Chapter 3
JULIET
“Mine,” I announce to myself.
There’s no one around to hear the declaration, but that’s fine. This decision was all for me.
My life finally feels like it’s my own again.
The thing that is mine is a house, set far back on this seemingly abandoned street.
At least it’s paved, though the asphalt is cracked and bleached from long, sunny days.
I’m not sure how well my station wagon would do on rocky dirt roads often found in small mountain towns.
The vehicle had a hard enough time getting me to Pine Falls.
But that was mainly because I used back roads every chance I could for my escape.
Paranoid? Maybe. But after living in a town run by werewolves, it’s hard not to think that they could have eyes anywhere. Including on traffic cameras.
But I made it out, and now I’m a homeowner.
Take that, Mr. Surly Werewolf. Just try to shoo me out of your town now.
The thought has me smiling to myself. Maybe it’s not healthy how much I enjoy pissing off that guy Roderick. But I doubt anyone would blame me if they knew what I’d been through.
Although maybe some part of my reaction is healthy.
By all rights, I should be running away in panic whenever I’m near a werewolf. But with Roderick, I stood my ground. Multiple times. Even when he was getting growly with me.
So, yeah, maybe not the best choice for keeping me physically safe. But I’ve got to say, my mind feels a little bit better.
Less cowed. No longer terrified of my own shadow. Or the monsters that lurk in others.
Okay, I’m still scared.
But in that moment, I didn’t let it rule me.
I’m a work in progress. Just like this house.
Anyone else moving into a new house would probably have a U-Haul truck or at least a trailer parked out front. They’d take hours, lugging in all of their belongings, and then spend days unpacking.
I, on the other hand, only have what’s in the trunk of my car.
Same as the day I left Bear Valley and the day I arrived at Pine Falls.
Even though my compact lifestyle makes moving a lot less cumbersome, the knowledge suddenly has me feeling unsettled.
For the first few months here, renting a room in the library director’s home, I was comforted by the idea that I could pile all my belongings into a car and take off.
But that thought was born from anxiety. The need to be able to flee at the first sign that Cory had discovered where I was. And I hate the idea that he still has control over my life.
My life.
So, now I own a house. And as I carry my few keepsakes over the threshold, I mentally map out the pieces of furniture I want to buy to fill the place.
The house isn’t large. One bedroom, one bathroom. But it has decent-sized windows and a fireplace. Plus, there’s a backyard. The fence around it is rotting away, but that can be fixed.
I want a dog. I’ve always wanted a dog.
For a short time, I thought I’d adopt one once Cory and I moved in together.
Then my ex started leaving bruises on me.
No way would I subject an innocent animal to that kind of treatment.
But now I have my own house, my own yard, and no one around who’s going to hurt anything I love.
Staring out the back door at the grassy space overrun with weeds, I grin wide.
“Mine,” I say once more to myself. A reassurance. A promise.
As I return to my car for the final box, I spot headlights down the way.
My neighbor.
That term can be applied loosely, seeing as how their house sits over a block away. Close enough for me to see, but far enough that I’d have to hike over to them to hold a conversation.
The house itself is at least twice the size as mine and much better maintained. The home is a mixture of dark green siding and heavy gray stones. Orderly plants cover the property while vines twine up many vertical surfaces.
The place is lovely and has me wondering who lives there.
Now, I’ll get my answer.
The car pulling into the drive looks expensive. The body of it is all sleek angles that screams luxury. It’s something I’d expect to see a businessman in the city driving around. Not normal fare for small Colorado mountain towns.
But then the occupant steps out, and I have to admit, they seem a matched set. If only from a distance at least.
Squinting my eyes, I make out a well-dressed woman in man-killing heels. A cloud of blonde hair falls to her shoulders, and a large bag that looks like it could be a designer purse dangles from her arm.
Once she stands from the car, I can tell her attention shifts my way. But unless I want to shout at her or jog a ways, there’s no way to make a casual introduction.
So, I leave my people-watching for now, hefting the box with my paper crafting supplies up my front walkway. When I drop it on the kitchen counter, the rustling inside gives me an idea. Pulling the flaps open, I dig out a smaller wooden box. Inside, I have my finished projects.
