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I set my bag down on the couch before letting Dinah out of her carrier, watching as she tentatively peeks her head out, inspecting her new surroundings. I leave her to explore, spying a note on the coffee table and grabbing it.
Call 970 524-9385 if there’s a problem.
Only call if 100% necessary.
I scoff, setting the note down. Sounds like my Airbnb host isn’t crazy about small talk with his guests. Luckily, I have no plans on calling him. This place is a fairy tale—I can’t imagine there being a problem here.
Maybe my luck is finally changing.
Humming jauntily, I zip open my duffel bag and start to unpack when I hear a noise. I freeze, looking toward Dinah. But she’s sitting quietly in front of the empty fireplace, looking around wide-eyed for the source of the noise. The sound comes again, and I frown toward the door to my right. There’s a scrabbling coming from behind it like somebody is trying to open a drawer or a cupboard.
Did I get here too early? Is somebody still here?
Warily, I take a step toward the door, reaching for the handle. I turn it, pushing the door open slowly and peeking my head into the room. It’s a quaint, rustic-style kitchen, like something out of the dwarfs’ cottage in Snow White. I can’t see anybody in here, so I open the door a little wider and step inside, stopping in my tracks.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I mutter.
One of the kitchen drawers is wide open and a raccoon is lying back inside it, blinking up at me. We stare at each other for a moment.
Typical.
“Am I bothering you?” I ask in exasperation.
The raccoon makes a chittering sound which I assume means yes. I shake my head in defeat and take a step backward, quietly closing the kitchen door behind me.
Looks like I’ll be needing that phone number after all.
2
Nash
I stare at the blank piece of paper in front of me, rolling a pen between my fingers. I’m almost cross-eyed from staring at it for so long, but no matter how hard I think, the words won’t come.
Shit.
I’ve tried to write this letter a thousand times. Every year, I pick up a pen and a piece of paper and try to tell my brother how fucking sorry I am. But I never know how to begin.
It looks like this year is no exception.
Still, there’s something about being at the end of another year that always makes me want to try. Another year without Lincoln. Ten years in total since my brother cut me out of his life. It hurts like hell. Time only makes it worse. But I deserve it.
God knows it’s my own damn fault.
I’m just about to scrunch up the paper and toss it in the fire when my phone starts to ring. The noise is a shock to my system. My phone never rings. I answer it, ready to tell a spam caller to piss off as I say, “Hello?”
“Hi,” a woman’s voice replies, sweet as honey. “Uh, I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m staying in your Airbnb and the note said to call this number in an emergency.”
I raise an eyebrow, trying to ignore the way the stranger’s voice makes my chest tighten. “What’s the emergency?”
“There’s a…uh…well, there’s a raccoon in the kitchen.”
I drop my pen, sure I misheard her. “What?”
“There’s a raccoon in the kitchen,” she repeats, enunciating carefully.
“Shit.” I stand up from my desk and head for the door. “What’s it doing?”
“Just chilling in a drawer.”
