Run & Hide

Chapter 1

1

SHILOH

Whoever decided to start telling teenagers ‘ it gets better after high school’ was lying through their teeth…

At least when it comes to me .

Unfortunately, I still have to sit across from the same chick who declared to the whole senior class my prom dress looked like it was puked up by a seasick alien…and you know what?

Nothing has changed. Melanie is still shooting me daggers and rolling her eyes with every suggestion I make. I’m still white knuckling this ballpoint pen and imagining what it would be like to gouge her eyes out with it. So, while I guess we pay taxes and have mortgages now, the hierarchy of the mean girl transcends beyond the diploma I received from Avalon High School.

Well, and my Bachelor’s in Education.

And Master’s in English.

Why did I decide to become a teacher in my home town again?

“Um, earth to Shiloh?” Melanie snaps her perfectly manicured nails in my face. “Did you hear that I was asking for suggestions? You’re literally a bottomless pit of catchy phrases, and no one else can come up with anything.”

“What about ‘ Legends and Lore ’?” I pipe up, pretending like I’ve been paying attention this entire time. “We could have a costume contest based on local ghost stories, set up interactive reenactments of the town’s history, maybe even hold an auction for ‘cursed’ antiques? It would be a true celebration of Avalon’s historic character that inspired our Halloween Ball in the first place. This town is a picturesque representation of almost everyone’s fall Pinterest boards.”

For a prolonged moment, there’s only silence, while I try to tamp down the rare enthusiasm that bubbles out of me whenever I discuss this topic. I see a few of my fellow committee members nodding, considering my suggestion and sparking a little hope in me that we might pull off something really cool this year. That is, until Melanie’s patronizing laugh shatters my dream like biting through the hard shell of a candy apple.

“Oh, Shiloh,” she titters, shaking her head at me like I’m a child who just said something adorably na?ve. “We can’t expect our most affluent donors to get excited about dusty old fairy tales. No, we need something more trendy, more sophisticated. You know what I just thought of? Masquerade of the Macabre. Everyone loves a mask theme. It’s sexy, mysterious. Of course, we’ll have a costume contest, but I don’t want to be judging droves of pilgrim hats and stained nightgowns. How dull would that be?”

“There will be children there,” I remind her, biting my tongue so hard I taste copper. I want to argue about setting a good example for my high school students–but she’d be mute to that point, I’m sure.

“Um, there will still be a dress code,” she laughs in that same condescending tone.

I keep my mouth shut, knowing the battle is lost. It doesn’t matter that most of our “affluent donors” consist of elders, whose families have lived here for generations and would probably have loved the idea to celebrate our spooky, lore-ridden history. Not to mention, all that lore is the foundation of our whole damn tourism trade. But I know that would be pointless. Melanie’s mind is made up, and not even a thousand spiced lattes would give me the energy required to enter that wrestling match.

“So, what are we going to do about the funding crisis?” A voice speaks up. I miss who throws it out there, but I don’t miss the ‘funding crisis’ part. What are they talking about?

“Well, I’m afraid I have some truly terrible news on that front…” Melanie dramatically sighs. “Bellman’s Orchards have pulled out as our principal sponsor. Apparently, their summer profits were not what they’d hoped for. We’re facing a significant budget shortfall for the epic bash I intend to pull together, so we really need to find an alternative fast.”

The room erupts into a cacophony of gasps and anxious murmuring. You’d think she’d just announced the End of Days rather than a hiccup in party planning.

“Now, now, everyone,” Melanie says, raising her hands in a preachy gesture that makes me want to throw my notebook at her head. “Let’s not jump straight to panicking. As my father always says, ‘ there’s no problem that can’t be solved with a simple plan B and a bit of elbow grease.’ All we need to do is brainstorm other businesses who could come up with a lump of cash and do so quickly.”

Oh really, Mel? A simple plan B in the form of a pile of money?

There can be no doubt in anyone’s mind that our committee chairman has absorbed every ounce of wisdom her father has fed her with his favorite silver spoon. Her father is the mayor of this town, and some say the wealthiest. Others say they’re up to their heads in debt. Maybe that’s why she’s not offering to front it herself? I can’t imagine her passing up the chance to save the day.

