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It was the first time I saw him cry. The first time we hugged.
A few more years and I could take care of this place,he’d said.I’d have my money from a contract, and I could keep it the way they wanted it. Give it to my kids someday or something. They’d want family to have it, and now I can’t do that for them.
At nineteen, I hadn’t really known what to say. As it turned out, that was okay. Sometimes a hug was the best thing you could offer to someone who was hurting.
I rubbed at my chest while I stared up at that house.
“Anyone here?” I called out. There was a brief moment of quiet in which the only things I could hear were the shifting and settling of the trees, a slight creak coming from inside the house.
“I’m ... yes, I’m in here,” a feminine voice called back. “Come on in.”
“Do I have to?” I muttered.
It didn’t look like the house could bear much in the way of weight, so I tested the steps leading up to the wooden stoop outside the front door. There was an ominous groan when I stopped to push open the faded red door, but nothing cracked or fell.
Inside, the house was dark, and even with how cloudy and gray it was outside, it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. The entryway was two stories high, and my eyes were immediately drawn up to a grimy tin-paneled ceiling. A banister stretched along the second-story landing, the start of what must have been a pretty fucking impressive staircase.
And it was when my eyes tracked down those stairs that I saw her sitting on the bottom step. My head reared back. My eyes narrowed. “Are you ...?”
She raised her hands in a helpless gesture, and they didn’t fall very far when she dropped them. “Hi.” I wasn’t sure if the expression on her face was a smile or a grimace. “Welcome to the Campbell House.”
My mouth fell open. “Are you in handcuffs?”
She swallowed. “It’s ... symbolic. I think.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose.
“I heard you’re the new owner.” Her voice came out in a nervous rush. “And I really hope you don’t plan to demolish the house, because it will be incredible once it’s finished. The plans are amazing, and I’d love to show them to you. It’s ... it’s one of the best examples of true Federal architecture in this area, and if we can get the historical landmark certification, there are major tax benefits and multiple streams of income.”
My hand fell slowly from my face, and I studied her with fresh eyes. Because of how she was sitting, it was hard to tell how tall she was, but in the dim light of the house, she looked like she was in her late twenties. Her hair was dark red, and the angles of her face reminded me of a statue my dad used to have in his office.
Whenever we moved—and we moved quite a lot after my mom died—it was always the first thing he unpacked. A woman sitting on a garden bench. He always said it looked like Mom.
I used to think that no one ever really looked like those old-fashioned carvings—the straight, proud nose, the high cheekbones and big, guileless eyes. But this woman did. Like she was plucked from the past.
If she weren’t handcuffed to the fucking stairs, I’d wonder if she were a ghost trapped inside the house.
I pulled in a breath through my nose before I asked her my next question. “What’s your name?”
Before she answered, I had the same feeling of dread that had come on during my meeting with the lawyer.
“Ch-Charlotte,” she said.
Charlotte.
C. Cunningham.
Fuck.
I nodded, trying to ignore that giant leap to the worst possible scenario, in which I owned a home that came with a redhead who was willing to handcuff herself to the stairs.
“And you’re ...?”
“Burke Barrett.”
She nodded. “I’d shake your hand, but—” She shrugged.
If it was supposed to make me laugh, she failed spectacularly. “Charlotte. No last name?”
