The House on Lindenvale Hill (Lindenvale Brothers #1)

Chapter 1

ONE | TARYN

Fresh starts suck.

I should know; this is only the billionth time in the last ten years that I’ve found my feet firmly planted in a place far different from what I got accustomed to. When comfort begins creeping in, it’s usually when I can leave everything behind without hesitation. It’s easy. It always has been.

The thought of moving is exhilarating.

Making the jump is thrilling.

But as I glare daggers at the piss-yellow two-bedroom home I rented blindly one night after an email from Zillow recommended it, I think my fingers and common sense may have been affected by too many glasses of wine.

I scan the yard sluggishly. There are months of overgrown weeds overtaking the yard and wriggling through the flower beds in front of the deck and at the edges of the driveway.

The white paint coating the shutters is beginning to chip, enough that I could dig my fingernails under and pick it off, watching the paint flutter to the ground.

The outside of the house itself isn’t horrible, but nature’s fight to reclaim the structure makes it look like no one has touched it in years.

Like one of those abandoned homes you expect a character to come across in an apocalyptic novel.

But it’s the solid wood door that has unease plummeting into my gut with a force that has my feet feeling like they are sinking into the cement below the soles of my shoes.

That one aspect alone should’ve stopped me from deciding to rent this place.

But no.

I am a twenty-three-year-old woman living alone.

If someone waltzes up to the door and knocks, seeing them first automatically gives me an advantage.

I have the upper hand because I can either hide around a corner and pretend I’m not home or at least assess their exterior look to make sure they aren’t going to murder me the second the door swings open.

Appearances say a lot about a person, but I’m at a disadvantage if I can’t see them, especially since there’s no peephole.

And that’s red flag number two. The first one was ticked off on my little mental sheet when I pulled up and raised the paper listing I printed off.

I held it up, glancing back and forth at the image on the paper and the house in front of me as if it were a before-and-after picture.

But just my luck, I get the before house.

The shit house with a grungy and unkempt yard.

The photos of the shell of the house and yard had to have been doctored up…a lot. Or the images on the listing were from a home that sat here fifteen years ago—maybe twenty.

And the online catalog shows a tire swing.

It was silly to look forward to, but it gave the place a lively character.

I felt drawn to it because I always wanted a house with a tire swing growing up—any swing, for that matter.

But yet again, I’m disappointed because the only thing left on the branch of the willow are two short and different lengths of rope, frayed at the edges, swaying in the soft breeze where one used to be.

It’s silent and eerie.

And one hundred percent, undoubtedly, the house on the street that all the neighbors scurry around and avoid for obvious reasons.

I expect this house to be deserted at the end of a dirt road, not surrounded by pristine family homes on both sides of the street with their white picket fences and off-the-lot SUVs.

Okay, they might not have the white fences and brand-new vehicles, but that’s what I visualize compared to the piece-of-junk shack I’m about to live in with my green-and-white 1992 Ford F150 parked in the driveway.

The feeling of dread settles deep in my stomach, churning until it turns sour.

I let my head fall back and release a frustrated sigh, the weight of all my bad decisions resting on my forehead.

I fucked up. Bad.

I grip the leash tighter and scrunch my face, closing my eyes. Maybe when I open them, it won’t be there. I crack open a lid; the rickety house is blurred in one eye’s line of sight but still as clear as day.

“Goddammit,” I mutter.

Might as well get out all my cursing now before my second interview tomorrow. I can’t let the principal know that the girl he’s looking to hire to be his second-grade teacher has a mouth on her. That wouldn’t bode well in my favor since I moved here without securing the job first.

Stupid, I know.

I peek down at Rossco sitting next to me, his sweet face already lightening my foul mood. He always makes it better.

Kneeling beside him, I glide my palm over his black face and across his thick body.

Looking at his face, you would think he’s just a lab, but underneath all that coarse dark fur, he has the full-out border collie personality.

Outside, at least. Other than that, he is honestly the most chill dog in the world and the only constant relationship I’ve had since I brought him home from the shelter four years ago.