Regardless, the next fifteen minutes are a mind-numbing blur of increasingly hopeless suggestions. Local businesses are named and dismissed faster than a speed-dating event for escaped convicts. I doodle spiderwebs absentmindedly in the margins of my notes, wondering if there’s a circle of Hell dedicated entirely to committee meetings.

“We have to think bigger, people. Hey, Shiloh, what about your brother?” Melanie’s voice cuts through my daydreaming of fiery pits like a bucket of ice water. I look up, momentarily confused. My brother–well, half- brother–is six years old. Melanie must be mistaking me for somebody else. But she doesn’t seem to think so, because she’s still staring at me with that predatory gleam in her eye I remember all too well from our years at school.

“Isn’t his father some big shot in New York?” she presses, lacing her pink-taloned fingers together and leaning forward. I instantly wish she’d go back to pretending I don’t exist. “Blackwood Enterprises, right? They must be loaded.”

The pen in my hand creaks as my grip tightens enough to almost snap it in two. “Oh…um. You mean Dominic? My stepbrother? We, uh…we’re not exactly close.”

Understatement of the century right there. Dominic and I are about as close as the North and South Poles, our relationship just as warm. But Melanie is like a dog with a particularly juicy bone, if said dog was maybe a mutant and resembled something more akin to a T-rex. She’s not letting this one go.

“Oh, come on, Shiloh. This is for the good of the community, for our school. You wouldn’t want to let your students down, would you?”

And there it is, folks. The signature Melanie manipulation, dressed up in community spirit and accessorized with just enough guilt to make you feel like a selfish asshole if you even think about saying no. I glance around the room, met with the hopeful stares of each of my fellow committee members in turn. The last time I was looked at like this, like the human embodiment of salvation, I had just offered my freshman class an open-book exam for their final last year.

“Okay, I’ll try,” I grit out, the oath tasting like ash in my mouth. “But don’t expect any miracles. Dominic isn’t exactly known for his generosity.”

Or his community spirit, or penchant for philanthropy, or possession of a beating fucking heart.

Melanie claps her hands together with an ear-splitting squeal, her expression dripping with shameless triumph. “Wonderful! I knew we could count on you for something , Shiloh.”

I press my lips together in a pathetic excuse for a smile and slouch down in my chair, already regretting my promise. By the time the meeting finally adjourns, I’m convinced I’ve developed a stomach ulcer the size of a prize pumpkin.

I grumble to myself all the way home, beyond irritated that I let Melanie get to me. This is just like that time she convinced our group in eighth-grade chemistry that I should do our entire midterm project by myself, because I was the smartest and anyone else’s contribution could just bring our grade down.

Nothing. Ever. Changes.

By the time I make it through my front door, I’m a storm of bitter rage. I slam it closed behind me and throw my purse to the ground as if doing so could release even the tiniest fraction of my frustration.

No such luck.

I’m anxious and seething and I’d punch a hole through my wall if I thought I had the money or skill to fix it again afterwards. But I don’t, so I resort to pacing back and forth through my tiny living room, chewing on my thumb nail while my cell phone feels like a lead weight in my other hand.

“Get a grip, Shiloh,” I mutter to myself. “It’s just a phone call. To the Manhattan office of your estranged stepbrother. No big deal. He’ll say no and hang up, and we can all forget this stupid idea was ever born.”

I take a deep breath and hit the call button before I can chicken out. Of course, I had to Google the number for the reception desk. Dominic Blackwood isn’t saved to anyone’s contacts in this town. The ringing seems to go on forever, or maybe it only trills a few times? My heart is pounding too loud to decipher the difference.

“Blackwood Enterprises, how may I help?”

Fuck. It’s really happening.

“Um, hi,” I try desperately to swallow around the thick wadge of anxiety stuck in my throat. “I’m trying to reach Dominic Blackwood. Could you redirect me to his office, please?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Blackwood doesn’t accept external calls that haven’t gone through his assistant. Would you like her extension? I’m sure she can schedule a call for you when Mr. Blackwood has space in his itinerary.”

“No, no, thank you. Please just put me through to Dominic. I’m his…I’m his sister. Tell him it’s Shiloh, he’ll take the call.”

There’s a pause on the other end, I can practically hear the receptionist raising her eyebrow, contemplating whether or not to just hang up on me.

Please, do. Then I can tell everyone I tried.

