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Behind me, Mr. Wilson cleared his throat. “Alina, if you’d like to join me in the kitchen, we can get the paperwork squared away, and I can be home in time for dinner.”
I answered his request with a curt nod before glancing back at the picture of my smiling mother. Then I followed the small mole of a man into the kitchen.
A single globe hung from the ceiling. Even in the late afternoon sun, a light was necessary since the window was dulled with grime, filtering the sunlight.
The original will Mr. Wilson had sent me a copy of was laid out on the table. I’d already looked it over and hired an overpriced lawyer to review it as a formality.
It was a waste of time and money because everything she had was in this house, and I was her only child.
An uneasy sense filled me as I flicked through the pages. Secrets of the past were no longer surprising in possibility, but I still had an expectation the house would be left to a cat refuge or the possibility of another child lurking in the past I hadn’t known about.
I signed and initialed each section and page Mr. Wilson pointed to.
The house and acreage were mine, my mess, and my responsibility to clean now. Years of neglect were inherited in the physical form to match the emotional one I carried with me every day.
Every day before the letter had arrived.
Mr. Wilson scribbled on a few pages before shuffling them together and tucking them away in his worn leather briefcase. Turning back to me, he politely smiled before passing me the heavy brass door key.
After thanking him, I walked him out.
Pausing at the door, he spun back to me. “Again, welcome home, Alina. What’s next for you and this old place?” His eyes wandered with fondness.
The house had been magical back in its day, but bad memories were trapped in the floor and walls along with the good.
“Maybe I’ll sell it.”
He smiled. I imagined he would like that. Maybe I’d choose to sell it to him.
“Or maybe I’ll just burn it to the ground.”
His smile fell suddenly. I had made him uncomfortable, and I relished in it for a moment.
“Goodbye, Mr. Wilson.”
ChapterTwo
Alina
Through the silence, I strained to hear my mother’s voice. She always sounded like a summer bird calling across the breeze. Often, she’d sing as she twirled around the house in a full-length skirt and whimsical spirit.
It came as no surprise people thought she was insane. She was different from them, and to them, she was crazy.
To me, she was special. She wasn’t like the mothers of the kids who’d teased me and called me names. She didn’t meet me at the bottom of the driveway when the school bus arrived or attend our Christmas concert at the end of the school year. She was the type of mom I tucked into bed when she’d fallen asleep on the couch after a long day of her nonsense, who encouraged me to put on a play for her, or to dress up for a tea party she was willing to throw.
The house remained silent. No voices of my mother’s ghost called to me, and no singing echoed from the peeling wallpaper.
She was not there, and I was alone.
After the day of traveling, I thought crashing out on clean sheets would be the remedy. Instead, I was plagued with energy to burn. The desire to demolish something was like a light burning within and could be only doused when something fell to ruins.
I had come prepared, even if only in the form of tools—a spade, hammer, crowbar, and a sledgehammer I’d purchased in the town before Beddington.
The man behind the counter gave me a curious look before ringing up my items. I supposed it wasn’t every day he got women dressed in jeans, heels, and a white blouse in his store purchasing such items.
It took me three trips to get everything loaded in the back of my little hatchback. But, with the careful reshuffling of my belongings and suitcase, everything had finally fit.
The sun had melted into the horizon hours ago, but I had no concept of time. The clock on the mantelpiece was frozen at 8:05, and my phone had been left in the car with a dead battery.
