Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
THANE
How it’s going…
“This is where we’re staying?” Kara asks as we pull up to a two-story craftsman-style home. The stonework climbs to the second story, where green siding takes over.
I like how it blends with the trees surrounding us.
After putting the car in park, I spin in my seat to face her. Her skin is a funny shade of red, and her eyes are tiny slits. I have no clue what she’s trying to tell me, and if she won’t use her words, there’s nothing I can do.
“Yes, this is where we’re staying.” Removing the keys, I pop the trunk of the SUV I purchased to transport all our belongings. It wasn’t until we were leaving New York yesterday that she told me she needed an actual U-Haul for hers.
What could she possibly need? She’s thirteen years old. I have a suitcase, a box of paperwork, and my computer.
“Thane.”
Once again, I turn in my seat to face her. Fucking Rafe insists on eye contact. “Why do you turn my name into a three-syllable word every time you say it?”
“Oh my God. This is the worst. You are the worst. I’m upset, Thane. Fucking pissed off.” Her words ring inside my head like a goddamn bell.
“Siri,” I say, “are thirteen-year-olds supposed to say ‘fucking’?”
“You’re unbelievable, you know that?” Kara says over the phone’s response.
“Siri, order antacids in bulk.” I stare back at my sister until my chest burns. “This isn’t my fault, Kara. If you hadn’t run away, we wouldn’t be in this situation.”
“I snuck out , I didn’t run away. If you had only listened to me, I wouldn’t have snuck out in the first place. I was at the freaking movies, for crying out loud, and you had the FBI searching for me.” Her words echo in the confines of my car before she exits and slams the door.
I didn’t have the FBI searching for her. But it’s possible a good majority of the police force, as well as my private security company, were all on hand.
It’s only been a month since the nanny event at the dreaded kiddie camp in North Carolina, and we’re no better off than we were then. Rowan is a nightmare, Kara is beyond my control, and Lottie…well, Lottie is something else entirely.
This was my only option. Everyone will see that eventually.
“Rafe?” Kara’s voice is muted while I’m shut inside the car—it’s finally pleasant. It’s tempting to stay here, where the relative silence doesn’t cause needles to prick at my eye sockets. But when my…friend—and at the moment, I use that term loosely—exits the house, I lock the car doors so he can’t drag me out until I’m ready, and remove my tiny notebook and pencil from the cup holder.
Inside, I write: He’s here to help. He is here to help. Then I snap it shut and focus on why we’re here.
Kara ran away after I removed her bedroom door for slamming it fifty-seven times. Fifty-seven. I counted. She said I was the unreasonable one, and later that night, I woke up to my house alarm going off. Kara was gone before I could catch her.
She’s remarkably fast for someone who never leaves her bedroom.
And the result of her stunt was mandatory therapy for her and an emotional support person for me. The judge actually said I needed someone to see feelings for me and teach me how to interpret them.
She was an idiot, but that’s where Rafe, my college roommate, came in. He’s an occupational therapist, though even after researching it, I’m still not sure what he does other than play with a lot of toys and stare at people all day.
He’ll be staying with us for at least a month, and I would rather pluck my fingernails off one by one. Living with him in college was hell on my peace of mind.
I lean over the steering wheel when Kara runs and flings herself at Rafe. The need for an antacid intensifies.
On the drive from New York to Tennessee, something Rafe insisted on for bonding time, Kara told me exactly twenty-two times that Rafe was the only reason she was entertaining this trip.
As if either of us had a choice. Jonah is out of jail, and I know he’ll fight to take Kara back, if for no other reason than I’m the one who has her.
My attorney assured me that he can’t even file to get Kara back until he’s finished a mandatory forty hours of parent safety courses and an alcohol addiction program. I pulled every string I had to ensure he actually has to attend them too because I knew he’d bribe his way out of it somehow otherwise.
When Jonah went to jail for his fifth DUI, Kara’s options were me or foster care. No matter what she says, I must be better than foster care.
It’s all her messy…emotions making us clash. Once she gets those under control, we’ll live our lives in relative peace.
I’ve researched the hell out of it too. The first change will be to her diet. That’s said to affect hormonal teens in a number of ways. And no more red dye—that shit messes with everyone.
Rafe stands at the hood of the car, wearing a sweater-vest and khakis. It’s eighty-three degrees out. Human biology asserts that he should be covered in sweat, but he simply continues to stare at me.
With a groan that relieves none of my irritation, I exit the car and ignore my friend, knowing all he wants to do is talk. But I’ve been driving for ten hours, listening to Kara’s poor musical decisions, and I have nothing left to say.
“Hello, Rafe,” he mocks. “How are you, Rafe? How was your trip, Rafe?”
“Why are you talking to yourself?” I pull out Kara’s overnight bag that must weigh close to fifty pounds.
“Thane, look at my face.”
I lift my head and do as he asked. If I don’t, he’ll never drop it. He does some weird shake of his head, and I go back to unpacking.
“This is an expression of annoyance, Thane. Remember that word? It’s an emotion we covered ad nauseam in college.”
“Annoyance is speaking things out loud that no one needs to hear.”