“One moment, please. I’ll ring up to his office now.”

Double fuck.

Hold music suddenly blares from my phone speaker. It’s some generic jazz that sounds like it was composed by an AI with a vendetta against human ears–and I resume my pacing. Rapidly running out of thumbnail to chew on, my free hand finds its way into my hair, nervously tugging at the tendrils that have fallen loose from my haphazard bun.

“Well, well, Shy Girl. To what do I owe the displeasure?”

I freeze mid-step as that voice, cool and controlled, rakes down my spine as if he were standing in this very room. My jaw automatically clenches at the stupid nickname he used to taunt me with when we were preteens. I don’t respond immediately, my mouth suddenly drier than an ancient tome in Avalon’s haunted Fairchild Manor library.

“Hello?” he prompts, impatient as ever. “I don’t have all day. I can hear you breathing.”

I close my eyes and swallow the embarrassment. “Yeah, Dominic, hi. I’m here.” I cringe almost to the point of pain as I stammer through my greeting. I’m already picturing him leaning back in some fancy leather desk chair, probably wondering what cosmic joke has led to this mortifying encounter.

“Yes, okay, now we’ve covered that part,” he throatily chuckles. “You’re the one who made the call. Get to it, I’m busy.”

My head just keeps spinning as I try to conjure up a coherent sentence. “Yeah, uh, sorry. I’m calling about…about the Avalon Halloween Ball? I don’t know if you remember it. But, um…our sponsor pulled out and now we’re having some major funding issues, and I was sorta hoping…”

“Let me get this straight,” Dominic cuts in, every word laced with disdain. “We haven’t spoken to each other in years . And now you’re calling me, out of the blue, to ask for money? For a costume party?”

Alright, dude. Put it like that and of course it sounds ridiculous.

I run my hand through my hair again, fighting the urge to rip every last strand from my scalp. “It’s not just some costume party. It’s a fundraiser for the school–the one I teach English at. And it’s…it’s tradition. Keeping town spirit alive and…and stuff .”

“Town spirit and stuff,” he repeats slowly, as if talking to a patient with late-stage dementia. “How quaint. I’m sure my father would be thrilled to throw company money at such a noble and vital cause. Really saving lives, aren’t you?”

“Dominic, please ,” I huff, hating beyond measure the desperate note that’s crept into my voice unchecked. “I wouldn’t have called if we had any other options. This is not easy for me, and you know it. The school is really struggling right now, these are my students I’m trying to help. Also, it wasn’t my idea. Melanie–”

“Melanie is a bitch.”

Huh, okay. That’s the one thing we can agree on.

Before I can say anything though, he continues. “I have actual work to do. Work that doesn’t involve throwing parties for small-town, hopeless cases like yours. Goodbye, Shy Girl.”

I pull the phone from my ear, and double check that he did, indeed, just hang up on me. “Well, that went about as well as expected,” I mumble, plopping down on my couch.

I don’t know at what point I’d started to actually hope, but here I lie, thoroughly and suddenly disappointed–as if there was even the slightest chance my soulless stepbrother might actually do something kind. But honestly, anyone other than me stood a better chance at getting him to bend. He’s always been a jerk to me.

A fucking bully, to be precise.

I scrub my hands down my face, watching the swirls in the crumbling plaster of my ceiling morph into blackholes of despair. As much as I hate to admit it…

The Avalon Halloween Ball is my favorite day of the year.

Bitchy Melanie or not. Rich sponsor or not. I have to find a way to save it, resorting to desperate measures if I have to. Maybe it is time to try the whole black altar thing…

I’m startled out of my witchy musings by my cell vibrating right next to my face. Narrowly avoiding falling right off the couch, I snatch it up and swipe at the screen. I’m greeted by a text message from an unsaved number.

Unknown: I’ll meet you tomorrow. 1pm. The coffee house by the old church. Don’t be late.

I blink several times, reading the message over and over as if it will eventually make better sense. Did I accidentally summon some kind of bossy demon just by thinking about attempting black magic?

Am I a witch?

“The fuck…? Dominic?”

It can’t be. That wouldn’t make any sense. Why would he change his mind literally two minutes after dismissing me? And why would he bother to drive more than a couple hours to Avalon just to meet me for coffee?

Well, then again…

He’s always gone the extra mile to torture me.