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I seemed to have a lot of those when Cameron Wilder was in the vicinity, like he could single-handedly short-circuit the grid just by existing.
“I have someplace I can stay.” Then I did something even more strange. I set my hand on her arm. Like we were friends who casually touched each other, and then I patted. Consolingly. “Good luck.”
The relief on her face was the only reason I didn’t back the hell out of my offer because the second I got in my car and drove over to the house, I felt the early quakings of a panic attack.
I’m telling you, the momentary release of the pressure valve was never worth it.
I wanted to drive right back into that parking lot and demand the best hotel in Redmond, but I heard enough people around me calling around, and not having any luck that I tightened my grip on the steering wheel and just kept driving.
What was I doing? I didn’t want to go into this house in the daylight, and now it was pitch fucking black outside and the whole place looked like I was about to get murdered the moment I stepped out of my car.
In my slippers.
In my pajamas.
Wearing a cashmere cardigan and no robe.
I whimpered.
“You can do this,” I repeated. “You’re a fucking Lynch.”
I grabbed my purse, yanking out my cell phone until I could turn on the flashlight with trembling hands.
My ribs squeezed so tight I could hardly take a full breath, but I did my very best, sucking in oxygen as I kept my eyes firmly planted on the circle of light from my phone. I made it up the porch and inside the house, fumbling frantically for a switch on the wall.
When I flipped it on, weak yellow light filled the empty room, and I exhaled in a quick, relieved rush.
The carpet was faded from where the couch sat untouched for years, stains spotting the middle of the room. The wallpaper was peeling from the corners—a pale blue pattern with little white flowers, a matching border stretching around the whole room.
My throat was tight as I stared at those flowers, and I notched my chin up. I didn’t make it this far to be undone by some peeling wallpaper. All I needed was a bed, and I’d be just fine.
It was just a house. I wouldn’t pay attention to any of the details.
Laughter threatened—hysterical and unhinged as it tried to claw up my throat, but I wouldn’t let it.
As far as I knew, the furniture upstairs was untouched, if not a little dusty, and now that I’d made it this far, I could do this.
I was not backing out now.
My dad wanted to test me?
Well, he’d never imagined this. I’d never gone camping. Backpacking. Nothing. My idea of roughing it was no wi-fi and low thread count sheets.
I hitched my bag over my shoulder and tightened the cardigan around my body as I crept up the stairs, deciding to leave the downstairs light on.
Murderers avoided houses with lots of lights on. Everyone knew that.
The stairs creaked ominously, and I made it up to the clearing of the stairs without like, falling through any rotted wood.
Good start.
The first bedroom to the right was already empty, and I said a quick prayer that I hadn’t heard Cameron wrong. Wouldn’t that serve me right? Do something nice for someone, and end up sleeping on the dirty carpet because all the furniture was already moved out. And I tell you where my own personal line was—sleeping on said furniture in the barn.
I found the switch for the hallway light and flipped that on, but because they’d started pulling light fixtures, some of them were just bulbs hanging from the ceiling.
A little crack-house-chic, but I could manage it for one night.
The second bedroom was bigger than the first room, and I exhaled a quick sigh of relief when I saw the bed sitting in the middle of the room. Cautiously, I swept my finger over the ornate carved footboard, but it came up clean, which meant the coverings had worked all those years.
