Chapter 2
TWO | TARYN
Ipump my legs faster, the chill morning air whipping against the moisture clinging to my face and wetting the strands of hair on my scalp. Inhaling deeper breaths, the earthy aroma of moss and fresh rain fills my senses.
God, it feels good to run. To jog off the alarm that gripped me last night. It’s still lingering under my skin.
After hours of sleep denying me, I concluded that the long drive from Tucson to Washington and the over-exhaustion were to blame. My brain hallucinated those dark phantoms—the one in the SUV and the one leaning against my tree—and I refuse to think otherwise.
Yes, the house is sketchy as hell, but it’s a great neighborhood. A quaint one. Or at least it seems to be, but I guess I can’t judge it that quickly, considering I’ve not been in town for a full twenty-four hours.
After my pizza was delivered by that god of a man, I took it to my room. My gaze kept wandering to the willow tree outside where the figure stood, and I knew I couldn’t sleep unless I put my mind at ease.
I threw on a sweatshirt, grabbed my phone and Rossco for protection, and walked outside with jittery limbs.
My pulse raced as the shadows from the branches danced from the breeze as if they were shaking with laughter at my delusion.
Thousands of invisible legs tapped against my arms, my skin crawling anxiously.
I gradually wandered over to the willow tree, the light from my phone only catching dead grass and weeds on the ground until a little shimmer and pop of color froze me in place.
My fingers were cold and white as I grasped Rossco’s leash tighter.
I dragged my feet across the dirt and inched closer.
His curiosity piqued, his nose examining the object eagerly, while I, on the other hand, wanted to run in the opposite direction.
Sitting upright, in the same spot the hooded phantom stood, was an apple. Its skin was practically perfect and void of imperfections, with a coating the color of freshly drawn blood.
Unable to help myself, I picked it up, rotating it in my hands. My eyes flitted around the quiet yard one last time, the sense of being watched settling deep in my bones.
I ran back inside and ate my pizza in bed while How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days played on my phone.
I needed a romantic comedy to relax my freaked-out state of mind.
Occasionally, my focus casually drifted to the apple sitting on the dresser.
The movie helped as a distraction, but so did picturing thick muscles clad in a gray Crocks logo T-shirt and a chiseled jawline that could slice through my skin.
His wavy brown hair was styled messily, some pieces flopped over and resting against his forehead.
His tan face showed me he had been kissed by the sun a lot this summer. The patio lights reflected in his sage green eyes—irises so light against the darkness that I had difficulty not feeling entranced by them.
They were hypnotic.
So much so that he just smirked at me while I stood there with my mouth parted.
He wished me a good night before handing me my pizza and strolling back down the sidewalk.
But he didn’t have a car, at least not right outside on the street anyway.
He just strolled around the corner where the neighbor’s trees were against the sidewalk and disappeared.
It wasn’t until he was gone that I floated back to reality and realized I had never paid him.
If all the men in this town look like that, then I may genuinely be screwed.
My feet batter against the concrete, Rossco’s paws pounding the ground beside me as we pick up speed. My running playlist blares in my ears, and I can’t help the smile that breaks across my face when the sun strokes my skin.
It rained last night, but it’s beautifully gloomy out this morning, with the cloud coverage keeping the late summer temperature at bay. I know birds chirp around me, but I can’t hear a word they say. I’m too lost in the beat of the music, and my own head swarming with thoughts.
There came a point last night when I looked out the window at those figures and thought about my parents.
How they don’t know where I am. They don’t know that I’ve moved not once but twice since they left for Spain.
The sad part? I haven’t told them about my last few moves because I honestly don’t think they care.
It’s not that they don’t love me or pay attention to my whereabouts; it’s just that they adore their lifestyle more.
They find contentment in constant travel, moving from one place to the next before they even have the chance to change their address with the post office.
Not that they’ve ever done that, anyway.
The last I heard, they were in Madrid. Or was it Murcia?
I can’t remember. It’s been over a month since we last had contact, so they could be in a completely different country, for all I know.