Carefully, I flip through the cards I’ve made, landing on the one with elements of lace and hand-drawn vines. I seek out my nice pens and write out a short note in a precise script I’ve honed over the years.
Card done, I head back outside and make the short hike to my neighbor’s house.
While walking up to the front door, I can’t help admiring how beautiful the place is.
The aesthetic seems to blend a rugged earthiness with an almost-artistic Victorian flair.
The wraparound porch has sturdy metal furniture that is nonetheless crafted to look delicate.
Hanging planters hold a variety of foliage.
The sight gives me hope that my gift will be appreciated.
When I press the doorbell, I catch the deep ring of it, even through the thick wood. I straighten my T-shirt, as if that’ll help make my moving outfit appear classier. Eyeing my scuffed sneakers, I wonder if I should’ve taken a few minutes to change before coming over here.
“Yes?”
The sound of the voice makes me jump. At some point while I was looking down, the elegant blonde woman silently opened the door. She stares at me now, and I try my hardest not to swallow my tongue.
My neighbor is ethereal.
Her pale skin reminds me of moonlight and lays over a sculpted bone structure that lends her face both beauty and intimidation. A deadly kind of lovely.
She stands tall before me, wearing heels spiked so severely that they could double as weapons. Her silk blouse and fitted pencil skirt appear as though they’ve never met a wrinkle in their life.
This woman doesn’t fit Pine Falls, which has a dress code of flannel and jeans. But she does fit this house.
Beautiful. Mysterious.
Werewolf? I wonder for a moment. But no. Werewolves are heavy. Present. This woman seems to have a sort of weightlessness. Like the menacing mist that lingers between trees in a dark forest at twilight.
“Hello!” I wave, even though I’m standing right in front of her.
My awkwardness has me feeling clumsy. Ungainly.
I wonder if it’s possible to trip when I’m not moving.
Trying to keep myself from looking like a complete fool, I drop my hand.
“My name is Juliet Adair. I bought the house just down there.” I point the way I came from.
Her eyes don’t leave my face. She simply stands in her doorway, observing me.
Upon further examination, I realize she’s likely in her late forties, maybe early fifties. Life lives in the subtle creases of her face. Each line seems to emphasize her sharp, gorgeous features. Whatever her age is, she wears it well.
“And?” she intones.
That’s when I realize I stopped talking.
“Oh. Sorry. I just wanted to come introduce myself. And give you this.” A blush heats my cheeks as I hold out the card that appeared elegant in my house but now looks juvenile.
I’m back in middle school, trying to get the cool kids to like me by crafting them personalized birthday cards.
Didn’t work then. Not sure why I thought it would now.
This woman just seems so … untouchable. I can’t explain it.
Without a change in her expression, she reaches a set of long, elegant fingers out to pluck the card from my hand. I try not to compare my short, stubby digits to hers.
As she unfolds the card, I start babbling.
“I made it. That’s something I do. Just a hobby. Crafting is my happy place. Something to keep my hands busy.”
God, do I want her to pin it to her fridge with a magnet? I sound pathetic.
Is the message I wrote any better?
I look forward to being your neighbor, and I hope we can be friends as well.
Then I listed my phone number.
“Friends?” she murmurs, her eyes trailing over the coiling vines I drew with a dark green pencil. They wind around and through the lace.
“Or just neighbors is fine,” I hurriedly add.
She refolds the card, pressing the paper craft between her palms, and a set of frosty gray eyes traces over me. I fight the urge to shiver.
“Customarily,” she says, “it is the current residents of a neighborhood who bring gifts. To welcome the newcomer.”
“Oh. Well”—I shrug—“I’m not really one for tradition. Besides, I’m the one who decided to move here. Why should you be forced to give me gifts for that?”
Her eyes widen, and then I’m treated to a set of perfect, white, pearl-like teeth as she smiles wide.
“Why indeed? I certainly enjoy your method more.” Again, she runs her gaze over me. Finally, she offers, “My name is Hester Willowborne.”