Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
The next morning after breakfast, we’re all set to work on our assigned projects. Rachelle leads me to the golf cart waiting near the side of the house.
The guest house sits on the far side of the property, hidden away from Morning House so you’d never know it was here unless you had a reason to.
As we drive, Rachelle turns the golf cart down one of the many winding trails on the property, pointing out the new fountain they had installed in the largest of the three ponds.
“Just in time for the wedding,” she muses. “It’ll make for beautiful photos.”
“Marlie could have her photos by a dumpster, and they’d be beautiful,” I say, thinking aloud. I glance over at my mother-in-law, wondering if that came across the way I intended.
The corner of her mouth upturns slightly, and she meets my eye from the edge of hers, giving the smallest nod of agreement.
“She’s always been gorgeous, even as a child.
” She inhales deeply, and it hits me all at once that perhaps she’s sadder than she’s let on about her youngest child getting married.
The Mornings have been empty nesters for years, but maybe this makes it official in a way I can’t yet understand.
“Warren seems nice,” I say, as the guest house comes into view at the end of the path, trees curving inward all around it as if the forest itself is trying to preserve the secret.
Yesterday was the first time I’d met my new brother-in-law, but it’s not just politeness that draws the words from my lips.
Warren does seem nice. In fact, he seems absolutely in awe of his bride-to-be. It’s really something to witness.
Still, I wonder if the Mornings feel the same way. For as long as I’ve known them, every man Marlie has dated has been held to the highest standard, and I suspect it took them quite a while to get to know Warren before they’d ever approve a marriage.
And I know my sister-in-law—she’d never say yes to anything or anyone without her parents’ approval. She’s a Morning through and through, and that is the Morning way.
“He’s crazy about her,” she says, but there’s a slight edge to her voice that turns my stomach. Something that sounds like worry. Dread. Not joy.
But when I glance over, whatever I sensed is not present in her face. She looks like nothing more than a mother happy to see her daughter in love.
“How are things otherwise?” I ask gently.
“Oh, you know. Busy as ever, but that never changes. I think we’re planning to summer with Marta in Monaco later this year.
She and Remy just adopted a baby girl—did Simon tell you?
It’s the most tragic story. They’ve been fostering since she was days old, weeks premature.
” Her eyes fill with concern, then clear, her calm returning.
“She’s three now. You’ll meet her at the wedding. Just a little doll.”
She pulls the golf cart to a stop in front of the small, yellow cottage. Small in comparison to Morning house anyway, though I suspect the single-story guest house with a quaint little white porch that spans most of the front is close to two thousand square feet.
“The code’s the same as the house, but change the one to a two,” she tells me, standing at the door and punching it in. I hear the click, and her long, polished fingers wrap around the brass knob, turning it quickly.
We walk in together, and the scent hits my nose.
It’s fresh. As if the house is brand new, though I know from talking to Simon last night that it’s been around all his life.
Still, it’s been sitting mostly empty throughout that time, save for the odd guest or two.
Each piece of furniture is covered with white cloth, and there are three stacks of unfolded boxes in the center of the room.
There’s a door to our right and a small hallway to our left. We stand in the main part of the house—one large, open room with dark hardwoods and white walls. It’s cozy without trying too hard, and when Rachelle speaks, her voice echoes through the quiet.
“So, the biggest thing is just boxing up anything that’s in the way and having it ready for the movers.
Keep a few of the family pictures up, but the rest of the décor can come down to leave a clean slate for the decorator on Friday.
You can sort of clean as you go, but dust will be the biggest issue.
” She leads me across the room to the kitchen and opens a small door.
“You’ll find all the cleaning supplies in here—broom, vacuum, mop.
Some cloths up here in the basket. They’re the Swedish ones—have you seen those?
Very absorbent. Lucy likes them, so we invested in the fall.
” She clicks her tongue, looking around.
I’m not totally sure if she’s serious. “I think that should be all you need but let me know if there’s anything else you think of, and I’ll send Caleb down with it.
” She checks her watch. “I have the movers scheduled to come for everything on Wednesday, so we just need to make sure it’s ready by then.
” Hands on her hips, she studies the house again. “I hope it won’t be too much.”
“It’s literally nothing,” I assure her. “I don’t mind a bit. Happy to help however I can.”
Her face softens. She takes my hands, gathering them between us. “Thanks, Astrid. Really. We wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. Marlie feels terrible even asking, as do Pierce and I. And Simon, of course.”
“Oh, please don’t. Really. I’m happy to help. This’ll be easy, and it gives me a chance to listen to an audiobook. If anything, you’re helping me.”
The corners of her eyes wrinkle as she watches me with worry that hasn’t quite dissipated. “Well, if it gets to be too much, please just let someone know. Pierce and the boys can pick up the slack.”
I squeeze her hands back. “I’ll let you know. I swear.” This promise is the only thing that makes her step away.
Minutes later, she shuts the door behind her when she leaves, and I turn to face the task ahead.
Two hours later, I’m working in one of the two bedrooms, filling a second box with odds and ends from around the house. Rachelle vastly overestimated how much is here and how many boxes I’ll need. For the most part, the house is already prepared for the movers.
Cool sweat clings to my skin, and I brush hair away from my temples and forehead with the back of my hands as I sort the clutter into piles—one to be boxed and one to ask Rachelle about.
My eyes fall on a box in the back of the closet, and I drag it toward me, unfolding the flaps and breathing in the scent of dust.
It takes just a moment for me to make sense of what I’m staring at—a mass of metal and wires—and then, all at once, it clicks for me. I drag the old CB radio out of the box, my brows drawn down.
Why would they have this?