Ever since I graduated high school, they’ve been living life as they always wanted to because they put those dreams on hold when they discovered they were pregnant with me.
I was a “happy accident.” So, instead of being able to travel the world like their original plan since they never wanted kids, we moved from state to state.
One of the questions I was asked in my virtual interview for the second-grade teaching position at Cedar Creek Elementary was: “How good are you at dealing with hard situations and change?”
Pretty damn good at it, Principal Alaric Sinclair.
I didn’t answer it like that, but I wanted to.
Instead, I told him how I constantly adjusted and found the positive aspects to focus on despite moving a lot while growing up. At first, I hated it. I was never in one place long enough to make authentic friends or relationships. That’s one of the reasons I’ve never had a long-term boyfriend.
I have a steady relationship with my pink rabbit vibrator, though. So that must count for something.
Anyway, so much change happened that it eventually felt normal. Handling life adjustments became as easy as breathing. Which is why nothing about this move scares me.
Besides the two spine-chilling figures lurking outside the house I blindly rented for myself.
Shit. Maybe it’s haunted. I didn’t consider that.
Rossco and I round a corner of the street. The neighborhood of houses ends before a dead end where the road meets a thick forest.
The towering red cedars and Douglas firs are so tall on the tree line that they shroud everything under them in a darkness that reminds me of an enchanted forest.
It isn’t until I pass the last few houses on the block that two towers of rock ascending into the sky on both sides of a metal gate come into view in the distance. A gate that must be twelve or more feet high.
Slowing my pace, my breath escapes my lungs at a ragged tempo as I examine the intimidating entrance.
Scanning the structure, I notice the forest line is behind a smaller fence with golden oak posts, the same color as the sign hanging below the arch.
I’m too far away to see the black words scrawled across.
It’s as if the property is claiming this part of the land.
The road behind the entrance and trees gradually climbs upward on the small mountain, where a veil of morning fog rests gently on the tops of the trees.
I pull myself and Rossco to a stop, huffing out tattered breaths, and glance down at my Apple Watch.
Three miles from the house.
Wow, I’ve never run this far willingly. Usually, I only go a mile or two. I guess I did have a lot of anxiety to run off.
Reaching up to the wild strands of brown hair strapped across my sweaty forehead, I tuck them behind my ears and swipe my damp fingers on my high-waisted black running shorts.
I wasn’t following directions as I ran—just kept going and going. Turning left and right without thinking, where it felt natural. And I ended up here.
Absentmindedly, I inch closer and closer. It’s as if the long metal spikes on top of the gate are like long claws reaching out, piercing my skin, and tugging me toward it.
It’s magnificent and obscure.
It nags the curious part of me.
Unable to keep my eyes from wandering the entrance, I take a couple more steps toward it until a small, delicate voice somewhere in the distance stops me. “Amazing, isn’t it?”
The statement has my head turning toward the source, a small elderly woman with a hose watering the soft pink and maroon flowers lining her sidewalk. Her glasses rest on the curve of her nose. She smiles at me.
It’s seven a.m., and she’s already out here early doing yard work. I peek behind her at the impeccable white home with modern black window frames and facades. By the looks of it, I’m assuming she moved with a husband—maybe—and retired here.
I was so focused on running and captivated by this oddly dark and elegant property entrance that I didn’t realize the houses kept increasing in size as I neared.
“By the way you’re staring at it, I assume you’re not from around here, hun,” she presumes.
I flick my eyes over her petite figure in the wine-red shirt that hangs loosely on her frame. Her loose jeans have splotches of dirt from gardening, based on the pile of weeds on the sidewalk beside her.
Turning back toward the gate in the distance, I respond, “No. No, I’m not. I just moved here.”
“Lindenvale Hill.”
I twist my head back to her slowly. Why does that sound vaguely familiar? “What?”
She compresses her lips and nods. As she approaches me, the woman places the hose down and removes her gardening gloves one at a time.
I scrunch my brows.
She twirls a finger in circular motions near her temple. “I see the gears turning in that head of yours.”