“But you do, my friend. That’s why I’m here. We’re going to do an intensive deep dive into all the emotions for the next few weeks, and you’re going to love it. But first, why this place? It’s not anything I would have ever chosen for you. It’s… How do I say this nicely? Quaint but old. The, uh, outside is definitely the best part of the place, and it appears the former owners left in a hurry. They didn’t even take some of their stuff.”
“I paid extra for them to vacate immediately, and I paid well. I hired a junk removal company to clear it out. Did they not come?” Rafe arrived a few hours ago to accept the furniture delivery.
“No, they did. But they’re coming back in case you want to rethink some of the more…valuable items. Their words, not mine. They left those in the garage.”
“I do not wish to sort through someone else’s garbage. Just throw it all away. The sooner the better because I will be parking in the garage. That’s what it’s for.”
“Thane, this place is…dirty,” Kara says from the front door. The closer I get, the more I want to run away. Why the hell is she crying now?
“Now, Bubbles.” Rafe uses his nickname for her that’s so stupid, I wish I could blow out my eardrums for approximately seven minutes. He’s used it since the first time he met her when she was five and she had some infatuation with a bubble machine that made the marble floors all soapy and almost caused Ophelia to break her neck.
“It’s not dirty, it’s just old. A cleaning crew was in here yesterday.” I push past them and set Kara’s bag on the only available floor space by the door. Jesus Christ, she’s right. This place feels filthy even with the lingering stench of bleach. “What’s going on in here?”
“Who ordered the furniture?” Rafe asks. When I peer at him over my shoulder, he’s laughing and encouraging Kara to do the same while pointing at the furniture that’s too large for the room.
“I did. And I ordered it to the exact measurements of the blueprints.” I move sideways to get by the boxes and coffee table that are taking up the entire room.
“Thought so.” Rafe laughs like a sneezing dog. What he finds so funny, I can’t begin to fathom. “One of the movers was kind enough to inform me that the previous owners did some ‘off the books’ remodels to fit a hot tub in the enclosed porch, leaving the downstairs space half of what it was.”
“You didn’t even look at the place before you bought it?” Kara’s voice is far too high-pitched, but since she’s not swearing, I move on.
“I purchased it for the address. The layout doesn’t matter…much. We can get someone in here to transform it to our needs.”
“Thane, all the rooms are like this. You can’t move in here.” Rafe doesn’t know the real reason I chose this place, at least not yet, but we aren’t moving.
I’ve spent the last month building a rapport with Lottie via email and the occasional text with updates about Kara. Now I need to up the ante.
Lifting a box that says window treatments, a rust-colored carpet comes into view. My nose twitches as a musty scent wafts up from the flooring. The dirty smell of the place makes more sense now, and I drop the box onto the corner of the new sofa.
Spinning in place, I find eight more boxes labeled everything from ‘ottoman’ to ‘hardware’ and ‘throw blankets.’ Seeing the room in person, I suppose I can see why they didn’t unpack everything—there’s just no room, yet.
This house is simply a logistical problem, and this is where I thrive. It’s like Tetris as I begin moving pieces around. By the time I’m done in the family room, we can walk through the space.
“What is this?” Kara points to my Tetris win. “The coffee table is turned on its end, blocking the window, and that side of the couch is covering the fireplace. You’ll start a fire.”
“The fireplace doesn’t work.” I move through the house to where the kitchen should be, but find it blocked by a ten-person hot tub. “Where’s the kitchen?”
“You have to come back this way and walk through the closet to get to it now.” I hear both Rafe and Kara snickering, presumably at my expense—it usually is, but I’m not finding anything funny about this situation.
“We have a problem. Problems have solutions,” I mutter on my way by. For some reason, they both laugh even harder.
“This is more than a problem, Thane. Just…look around.” Kara spins in place and shudders.
“I know we’re laughing,” Rafe says. “But Kara has a point. This place is a mess, so while you work on the solution, I’ll take Kara to the grocery store.”
Thank God. Silence.
I pretend to inspect the admittedly out-of-date kitchen until I hear my car back out of the driveway, then I grab my computer bag and head upstairs.
At least the layout is mostly intact up here, and I find the master without too much trouble. Though the lime-green carpeting gives me pause. We’ll all need slippers until renovations are done.
I’ve already hired Boone’s Building to do some cosmetic stuff to the property. Hopefully when he arrives in a couple hours, he’ll be able to tackle, well, everything else too. I’m beginning to believe that Johansson deeply exaggerated the condition of his home. Boone has an excellent accreditation from the BBB, and that’s good enough for me, but I don’t want to go into anything else blind, so I want to see the rest of the property.
The narrator in my head begins an endless to-do list when a terrifying scream startles me. I trip over the loose germ-factory carpet and land face-first on it.
It’s like I can taste toenail clippings.
I heave at the thought while a god-awful wail combines with a honking sound I can’t place.
Standing, I follow the offending sound to a closet and cautiously open the door. With my luck today, there will be a science experiment gone wrong in here.
At the bottom of the closet sits a dirty-looking rat. Its fur is matted everywhere, making it resemble a hairless cat with pointy ears and a head that flops side to side.
