Nothing Bad Ever Happens Here

Chapter 1

AVERY

Blackwell Hollow definitely wasn’t my scene. That much was already obvious.

I was mindful of the speed limit as I crept down Main Street.

The town square, verdant and leafy, stretched to my right, separating Main Street from State Street, the town’s parallel main drag.

I didn’t drive in the city — the subway meant I didn’t have to — and I was still a little wobbly behind the wheel.

I caught glimpses of the storefronts as I passed, shops with names like the Sugar Pine Creamery (ice cream shop) and Petals on Main (flower shop) with matching green awnings that made them look straight out of a storybook.

Except I’d left storybooks behind a long time ago, right about the time my parents divorced and my dad replaced me with his new family. I was (mostly) over it, but I knew that happily ever afters only happened in books.

Which was why Blackwell Hollow wasn’t my scene. The city was more my speed: practical, hurried, filled with people focused on their next big accomplishment.

Not that I was a heavy hitter. I mean, I was twenty-one, had only a year under my belt as an intern for an urban housing nonprofit. But I liked the energy of the city, liked the way it kept me too busy to think too hard about things I couldn’t change.

I was staring at a flock of vibrantly colored parrots in the window of a pet shop called Good Dog & Co.

when I caught a flash of movement in my peripheral vision.

I returned my gaze to the road just in time to slam on the brakes, inches away from a middle-aged man wearing a layered getup that included a vest and at least two silk scarves and pushing a hairless cat in a stroller.

I winced and mouthed the word “sorry” as he glared indignantly.

Jiminy cricket, I needed to pay attention. I was not a good enough driver to be looking around like some kind of looky-loo on vacation.

Plus I wasn’t on vacation. Not at all.

I waved weakly at the man as he continued across the street with the cat, then glanced at the GPS and continued down Main.

In the distance Hollow Lake glimmered like an oasis in the spring sunlight, a handful of boats motoring lazily on the water. It looked almost too quaint to be real.

I was a block away from the lake when the GPS instructed me to turn left.

I followed the instructions, drove past the Bramble House Bed & Breakfast on the corner, and slowed to look at the houses on either side of the street.

According to the GPS I was less than a minute from my destination, and I read the numbers on the mailboxes, looking for 36 Foxglove Lane.

And there it was: brass numbers on a well-maintained wood mailbox painted white.

Then I turned my gaze to the house and my mouth dropped open in shock.

“No fudging way.” There was no one to hear me say it, but the words were instinctual, a gut reaction to the house at the end of the long brick drive.

I’d been nine years old when my mom and I had moved away from Blackwell Hollow after the divorce, and my memories of the house were vague: large, high-ceilinged rooms filled with fancy furniture, a lush green lawn perfect for playing tag with the neighbor kids, and the faint scent of my Great-Aunt Evelyn’s perfume.

I hadn’t realized the house was so big.

I hit the brakes on my rental car when I realized I was drifting down Foxglove Lane.

The house was set back from the road, accessible via a curved driveway, the lawn stretching from the white wraparound porch and flower beds overflowing with multicolored blooms.

I turned the wheel and started up the driveway, the first flutter of nerves taking flight in my stomach.

I’d been surprised to learn that I’d inherited the house from Aunt Evelyn — I was embarrassed to admit that other than the thank-you notes I’d sent for her birthday gifts, I hadn’t kept in touch — but since I planned to sell it, I hadn’t bothered looking at pictures online.

Now I realized that it was more than a house. It was basically a mansion.

Okay, maybe not an actual mansion, but compared to my minuscule apartment in the city, the pale pink Victorian might as well have been a palace.

There had been some stats in the legal paperwork — I knew the house had been built in the late 1800s and that its market value was over a million dollars — but I hadn’t bothered looking up pictures.

Now I saw that it had been restored and was meticulously maintained, at least from the outside.

I’d pictured a dark, spooky house with boarded-up windows and overgrown landscaping, but as I made my way up the driveway what I saw instead was a proud three-story structure with multiple peaks rising into the sky, including a real-life turret.

There was more than one chimney, which meant the house had multiple fireplaces, and looking at the house, I actually dared to believe they might work.

Aunt Evelyn had died nearly three months before — it had taken that long to deal with the legal stuff and arrange leave from my job — but the house looked like it was still occupied, probably because of the caretakers.

Oh yeah. I forgot to mention that.

The house came with one caveat: the three caretakers had to remain as long as I owned the house. Their salaries were paid out of Aunt Evelyn’s trust, and if I sold the place, they would receive a large lump sum as severance pay.

Pulling up to the giant pink house, I understood why Aunt Evelyn had made the stipulation. The house probably required a lot of upkeep.

It was fine. I would only be here long enough to sell the house and go through Aunt Evelyn’s belongings.

There were three cars in the driveway: a forest green truck, a black Lexus SUV, and a platinum blue Audi sedan.

I parked the rental next to the Audi and got out.

