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Nell’s run away.
Again.
4
SHE’S THE ONE (OPHELIA)
I’m amazed the house hasn’t changed in all this time.
Yet everything feels so different and that’s even more remarkable.
Sure, it’s the same split-level ranch house where I spent the best and worst years of my childhood.
Same pale-grey siding and cheerful bright blue trim.
Same covered front porch and big back deck.
The familiar overgrown backyard my mother let go wild during her last battle with cancer, only to declare later that she liked it better that way. Mom grew back tough as a weed, so she wasn’t going to cut downherweeds when they grew big and tough, too.
The last time I was here, the house was full of life and sound.
My mother, my little sister, Grant storming in and out whenever he pleased.
Up until that night he told me to run and never come back again.
Tonight, as I unpack and stuff my clothes away in my childhood bedroom, now turned into a guest room dotted with so many of my old things tucked away lovingly in the closet, it hits me.
The house is too still.
And I have no flipping clue where my sister is.
Ros barely said hello before she was gone.
Not a word about our mom, her eyes too bright, her smile too wide, way more interested in whoever she was texting than in saying hello to the big sister who probably feels like a stranger to her, considering I left Redhaven before she was grown.
And Mom... she’s at the medical center on the edge of town.
The only patient in their little three-bed cancer wing.
I haven’t been to see her yet.
Ineedto brace myself to see her like that again.
So for now, it’s just me.
Me and Ethan’s ghost.
He’s not dead.
He’s not.
I’ve repeated that unlikely mantra for what feels like ten lifetimes.
But every time, it sounds more desperate, more draining to believe something I know isn’t true.
I still remember the day I turned on the TV and Redhaven was plastered all over national news. It was even trending on Twitter and half a dozen true crime podcasts.
Rich, weirdo philanthropic family, bad seed, serial murders, the kind of thing that gets crime buffs panting with excitement. I wouldn’t be surprised if half the fall tourists are here hoping to get a glimpse of the Arrendells or dig around the Jacobin farm for more evidence.
