Chapter 2
Two
The front door opens before we reach it.
A woman steps out onto the stone porch, and I know immediately this is Aunt Miranda.
She has the same dark hair as Mom, though hers is styled in a sleek bob.
She’s tall and elegant in a way that makes me feel like a rumpled mess, wearing designer clothing when she’s just at home.
But it’s her face that stops me cold.
She looks like Mom, but harder somehow. The same green eyes, but without the warmth. The same delicate bone structure, but set in lines that suggest smiling doesn’t come easily.
“Ms. Knox,” Mrs. Rodriguez says, stepping in front of me and extending her hand to my aunt. “I’m Lucia Rodriguez, from social services. We spoke on the phone.”
Miranda’s expression softens into something approximating warmth as she shakes Mrs. Rodriguez’s hand. “Of course, Ms. Rodriguez. Thank you so much for bringing Alice all this way.” Her eyes land on me, and her smile widens. “And Alice, darling. Look at you.”
She steps forward and pulls me into a brief hug that smells like expensive perfume. When she releases me, her hands linger on my shoulders, feeling the damp material.
“Oh, dear. You’re wet.” Miranda clears her throat. “And, dirty.”
Mrs. Rodriguez swipes a hand across her damp hair and fixes her crumpled blazer. “Alice needed some air during the drive. The storm didn’t help.”
“You poor thing,” she says, her voice dripping with practiced sympathy. “You’ve been through so much. But you’re here now, and we’re going to take such good care of you.”
Mrs. Rodriguez visibly relaxes beside me. “Ms. Knox, I can’t tell you how grateful we are that you could take in Alice. Family is so important during times like these.”
“Of course,” Miranda says smoothly. “Sarah was my sister. It’s the least I can do.” She gestures toward the door. “Please, come inside. I imagine you’d like to see where Alice will be staying.”
Somehow, inside the house is more overwhelming than outside.
The foyer’s vaulted ceiling stretches up into darkness, supported by thick wooden beams. As we make our way further inside, a black iron chandelier hangs overhead with flickering bulbs that cast dancing shadows on the walls.
Everything is a mix of dark wood, stone, and heavy furniture.
Tapestries hang on the walls, depicting hunting scenes and mythical creatures.
Holy cow, there’s an actual suit of armor standing guard in the alcove.
“Quite the place you have here,” Mrs. Rodriguez says, her professional smile faltering slightly as she takes in the gothic décor.
Miranda waves a dismissive hand. “I only purchased it a few months ago after selling my record label. Knox Records, perhaps you’ve heard of it?
Anyway, this property was too good to pass up.
It came fully furnished, would you believe?
The previous owners left everything. Well, in truth, it’s been vacant for decades.
I haven’t had time to redecorate yet with the Sky Chaos breaking out. It’s an up-and-coming band I manage.”
I stare at the suit of armor, my stomach turning. This isn’t a house; it’s a mausoleum. “Are you planning to... change things?” I ask quietly, hoping she’ll say yes.
Miranda glances at me, her smile unwavering. “Eventually, dear. Once things settle down. For now, I think it has a certain charm, don’t you?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Let me show you upstairs.”
The staircase is wide enough for three people, with an ornate wooden banister carved with vines and flowers. Family portraits line the walls, featuring stern-faced people in old-fashioned clothes who seem to judge me as I pass.
“Are these your ancestors?” I ask, trying to make conversation.
“The previous owners,” Miranda says with a light laugh. “Their portraits came with the house. I haven’t gotten around to taking them down yet. Perhaps you could help me with that, Alice? You’d like a job to do, would you?”
It’s said so smoothly I have to double-take to fully take in her words.
“Alice is very artistic,” Mrs. Rodriguez says. “Especially with photography. Perhaps some of her work could replace some of these, uhh, older pieces.”
“I’m sure we can find opportunities to showcase Alice’s gifts,” Miranda says, stepping onto the second-floor landing.
I follow Mrs. Rodriguez onto the landing, and a door opens down the hall, and a boy emerges. He’s tall, probably six feet, and he’s about my age, or a little older. His dark hair looks styled by his own fingers running through it, and he has sharp features that belong in a magazine.
He’s wearing a black button-down shirt with the top three buttons undone, and two silver chains sit against his chest. When I look up at his eyes, I’m met with the darkest brown I’ve ever seen.
“Oh, perfect timing!” Miranda’s voice brightens. “Alice, this is Ryder Hamilton. Ryder, come meet my niece.”
Ryder approaches with the easy confidence of someone used to being watched. He nods at Mrs. Rodriguez, then turns his attention to me.
“You’re Sarah’s daughter,” he says, and there’s something in his voice I can’t quite identify.
The mention of my mom’s name turns my stomach inside out. “You knew my mom?”
“Miranda mentioned her,” he says, studying me with an intensity that makes me want to look away. “Sorry for your loss.”
It’s the first genuine condolence I’ve heard all day, and it almost undoes me.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Miranda steps between us smoothly. “Ryder is one of my clients. He’s staying here while we work on his career. Alice, you’ll be seeing quite a bit of him. He attends Ashworth Academy as well.”
“Oh,” I manage.