It screams at me, so I scream back.
It honks, so I honk back. Okay, perhaps that’s not honking. Shrieking? Yapping? I’m sticking with honking because it’s an unnatural sound.
Then it turns its beady little black eyes my way and lunges. My body reacts on instinct, but as I turn to run, I trip on the same ripple in the snot-colored carpeting.
I land with a hard thud and then wail when nails sink into my skin…what the hell? A dog, or maybe a rat, sits on my back, thumping its leg and honking.
What is this thing? I knew there would be a bad science experiment behind this freaking door.
Rolling to my side, I shove it off me, and the damn thing screams at me again.
It hops toward me, and I hop away. We circle each other, round and round, until I end up backed into the closet.
I immediately fall into a self-defense stance as the furball slowly inches closer. I don’t generally hurt animals, but I will karate chop the hell out of this test-tube nightmare if I must.
Its nose twitches as it scratches its side, causing me to lower my arms an inch, and when I do, I find a photograph pinned to the closet wall. It’s a man I recognize—Mr. Johansson, with some sort of backpack, holding this oversized lab rat to his chest. And right next to the picture is a black contraption that says PupPack across the front.
“That is never going to happen,” I tell the matted creature.
Screams that pierce my brain fill the closet.
“No,” I say again.
More screams.
“No. Who the hell are you? Where’s your family?”
Ear-splitting wailing.
“Fine. Fine, you little asshole. I’ll pick you up, but I’m not wearing you.”
The incessant noise stops as soon as I pick up the dirty little flea-basket. And then the doorbell rings.
“What do I do with you?”
I get a head shake in response.
“Never mind. Maybe that’s your family. Come on.”
Why the hell am I talking to the creature?
The bell sounds again as I swing the door open to reveal a plump older woman holding a basket full of jars and her equally elderly companion in a tweed hat.
“I’m not interested in purchasing anything today.” I begin to close the door, but the woman sticks her foot into the doorjamb with shocking speed.
“Silly boy.” The older man tsks. “We’re not here to sell you anything. We’re part of the Sweetbriar Scuttlebutt Society—we’re the welcome committee. We put this together for you.”
“Oh dear. You’re not supposed to say Scuttlebutt Society,” the woman scolds the unfazed older man. When he shrugs, she returns her attention to me. “Why are you holding Hercules?” The woman sets the basket down at my feet, then pets the dirty monster in my outstretched hand.
“Do you know this thing?”
“Thing? Silly. This here is Hercules, and we’re Betty and Vinny Carver.”
“Can you take it?” I shove the ten-pound thing into her face.
“What? No. No, did that rat Johansson leave you here, little Hercules?” the woman coos but refuses to take the monster.
The creature sits like a lead weight in my hand, so I’m forced to prop him…her?...against my chest.
“So what do I do with it?”
“Well, now, the animal shelter is overrun,” the man says, pushing past me into the house as if there’s any available space for them. “If you bring old Hercules here to them, they’ll put her down. And you do not want to put Hercules down. She’s beloved, you know, town mascot and everything.”
“Then what do I do?”
“You have a one-track mind, don’t ya, son?” The old man eyes me up and down.
“What do I do with this thing?” I repeat.
“Well, for now, you’ll have to foster her.” He moves deeper into the Tetris den. “I’ll get the word out in the Scuttlebutt about rehoming her. In the meantime, Johnny down at the pet store can tell you what to feed her.”
Mrs. Carver backs up a step, and I follow with Hercules outstretched again.
“We stopped by to welcome you is all.” She tucks her hands under her arms. “And let you know to get your application in for the trash pickup. Esther’s real picky about who she takes on nowadays.” Vinny slips past me and joins his wife back on the threshold. “Your water is all set for the month, but then you’ll need to get that application in too. And don’t forget about the gas. They have their own deadlines and application process. It’s probably best for you to join Sweetbriar’s next town meeting so we can help ya get all settled in.”
“The trash?” I mumble. My brain is still cataloging everything they listed. “Can’t this all be done online?”
“No, sir, not here in Sweetbriar.” Mr. Carver leans back on his heels. “We’re no city folk. Everything’s done face-to-face around here.”
“My kind of hell.”
“What was that?” Mrs. Carver asks, leaning forward, so I hold out the ratdog to keep her at bay.
“Nothing. Anything else I should know?”
“Yup, Hercules is special. She needs a lot of love and attention, but she’s a porker so don’t leave her food out, and you’re better off wearing her any time you don’t want her crying.” The old woman stares down her nose at me.
“Are you kidding me?”
“Nope, sorry, son. We’ll see you real soon.” Mrs. Carver waves over her shoulder.
“Can you believe Johansson? Leaving that poor animal here with him?” Mr. Carver’s voice carries like a bullhorn.
“Shh, Vinny.”
The muscles in my arm twitch, so I close the door and set Hercules on the floor. She instantly starts screaming again.
I didn’t even know ratdogs could scream, but I’m already googling solutions, and when I don’t find a readily available answer, I google how to put on a fucking dog carrier.
Then I march next door for help.