8. Kristin
KRISTIN
Hailey yanked open the passenger door with the amount of force reserved for teenagers and hurricanes, and I couldn’t tell if it was required because of the damage, or just another flair for the dramatic. She collapsed into the seat with a loud exhale and buckled her seat belt.
“What happened to the car?”
“I got in an accident.”
“When? Like, on the way here?” Her eyes widened as she surveyed me and the mirror showing Henry’s sleeping face. “Is Henry okay?”
“Yes, on the way here, and yes, he’s fine.” I put the car in drive and pulled out of the parking lot. “I’m fine too, by the way.”
“How’d it happen?” Hailey asked.
“Some jerkoff blew a red light and hit me.”
Her head whipped toward me. “Are you serious? Did you get out and beat his ass?”
The concern in her voice surprised me in the best way. Every now and then, I needed those small reminders that my teenage daughter still cared. She and I hadn’t talked in a real, meaningful way for ages.
“Yes, I’m serious, and no, I didn’t beat anyone’s ass.”
I decided not to tell her about the sheriff or how the so-called witnesses had ganged up on me. I was still rattled, still trying to make sense of it, and the last thing I needed was to hear myself say it out loud.
“Well, just try to be more careful on the way home. You have precious cargo now.” Hailey smirked and crossed her arms in front of her.
“Speaking of precious cargo.” I tilted my head. “Are you real sick or don’t-want-to-be-at-school sick?”
Hailey blew her bangs out of her face. “Real sick, Mom. You had me eat maggot casserole last night, remember?”
“You didn’t eat any.”
“It was still on my plate.”
That pulled a real smile out of me. She gave the smallest smile back, and I decided to leave it at that.
The road stretched quiet in front of us, snowbanks piled on either side like giant, frozen shoulders. Henry was asleep in his car seat, unaware that his mother was driving like she expected another truck to burst out of the woods at any moment and smash into her.
I kept glancing back at my baby. He’d only woken up once last night, but that didn’t mean I slept well. The house wouldn’t let me. It creaked and sighed and shifted in the dark, each sound loud enough to pull my eyes open.
I cleared my throat. “Hey . . . Hailey?”
“What?” It wasn’t rude. It was guarded.
I kept my eyes on the road. “Have you noticed anything . . . odd? With the house? Or around town?”
She gave a humorless snort. “Other than the maggot casserole?”
“Yes,” I said. “Other than that.”
She shrugged. “Not really. I mean, I hate it here. But that’s my new normal.”
“So . . . nothing strange? Nothing that feels . . . off to you?”
Her eyes flicked toward me for half a second before darting away. “Why? Have you?”
A knot formed low in my belly. This was the moment I should have told her everything—what I’d seen, what I’d heard, the feeling that followed me from room to room.
But I didn’t. Because Hailey would tell her father.
And Patrick wouldn’t hear it the way he had before, with patience and worry and the benefit of the doubt.
If I said it out loud and Hailey didn’t feel it too—if she looked at me like I was imagining things—then it wouldn’t be the house or the town that was the problem. It would be me.
“No. Just checking on you. Making sure you’re settling in.”
“Well, I’m not,” she said bluntly.
“At least we’re on the same page for once.”
That got a tiny smirk from her before she buried it in her sleeve. A moment of almost-bonding. The rest of the drive was quiet. Hailey looked out the window, and I kept checking the mirror to see if Henry was still breathing.
In the driveway, I shifted into park, and Hailey unbuckled before the car had even settled.
“Finally,” she groaned, shoving her door open. “Home sweet home.” Her tone was pure sarcasm. I unlatched Henry’s carrier from the base, hoisted him onto my arm, and followed Hailey up the porch steps.
“What the hell?” she said, stopping in her tracks right outside the front door.
Two casserole dishes sat on the welcome mat, foil gleaming in perfect little domes. The sight of them brought vomit up my esophagus, but I forced it back down along with the words I wanted to yell.
“Why does this town only communicate in casseroles?” Hailey groaned.
“Just leave them,” I said, unlocking the front door and stepping over the dishes. “We’re not doing a round two.”
We stepped inside and were met with a gust of freezing air, so intense it made Hailey gasp. “It’s freezing in here, Mom.”
“Watch your brother,” I said, setting the car seat down beside her. She didn’t argue and bent down, starting to undo his buckles, while I headed toward the basement, convinced the furnace must’ve gone out because the air had that brittle, metallic cold to it.
As I passed the nursery, something flickered at the edge of my vision.
The window was wide open. Cold air cut through the room, snapping the curtains against the wall.
My stomach clenched—not fear exactly, but recognition.
The kind that settles in before your brain has time to argue.
I shut it quickly, hands shaking, and moved down the hall.
Hailey’s window was open too. The same rush. The same certainty. Not again. I slammed it shut, my fingertips numb against the wooden frame.
A pulse of unease threaded up my spine. I hadn’t opened any of these. I knew I hadn’t. I would never leave a window open in winter. I kept moving, forcing myself to breathe, to stay rational, to blame faulty latches or old wood expanding in the cold.
But when I stepped into my art studio, every excuse I’d been constructing fell apart.
Wet, bare footprints tracked across the hardwood.
A sound escaped me, half gasp, half shock.
The footprints blurred as I watched, the edges softening, the shapes spreading outward until they no longer looked like feet at all.
Just water. I blinked, hard. And suddenly I couldn’t be sure they’d ever been footprints in the first place—or if my mind had filled in the shape before the evidence had time to argue.
I should call the sheriff, I thought. But his face flashed in my mind—flat, bored, already convinced I was wrong about the accident.
I could practically hear him now, dismissing this just as he dismissed everything else.
Looks like puddles of water, ma’am. You sure you ain’t spilled your fancy paint water?
My eyes drifted to the cup of cloudy water on the table, filled with paintbrushes soaking at odd angles. He’d blame me for the open windows too, say I’d forgotten to close them after a hot flash, that exhaustion was making me sloppy.
I shut the window and locked it. My hands shook as I grabbed a towel and knelt down. I scrubbed, fast and frantic, wiping the water before it could seep between the floorboards.
“Mom?” Hailey’s voice shot down the hall.
A second later, she appeared in the doorway, holding Henry awkwardly on her hip. I forced myself onto my feet and flipped the towel over my shoulder.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Just spilled my paint water,” I said, pasting on a smile so tight it almost hurt.
“Why is it so cold in here?”
My jaw locked. “I forgot to close some windows before I went to pick you up.”
She furrowed her brow. “But . . . why would you even have the windows open in the first place?”
“I was airing out that musty smell in this house.”
She didn’t buy it. I could tell from the way she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. I reached out and took Henry from her, pressing my cheek against the soft fuzz of his head. His warmth steadied me, but only barely.
“Go lie down,” I told her. “You’re sick, remember?”
She rolled her eyes. “Fine,” she said as she backed out of the room, her bedroom door slamming closed shortly thereafter.
I held Henry tighter, forcing myself to breathe, to pretend everything was fine. Behind me, the window creaked like someone was testing the lock.