It felt good to stretch my legs after the ninety-minute drive from the city, and I reached for the sky to work out the kinks in my back before starting for the house.

Aunt Evelyn’s lawyer Irving Norwood (a shockingly tiny, frail man with glasses and thinning hair) had told me the caretakers would give me keys when I arrived, so I climbed the wide porch steps and rang the doorbell.

I heard the old-fashioned bell echo through the house, but no one came, so I rang it again, then glanced back at the cars in the driveway. Someone must be home, but beyond the carved front door, the house lay silent.

I left the porch and started around the house to the back of the property. Maybe the caretaker — or caretakers — were outside.

I rounded the corner of the giant house and stopped in my tracks. Lush green grass extended beyond the back of the house. But not just grass — there were meandering pathways, flower beds overflowing with a multitude of flowers, and even a small pond and gazebo in the distance.

The property was massive.

I felt like Dorothy in Oz as I followed the crushed gravel path that wound between the flower beds.

My sundress, worn for comfort during the long drive, fluttered around my knees.

The spring sky was cloudless, the sun warm on my head.

Birds sang from the branches of old-growth trees, and I caught the scent of lilac from the towering bushes that dotted the landscape.

I looked around for one of the caretakers but didn’t see anyone, so I made my way toward a moderately-sized pink-shingled structure that matched the house.

I wondered if it had once been a carriage house — I knew from books I’d read that grand old houses often had them — but when I got to the open doors I realized it was now a kind of equipment shed.

A riding mower lurked in the shadows and tools lined the walls. Dust motes floated in the air, shimmering in a beam of sun shining through one of the windows. The smell of motor oil, fertilizer, and fresh soil was an oddly comforting assault on my nose.

But no caretaker.

I headed back toward the path and continued, aiming for the gazebo if only because it seemed like a logical destination somewhere in the distance. Honestly the property was so huge I could have wandered it for hours. It helped having a goal in mind even if I had to make a new one when I got there.

I left the flower beds behind in favor of a neatly trimmed row of hedges that towered a good two feet above my head. It wasn’t until I reached an opening that I realized it was a maze: a real-life hedge maze, like the ones I’d seen in pictures of palace grounds.

And in The Shining.

I itched to explore the maze, but this wasn’t the time. I wanted to find the keys to the house and get settled.

The gazebo was closer now, and I looked around as I continued past the hedge maze. Where on earth were the caretakers who were supposed to give me the keys?

Like the shed, the gazebo matched the house, intricately carved gingerbread trim spanning the distance between carved pink-and-white columns.

I was getting a feel for the property, the way it all worked together, and I stepped onto the gazebo’s platform, looking for a better view of the small pond that lay just beyond it.

In for a penny, in for a pound I guess.

Except that was when I noticed the man slumped on one of the gazebo’s built-in benches.

His face was tipped down, like he was sleeping, his legs sprawled out in front of him, and the hem of his navy pants was caked with grainy, drying mud.

I stepped closer. “Excuse me, are you the caretaker— ”

I stopped cold when I spotted the dark stain creeping under his hair toward his left temple.

I backed away slowly, like the man might jump to life and give chase.

Which was why I didn’t notice the other men — all three of them — standing at the entrance to the gazebo until I spun to leave.

“Oh my gravy!” I slapped one hand over my chest like that would calm the staccato beat of my heart. “You scared me!”

Except now that I was looking at them, “scared” wasn’t the word that came to mind.

They were huge, tall and broad-shouldered, with tattoos that snaked out from under their clothes and crawled over their skin like graffiti gone rogue.

“You must be Avery.” The guy who spoke first had short blond hair and eyes as green as the perfectly maintained lawn around the gazebo.

Also, he had muscles. A lot of them, judging by the way his moss-green henley strained at the shoulders.

He held a pair of work gloves in one giant hand, and I was embarrassed to feel heat rush between my thighs.

Especially under these… circumstances.

“Um… yeah. I was looking for someone to give me a key, but— ”

“You could have rang the bell.” The black-haired guy next to the blond scowled at me like I’d committed an unforgivable sin, but there was more than annoyance rushing under my skin.

And who could blame me? He was even bigger than the blond, his dark hair cut short and precise, his steel-gray eyes boring through me like a jackhammer. He had a lean but muscular build, the body of an athlete, and sharp cheekbones over a lush mouth set into a controlled line.

“I did,” I said. “Twice.”

The third guy brushed his shaggy brown hair off his forehead with a grin. Dimples creased his cheeks in a way that somehow made me want to both squeeze him and bang him.

“Sorry about that. I just got home.” He thrust out his hand. “I’m Beck. Well, Beckett, but everybody calls me Beck. I work the bakery for Evelyn.”

“Uh… hi, nice to meet you.” My mind spun as I tried to process what I’d just found with what was happening: the house and property, the gazebo, the three stupidly hot guys standing in front of me. “And yes, I’m Avery. Also, there’s a dead guy in the gazebo.”