Page 5

It explodes through me so suddenly that my mind cannot make sense of it. Heat. Pressure. A vicious wrench beneath my ribs.

My fingers— My fingers? I have fingers. I’m pretty certain I only have claws.

I’m obviously imagining things.

April crouches, oblivious, gathering books. “You could have killed me,” she tells the destroyed box.

My hand twitches against the ledge. My hand. It feels like my actual fucking hand. I try to move it again. But nothing happens.

Of course nothing happens, you idiot! You are made of granite. Nothing but stone.

I must have imagined it. After a century trapped inside this hideous body, perhaps my mind has finally fractured.

That seems reasonable. Frankly, I’m surprised it took this long.

April stacks the books on the porch one armful at a time.

Eventually, she returns to the SUV and shuts the back hatch.

She leans against it. Looks at the house. Then takes a deep breath.

“Okay, April Stevens.”

Stevens.

“You lost your job.” She holds up one finger. “Your boyfriend turned out to be a lying, cheating butthole.” A second finger.

Interesting.

“Your apartment flooded.” Third. “You have forty-three dollars in your checking account until your severance clears.” She hesitates. “Which is...less than ideal.”

Quite.

“But you have a house.” Her eyes lift to the windows. “You own an actual house.”

Her voice is different now. Softer. Some of the ridiculous cheer has disappeared. For the first time since she arrived, I see something beneath it.

Exhaustion.

She’s tired.

Not the sort a night’s sleep fixes.

I recognize it.

She takes another breath and straightens her shoulders.

“So this is good.”

She says it firmly, like she can force the universe into agreement.

“Aunt Eleanor left me a house. A weird, creepy, probably haunted house, but still.”

Probably?

“I can figure this out.” She nods. “I am excellent at figuring shit out.”

Then she marches toward the porch.