“Ryder, don’t you have practice?” Miranda’s tone is light but firm.
He nods, gives me one last unreadable look, and heads down the hallway.
Miranda continues the tour, showing Mrs. Rodriguez and me to my room.
The room is bigger than my bedroom back home, with high ceilings and tall windows that look out over the valley.
The furniture is antique, including a bed that sits high on dark wood, a roll-top writing desk, and a closet that’s big enough to hide a body in.
But it’s cold. Not just temperature-wise, though the stone walls do seem to leach warmth from the air.
There’s nothing personal here, nothing that suggests a teenager might live in this space.
At most, it’s a nice hotel room, despite the creepy artwork.
Across from the bed are two landscape paintings, both featuring twisted trees in wild storms.
“What a lovely room,” Mrs. Rodriguez says, though she sounds as if she’s trying to convince herself. “Alice will be very comfortable here.”
“I’ve made sure of it,” Miranda says warmly. “And the bathroom is through there. It’s quite spacious. Alice, I want you to think of this as your home now. I know it’s not what you’re used to, but we’ll make it work, won’t we?”
The way she says it makes it impossible to disagree.
Miranda opens the antique closet and gestures at a blazer, blouse, and skirt, all in dry-cleaner’s plastic. “Your uniform, Alice,” she informs. “You couldn’t find a finer school.”
“Thank you for arranging Alice’s transfer,” Mrs. Rodriguez says. “I’ve never seen paperwork get finalized so fast.”
“It’s all about connections,” Miranda says with a satisfied grin.
“Dinner is at seven, Alice. I hope you’ll join Ryder and me.
It’ll be a good chance for us all to get to know each other better.
” She turns to Mrs. Rodriguez and says, “I think we’re all set here.
Would you like to finish up the paperwork downstairs? I can make us some tea.”
Mrs. Rodriguez clearly feels satisfied with what she’s seen. “That sounds wonderful.”
As they head toward the door, Miranda pauses and looks back at me. “Why don’t you get settled in, darling? Take a shower and rest, if you need to.”
After they leave, I’m alone in this cavernous room that’s supposedly mine. I can hear their voices fading down the hallway, Miranda saying something that makes Mrs. Rodriguez laugh.
I set my suitcases near the bed and look around, trying to imagine living here. The windows face east, so I should get good light in the mornings, but right now with the storm clouds still hanging low, everything looks gray and gloomy.
I close the heavy curtains, shutting out the anxiety-producing sky.
The bathroom is twice the size of my old one, with a clawfoot tub and a shower that has more nozzles than I know what to do with. The mirror above the sink is antique, with a silver backing that’s spotted with age, making my reflection look distorted.
I splash cold water on my face as I process what just happened. Miranda was so... nice. Too nice. The way she smiled at Mrs. Rodriguez, the way she called me darling, the way she talked about making this my home… None of it felt real.
And then there’s Ryder. A school student who lives with my aunt in order to work on his career. My mind boggles at the logistics of that, and I let the headache win.
I unpack my suitcases, hang my few good clothes in the closet, and put my everyday stuff in the rickety dresser.
My belongings look pathetic in this grand room.
A few photos of my parents, my old music box that’s held together with tape, and the stuffed elephant I’ve had since I was three.
These days Ellie is more comforting than ever.
The camera stays buried at the bottom of my suitcase. I’m not ready to deal with it yet.
With my pit stop in the rain, we ended up arriving here at midday.
I have six hours to kill until dinner. Though Miranda had phrased it as an invitation, I don’t get the impression it’s optional.
She also didn’t leave me breathing room to ask her any questions.
Am I supposed to keep myself locked in this room until then?
I size up the double bed, shrug, and fling myself on top of it.
I didn’t want to wake up today, anyway. A nap sounds like the best thing in the world.
That is until I take in the oil paintings across from the bed.
The skeletal trees twisting in dark wind storms send me into hideous shudders. I inhale deeply and shut my eyes.
***
It’s complete darkness in my mind, having not had a dream since the accident, but something pricks my ears.
I wriggle awake, hearing something faint like a ghost whispering through the walls.
As I lift my head, noting the time on my phone at 6:05 p.m., the sound becomes clearer.
Someone is playing the guitar, and they’re good.
Really good. The melody is haunting and goosebump-inducing, like something you’d hear on a movie soundtrack.
There’s something about the melody that makes my chest ache. Not with panic this time, but with a different kind of pain. The kind that comes from hearing something beautiful when you’re not sure you deserve beauty anymore.
I force myself out of bed and focus on getting ready for dinner. The nicest thing I packed is a dark blue dress that Mom bought me for last year’s freshman-sophomore mixer. It’s simple, flattering, and wrinkle-free.
The shower has so many settings, I accidentally spray myself with freezing water twice before figuring out how to make it merely cold. After freshening up, I manage a ponytail with only two small bumps atop my head.
It’ll have to do.
Taking every ounce of strength I have not to collapse into a blubbering mess, I’m finally ready to leave my bedroom at five minutes past seven o’clock. Not a great first impression to be late to dinner with your estranged aunt. But as the grief counsellor kept preaching, I can only do my best.