My hand drifts to the large white patch on his stomach, and I dig my nails into it, scratching him.

“Whatcha think?” I ask him, tilting my head.

“For you, it’s much better than the apartment because you actually have a yard now.

” It’s a brown yard with dried weeds and dirt, but he loves dirt.

Laying in the dirt, digging in the dirt, swallowing dirt that coats his ball.

He’ll love it, so it shouldn’t be a problem for him.

His tongue whizzes out, licking a slobbery trail up my arm as his tail drags across the sidewalk back and forth.

“Should we go see the inside?”

A squirrel dashes up the trunk of the lone willow in the yard, and his head jerks in that direction. His gaze locks on to it.

Reaching for his collar, I remove the leash, letting him sprint to the base of the tree. He plops his butt down, staring up as the creature remains perfectly still on a branch. Rossco needs to stretch his legs anyway after the last few days of splitting up the twenty-three-hour drive.

One thing is certain: this weather is nothing compared to the hundred-degree weather back in Tucson.

I stand up, absentmindedly running my palms over my arms. It has to be, what, nearly seventy-five degrees?

It’s a late summer afternoon, and it still feels cold.

Yet I’m also not used to this fresh, crisp, and moist Washington air.

Wandering to the mailbox painted the same chipped yellow as the house, I open it and reach inside, pulling out a cream-colored envelope. I wonder how long this house has lingered here, waiting for the next tenant. Ripping it open, I take out the single sheet note and the house key.

Who the hell leaves the house key in the mailbox?

I glance around at the other houses and back at my new home for the time being. There is no way I’ll stay here for a year. If I get hired for this position, hopefully I can find a nicer place.

I unfold the letter, smirking at the few handwritten lines.

We hope you enjoy your new home. Thanks for giving it a chance; we are sure its character and charm will be to your liking.

Sincerely,

The Donahue Family

Releasing a snicker, I fold it up, tuck it back into the envelope, and slip it into the back pocket of my jean shorts before walking over to my truck in the driveway—a truck packed with all my belongings under the blue tarp I secured everything underneath with bungee cords.

A muscle throbs sharply in my back, reminding me that I slept in the driver’s seat last night while Rossco snored peacefully in the passenger seat.

Shit. This house better be fully furnished, as the listing said.

Opening the door, I take out my large suitcase and the reusable grocery bag I have with Rossco’s food and water bowl, as well as his various toys.

Before I know it, I’m staring at the front door, contemplating all the decisions I’ve made that have led me here.

On the other hand, my dog looks perfectly content looking up at me, his tongue flopping around, and his mouth set in a way that makes it look like he’s smiling.

It stirs the confidence in my gut round and round, and I force a smile.

You can do this, Taryn.

It’s not as bad as it seems, Taryn.

Just open the damn door and put your mind at ease, Taryn.

I place the key in and jiggle it a little before it gives way. Nudging the door open, the musty smell and the still and silent darkness hit me. When my eyes finally adjust to the scene before me, my shoulders drop, thankful that it’s in somewhat good condition compared to the outside.

Ahead, where the living room is, light filters in from the sides and middle crack in the curtains, creating a line of light on the dusty and scraped wood floors.

Rossco brushes past me, zooming into the small entryway, first running into the living room to sniff the plastic sheets covering the furniture. Once satisfied that he’s sniffed every inch, he takes off through the hallway to the right, scoping out the rest of the place.

I leave the door open, take a left into the kitchen, drop the bag in my hand on the four-person round dining table in the corner, and leave my suitcase on the floor, approaching the windows.

I throw open the curtains, the layer of dust covering the fabric taking flight and shimmering like dirty glitter in the natural light.

Lifting the sleeve of my flannel to my mouth and nose, I try to keep myself from inhaling it into my lungs. I reach into my pocket and take my phone out, navigating to the notes app. I add another item to the grocery list: Pick up cleaning products and bleach.

Who knows how long it’s been since this place was properly cleaned.