How can this dainty old woman send shivers down my spine? I fight the urge to wrap my arms around myself when a breeze skims my body. My bare legs break out into goosebumps.
“Lindenvale Hill Orchard is the largest apple producer in the country. I’m sure you’ve seen their labels before.” I ponder what she is saying a little harder. “The crow and the apple?”
The crow and the apple…
The familiarity hits me. “Oh!” I react, unable to keep the light bulb moment from registering in my tone. She nods again. “I mean, I’ve seen their label in grocery stores before, but I don’t know anything about them.”
She stays silent.
Flashes of their branding filter through my mind, remembering the black background logo with a red apple and the outline of a crow. “Kind of a dark aesthetic for an orchard, don’t you think?”
She shrugs, slowly wriggling her hands back into the pink floral gardening gloves.
She doesn’t answer me, so I ask another question. “Aren’t orchards usually open to the public this time of year? With a company as big as this one, I’d assume—”
“Hasn’t been open to the public for some time now.
Five years, I believe.” My mouth snaps shut since she catches me off guard.
Her admission piques my interest. “Not sure who would want to visit anyway. It doesn’t stop customers from buying the apples, though.
I think they even gained more popularity after the incident. ”
Incident?
“What incident?”
She peers around at our surroundings and lowers her voice to a whisper. We are the only ones on the sidewalk, and everything else around here is motionless and quiet besides the leaves in the trees rustling from the light breath of the wind.
“Christian, the CEO of Lindenvale Hill Orchard, was arrested and sent to prison for the murder of Jane Lindenvale after she disappeared.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Jane Lindenvale?” I ask.
“The wife.” My body freezes, my heart thumping wildly because a news story I remember seeing long ago starts piecing together.
“Those poor kids. I can’t image what they’ve gone through the past several years without parental guidance.
” She follows my line of sight, shaking her head as we lock eyes on the gate.
“They are seen around town but mostly keep to themselves now.”
“Surly, the orchard is still running…”
Her high-pitched laugh pierces my ears. “Of course it is! This orchard is one of the many reasons Cedar Creek Cove does so well. The Lindenvales are millionaires. Their apples are seen in every market and grocery store from here to the East Coast.”
My lips twist to the side in thought. Rossco pulls at the leash and licks up her pant leg, tired of remaining obedient and still in a stranger’s presence. I completely forgot he was here. Weirdly enough, seeing this place and interaction has made my brain hazy.
She reaches down, scratching him behind the ears, and he wags his tail hectically in appreciation.
“But they must have workers—packagers…people to run the machinery. Right?”
She straightens. “Sure do, but the packaging headquarters is off the property. As far as I know, there is a machinery barn for the workers somewhere on the 5,120-acre property. Besides them and the workers coming in and out, that gate always remains closed.”
Holy shit.
My jaw flops open, my accidental outburst making her jump. “Over 5,000 acres of apple trees?”
“No, no, dear. The house sits on a hill and is directly in the center of one mile of apple trees in each direction. The rest is forest all the way up to their fence line. It’s quite a remarkable plot of land, if you ask me.
I believe the backside drops down to the banks of the Columbia, but I’ve never seen it.
There is a reason why a lot of people covet the property. ”
“Well, who owns it now? You know—since the husband is in prison.”
Her chest rises and falls in annoyance, hinting that she is getting fed up with all my questions.
“Grandma,” a voice calls. “I have breakfast ready.”
Simultaneously, both of our heads shift in the direction of her house. Waiting on her front porch is a man. He must be in his mid-twenties because of his smooth skin, facial hair, and build.
“My grandson,” she informs. “We are in town visiting him for the week. I should go.”
She begins to walk away from me, but I shout, “Wait!” Her body goes rigid in anticipation. I swallow. “Who owns it now?”
Images of last night flicker through my mind. My neighborhood is only a few miles away, but this town is small. I’d like to know who I’m sharing it with.
Or, more accurately, what monsters I’m sharing it with.
She glances at me over her shoulder, her eyes flashing with a fusion of warning and amusement. “Welcome to Cedar Creek Cove.”