My mind flashes with a memory: I’m around five.
Six, maybe. My grandpa’s home from work, and Granny and I watch his semi pull into their circular gravel driveway.
Outside a few moments later, I climb up the truck’s two metal stairs, taking hold of the handle and pulling myself onto his lap.
He lets me tug on the string to honk the horn and then comes my favorite part.
He lifts the radio to my mouth, and I press the button, licking my lips. “Nifty Smithy, 10-7.”
The memory lingers in the air, so real I can practically smell his Stetson cologne. I run my fingers against the metal, then down to the microphone. Something sparks in my chest, and I push to my feet, plugging it in.
Static fills the room at once, and I turn one of the small knobs on the front. The static fades in and out as I move through the channels, waiting to hear a voice—not his voice anymore—but someone’s. Anyone’s.
Everything in me stands still—organs and breath included.
Creeeeakkk.
The sound comes from behind me. Something deep in my core plummets. I cut the radio off in a second, as if I’ve been caught doing something terrible rather than just silly.
“Anyone home?”
Duncan’s voice reaches me just before I hear the heavy thud of his boots crossing the wood floor.
“In here.” I stand, dusting my jeans off before I cross the room. We meet in the middle, and my eyes fall to the picnic basket in his hands. “What’s that?”
“Lunch,” he says, placing the wooden handle in my hand. “Mom wanted to make sure you weren’t getting hungry.”
I lift the lid, not at all surprised my mother-in-law somehow has an honest-to-god picnic basket lying around her house just waiting for an occasion to use it. There’s a large, fully dressed sandwich wrapped in Saran Wrap and a bowl of chopped fruit. “Tell her thank you for me.”
He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans with a playful grin. “Are you sick of us yet?”
My brows draw down as I try to decide where that came from. “Why would I be?”
He tilts his chin toward the basket. “Oh, I don’t know. Thought you might not love being forced down here to clean and then delivered a meal like a kindergartener.”
“No one forced me. And this is really sweet. It looks delicious.”
His brows rise like he’s not convinced, but rather than argue, his gaze trails the walls. “How’s it going with you guys?”
I cross the room and place the basket on the kitchen countertop. “Oh, really good. We’re glad to be back. I can’t believe how big Jett and Ruby are getting.”
His face wrinkles with pride. “Absolute menaces.”
I chuckle, dusting my hands. “You’re their father. Did you expect any less?”
He narrows his eyes at me. “You’ve been hanging around Simon too long.”
“Guilty.”
It’s his turn to laugh. “Simon mentioned you two are trying.” His eyes flick to my stomach. “Pretty cool.”
I nod slightly, heat creeping up the back of my neck. I don’t imagine it will ever feel normal to discuss my sex life with my brother-in-law. “Thank you. We’d thought about waiting a few more years, but I want them to be close in age with their cousins.”
He nods. “Vic would have more, but her last pregnancy was rough.”
I remember that time well. Late-night worrying phone calls about scares and hospital stays. Googling phrases as we learned them. It was the only time I’ve wondered if Simon regrets not living nearby.
“Well, there’s always adoption.”
His brows dance skeptically. “You sound like Mom now.” He shakes his head. “Nah, that was never really my thing. Plus, the wait lists are years long unless it’s through foster care.”
He pauses awkwardly, casting me a sidelong glance that I read well. The scarlet patches I feel blooming under my skin match his own. I wish he didn’t know about that. I wish none of them did.
My voice shakes just a bit when I speak, betraying my shame. “You know I wasn’t really a foster kid, right? It was just a few months.”
He nods, then clears his throat. “Anyway, how’s it going down here? Anything spooky?”
“What’s that about?” I ask, rather than answering. “Simon didn’t say.”
Duncan’s eyes land on my face, weighing something that looks like an answer in his jaw as it tics. Finally, he opens his mouth. “In hindsight, it’s, like, a really awful joke. Someone died here when we were kids and…I guess I never thought too much about the teasing until now.”
A thousand spiders crawl underneath my skin, over my spine. “Someone…died…here?” I swallow, my eyes trailing the floor, searching for signs I don’t want to find.
A nervous laugh bubbles out of his throat. “Like I said, awful. We were kids. Maybe it was how we coped or something.”
I blink. “Was it… I mean, what happened? Who was it?”
Before I get an answer, his gaze lands over my shoulder. “What’s that?” He zips past me, and I turn, following him as he crosses the room and bends down in front of the radio.
“I found it in one of the boxes. Are you going to tell me how someone died here?”
He casts a careless glance my way, still examining the radio, turning it over in his hands. “I don’t really know. It was an accident, I?—”
“Hey, Tootsie Roll!” Simon’s voice is an unexpected bark from behind me. I jolt, though Duncan seems unfazed.
“Hey, Dicklet.” He sets the radio down and stands.
Simon takes in the sight of us, watching me with a small smile. “Hey, beautiful.” He kisses the side of my head, squeezing my butt. Then his gaze returns to his brother. “Break’s over. Polly needs our help.”
The men turn to leave, but Simon looks back at me just once. “You doing okay out here?”
You mean in the death house? The thought comes without warning, though I don’t say it out loud.
“Hanging in,” I promise. “Living the dream.”
He takes my hand, kisses it gently, then backs away and disappears out the door.
With the men gone, I bend down to pick up the radio, prepared to put it back in its box, but just as I do, I realize it’s still on, though there’s no static.
I lift the mic to my lips and press the button, but words fail me. I don’t even know what I would say. My fingers lift to the button that turns the radio off, but at once, I freeze. There’s a crackle. Then silence.
Then—
“Help. Please.”