Chapter 9
The paper snaps against the door like a whip, periods marking it like stab wounds.
“Oh my,” says my mom, covering her mouth.
I freeze in place, my skin tingling, wondering if I’m imagining things.
Heathcliff barks, and Laelynn holds him back with both hands.
Eric sprints to the door, snatches the note, crunches it in his fist, and pockets it.
He quickly replaces it with a warm grin but can’t wash the flush from his countenance.
He turns to us and waves us forward. “Don’t worry about that. It—uh—it looks worse than it is. Long story. I’ll tell you about it over drinks.”
Laelynn starts to speak, but he twitches his head, and she shuts her mouth. I notice her fingers strangling Heathcliff’s leash.
“Home sweet home,” he says, opening the door and ushering us in with an open hand.
My mom and I frown at each other but say nothing. Now isn’t the time. We follow them into the house.
At first glance, the place seems beautiful—curated, even.
Like a model home. The foyer gleams with polished oak floors and navy-blue walls, stately and composed, lined with framed historical photos of Big Island.
In the living room, baby-blue wallpaper stitched with delicate anchors wraps the walls in coastal charm.
Floor-to-ceiling windows open onto a postcard-perfect view of the lake.
Two caramel leather club chairs, soft and slouching with use, flank a white sectional like they’ve been waiting for us.
The kitchen is showstopping—an emerald-green island topped with thick marble, a copper range hood gleaming overhead, a towering paneled fridge humming quietly in the corner.
On a small chalkboard, Laelynn has written the dinner menu from earlier tonight in careful script.
But beneath all the charm, the house tells an older story.
You can sense it in the uneven swell of the floorboards, the bowed ceiling beams, the hush that falls between footsteps.
The railing is too smooth, worn down by hands no one mentions.
A trace of smoke lingers in the air, long since baked into the walls.
Even the basement exhales must from another era.
It’s like the past is trying to force its way through.
A house layered over a house. Painted over, polished, but not forgotten.
The mysterious paper nailed to the front door only adds to my discomfort.
My mom and the Parkers walk me to the guest room, then head to the patio while I settle in.
It’s a cozy little nook at the front of the house with a four-poster bed and mullioned windows.
It would be perfect were it not for the fact that someone’s nailing threatening notes to the door twenty feet from where I sleep.
As I get my bearings, my mind spins with questions about the note.
Who left it?
Why was Eric so quick to snatch it?
Why didn’t he want Laelynn to talk about it?
And most importantly, does this have anything to do with me?