he’s cute and has a deceivingly innocent face. He is an intruder.

“Who are you?” I tighten my grip on my weapon and point the tip more directly his way.

But my stupidly attractive trespasser doesn’t look afraid. The fold of his arms tightens and he glares at me. “Who are you?”

I don’t answer, just shake my knife at him. The muscle in his forearm flinches. His black T-shirt stretches over his broad shoulders and lean chest. It’s clinging to his body, leaving little to the imagination. Not that I am imagining anything—because I’m not. His tousled brown hair is one shade lighter than the whiskers on his chin. His hazel eyes watch me, waiting for an answer.

I raise my phone in my other hand. My dad’s name is one tap away, the second number in my speed dial. I glance down at the number and back at the invader, my thumb hovering over the touchscreen.

And yet… my brain chooses this dire moment to contemplate. Do I really want to call my father? “Get out!” I bellow. Sure, I’d rather call Dad than die. I can own that. Still, I keep my voice steady. “Or I will call the authorities.” Authorities—yes, that’s much better than tattling to my dad.

“You do that. Tell Sheriff Lane I say hi.” His lip curls. “Then, let him know you’re trespassing. Put down the knife, little girl.”

Little girl? He can’t be much older than me. Between Dad, high school Roy, and this stranger, I’m feeling self-conscious about my age.

But then—my sprinting heart slows to a gallop. He’s threatening to call the cops on me?

My hands fall to my side. “This is my house.” The truth comes easier than I thought it would.

“Ha. Ha.” He sneers, faking a laugh, and takes one step closer to me.

“Whoa!” I hold up my hands, telling him to wait. And with the knife in one and my phone in the other, he does. “Hold on. This is my house. My name is Olivia Benson, and I recently inherited it from my grandmother.”

He huffs. “Really?” For the first time since breaking into Amelia’s house, he sounds unsure of himself. “It must have been quite recent.”

“Yes, Mr. Marx handed me the keys today.” My confidence grows with each word. I am not a little girl. And I am not guilty. And thankfully, it would seem, he isn’t about to murder me. I place my full and fisted hands on my hips, scrounging even more courage. “Who, may I ask, are you?”

His forehead wrinkles beneath his dark curls. “Shoot—I’m sorry. I’m Amelia’s—I mean, your grandmother’s neighbor.”

“And how did you get in here?” I say, because I am a grown up and I happen to be right and on a roll.