Chapter 11
NETTIE
Two whole minutes before freedom.
Of course, that was the exact moment her cell phone began to vibrate against her thigh, buzzing insistently like a gnat she couldn’t swat away. She grimaced.
Nope. Not tonight.
Clicking ignore with her thumb, she shoved the phone deep into her scrub pocket and forced a polite smile for the frazzled parents who finally showed up—nearly twenty minutes late—to collect their toddler.
It had been that kind of day.
Today, she’d been blessed with ‘The Biter’…
Every daycare worker had one sooner or later, but this little boy had been particularly ambitious.
Three kids in her group now bore little half-moon imprints, and Nettie had spent half her shift offering apologies, writing incident reports, and pretending she wasn’t seconds away from screaming.
Then the director had cornered her with that ever-so-gentle tone of, ‘What’s going on in your classroom, Nettie?
Why didn’t you notice? What were you doing? ’
What could she say?
That she was too busy daydreaming about a man she hadn’t been able to get out of her head for more than a decade? That the ghost of Tate Cassidy had been strolling around her brain rent-free, distracting her with a smile she relished in her dreams?
She pressed her lips together. No. That wouldn’t fly.
But it was true.
Last night had been the cruelest kind of dream.
Tate, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek.
Tate, his eyes soft, teasing, about to kiss her.
Her body had leaned toward him in that sleepy half-world, her heart stuttering with anticipation.
Then, as dreams had a way of doing, the scene shifted.
She was younger again, vulnerable, and he was pushing her away—telling her to grow up, to do something with her life.
The sting of rejection hit all over again, just as fresh, just as sharp as it had been back then. She’d woken up with her chest tight, torn between aching longing and raw humiliation—no wonder she didn’t have the mental reserves to wrangle a classroom full of toddlers.
And now, her phone was buzzing… again.
With a heavy sigh, Nettie yanked it out of her pocket as she pushed through the daycare’s glass doors into the muggy evening air. If she didn’t answer, she knew the calls would keep coming. She glanced at the glowing screen and, resigned, thumbed it on.
“Don’t hang up!” Gina’s voice shrieked in her ear before she could even say hello. “I know it’s not six, but it’s almost that, and oh my gosh, I need your help.”
Nettie pinched the bridge of her nose. How did anyone stay mad at Gina? Her best friend was chaos wrapped in glitter, and even when she was being ridiculous, it was impossible not to care or wonder what was the matter.
“What’s wrong? What do you need?” Nettie asked, clocking out a moment later and sliding into her car, dropping her bag on the passenger seat.
“I decided to get my hair permed and highlighted like Shannon’s and…”
“You need a hat? A wig?” Nettie cut in dryly.
“What? Nooo…”
“That’s a lot of chemicals at once.”
“People do it all the time—but you are distracting me.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“I’m trying to tell you, and you keep talking.”
“I’m not talking now.”
“You still are…”
“Gina…”
“Fine. Whew, does it stink in here… I hope that’s not me?”
Nettie wrinkled her nose, leaning back against the headrest as she imagined the salon reeking of scorched hair and ammonia.
“Smells like Nair lit on fire? Honey—that is you.”
“Is that what a perm smells like?”
“Yes.”
“Oh gosh—and people do this? Often?”
“Yup.”
“Wow.”
“You needed help, remember?” Nettie reminded her, slipping the key into the ignition but not starting the car yet.
“Oh yes—thank you so much! Um. I really need help because I am still curler-deep and…”
“You still have curlers in your hair?” Nettie blinked.
“Yes.”
“What time did your appointment start?”
“Four-thirty…”
Nettie slapped her forehead with her palm. “Okay—she needs to wash that perm stuff out now and yes, I will bring you a hat, Baldy McBaldrich…”
“No, no, no! You are distracting me still. The perm stuff just now got put on my hair and we’ve been yapping—sorry Kim—and we’re running behind, so I’m not going to be able to go feed Tate’s kitten like I promised I would and…”
Nettie sat up straighter, her pulse skipping.
Tate.
“Ginaaa!”
“I know!” she wailed. “I don’t want to let him down, so I need my bestie to bail my butt out of a sling.”
“Why did you set an appointment for your hair this late?” Nettie muttered, already knowing the answer.
“I started this morning, and when the PMS gods speak—you listen.”
Nettie rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. Classic Gina logic.
“I don’t want to explain it, but let’s just say that my morning started out with Tylenol, chocolate, cold pizza, and snowballed downhill from there. Will I look weird with blonde highlights?”
“Your hair is dark brown—so yes. Don’t do the highlights. You’ll be crying again…”
“She suggested auburn…”
“Gina—trust me and leave off the color if you’re already crying today. Curls, yes; color, no. Or wait a week until you aren’t hormonal.”
“Can you go to Tate’s for me?”
Nettie’s stomach dipped. She gripped the steering wheel tighter. “I don’t even know where he lives…”
“I can text you.”
“Ginaaa…”
“Please, Nettie!” her friend practically sobbed into the phone. “I didn’t realize it was so late and Kim was blabbering on about her vacation—sorry, Kim—and apparently his little kitten, Duracell, is on a feeding schedule…”
“Mulligan,” Nettie corrected, her lips twitching despite herself.
“Is that what his name is?” Gina gasped. “OMIGOSH - y’all are really talking? He told you about his kitten?”
“Leave it alone…”
“You’ve gotta tell me…”
“Which is why Tate didn’t talk to me the other day—privacy.”
“Because y’all like each other?”
“Because we’re adults having a private, very short, conversation about nothing.”
“But he told you about Morton?”
“Mulligan.”
“He’s weird to name a kitten that…”
“I’m sure he has his reasons.”
“His reasons for being weird are plentiful.”
“Gina…”
“Please, Nettie! Please—we’ve got tickets to the game next Friday night and…”
“You didn’t even ask about my work schedule. I might have plans, you know.”
“Puh-lease… you get off at six. You work Monday through Friday. You are what people call Clockwork. You leave work, home by six-fifteen. Dinner by seven. In bed by nine. Don’t get me started— can you do it or should I take out my curlers now?”
Nettie blew out a heavy breath that fogged the windshield. Gina wasn’t wrong. Her life was predictable to the minute—and Tate’s kitten wasn’t exactly on her daily checklist.
“Text me a photo of your hair when you’re done,” Nettie said glumly.
Gina squealed in happiness.
“You are the best ever, Nettie! Seriously, I will buy the snacks at the game, pay for parking, you name it—but text me when you are done at Tate’s so I can message the worrywart— oh, and snoop around for me.”
“What? NO!”
“Why not? Besides, I bet he’s got a nice place and…”
“You haven’t been there?”
“A couple of times, but he's so picky that it’s hard to snoop. Mom and Dad have been, but usually Tate comes over instead. I liked his place in Denver, but he’s a neat freak and got mad about using a coaster.”
“Ah… Okay—text me Tate’s address and I’ll let you know when I’m there—but I’m not snooping,” Nettie admonished, flopping fully into the driver’s seat and turning the key. The engine hummed to life, filling the quiet car.
“You’re the best—muah!” Gina exclaimed, blowing a kiss into the phone before hanging up.
The call ended, leaving Nettie staring at the darkening sky through her windshield. She tightened her grip on the wheel, heart thudding with a mix of dread and… something else.
She was really about to go to Tate’s house.
It was a lair.
An honest-to-God lair.
Nettie’s little compact car rolled to a reluctant stop at the edge of the driveway, her stomach dropping as she stared up at the house looming ahead.
The sun was sinking low, bleeding burnt orange across the Texas horizon, but the shadows under the trees only made the entire property look darker. More menacing.
The driveway curled in a long, almost serpentine ribbon of black asphalt, swallowed up by the overgrown oaks until it spat her out in front of… that.
A modern monstrosity.
Black on black. Everything was black.
A black driveway, black iron lights shaped like torches, a black roof sloping at sharp, aggressive angles.
Even the siding looked dark enough to drink in what little sunlight remained.
She could already imagine the heat baking off it at noon—like trying to hug a cast-iron skillet fresh out of the oven.
Nettie squinted, craning her neck. Of course, Tate Cassidy, professional hockey player, big-shot superstar, could afford the electric bill for a house like this.
And the doctor bill, when he scalded himself to death on a doorknob hot enough to fry an egg or bake cookies in the Texas sun.
She huffed out a nervous laugh, but it was weak.
“It’s Dracula’s vacation home,” she muttered to herself, rereading the directions Gina had texted for the hundredth time.
Her best friend’s text was casual, cheerful, and way too confident for someone sending Nettie into the belly of the beast. Nettie shut off the car with a click that sounded far too final, then grabbed her purse and slid out. Her sandals crunched on a stray bit of gravel on the driveway.
I’ve seen this in movies, she thought silently, remembering all those episodes of Scooby Doo and horror flicks she wasn’t allowed to watch at home with her Grandmother – but did anyhow at Gina’s house.
She braced herself for something to jump out, for a trap door to open, or a vampire to appear.
If I see a coffin in the yard or creepy green fog, I’m outta here.