Chapter Fifty-Six Raine
Chapter Fifty-Six
Raine
The second I opened my eyes, I knew I was alone.
Judson was gone.
The pillow beside me was still dented with the shallow impression of his head. The pillowcase was cold. My body—strangely—felt loose, unguarded.
I rarely slept this late. After yanking on the T-shirt from the floor and a pair of sweats, I checked Molly’s room. She was curled on her side, her small body turned away from the door, still sleeping.
I eased the door shut and headed to my bathroom. My shower was quick, brisk. As I toweled my hair dry, wind stirred outside.
At my bathroom window, I watched the morning mist drift across the edge of the woods. The trees swayed in a light breeze—gentle, yet oddly threatening. The movement made me uneasy, like the woods were restless.
When I was little, I used to believe Hale House was haunted. Edith had told me old houses just grumbled with age, like an old man. Maria, gentler, had told Molly fairies lived in the garden. Old houses always came with quirks, with stories.
But Hale House was not a place of good stories. Its history was written with misfortune and loss. And now Molly and I were fated to live out the next chapter.
My gaze lingered on the trees, the denser undergrowth. For an instant, I could’ve sworn I saw someone standing in the shadows. A faint outline, too distant to tell if it was male or female. My breath caught. I tried to find a face, to meet a pair of watching eyes.
The darkness was empty. No one was there.
The curtains slipped from my fingers. I reached for my phone—not for fashion and jewelry sites, but articles on grief, children, and single parenthood.
“Mommy!”
Molly’s scream cracked through the silence, echoing down the hallway. As I bolted, my toe caught the edge of the bed. Pain shot through my foot, hot and sharp. I limped forward, fighting to keep my balance.
In her room, Molly was tangled in dreams. She lay on her side, knees tucked tight, her covers kicked off.
I pulled the blanket over her and slid in beside her.
She shifted toward me, pressing into my chest, and I wrapped an arm around her small frame.
Slowly, her breathing steadied, her thumb slipping into her mouth.
She didn’t know it was me. I was a sad proxy for a mother dead less than seventy-two hours. Soon, we’d have to sort through so much grief.
“She’s highly intelligent.” Maria was speaking about Molly when she was about a year old. We’d met for wine at a vineyard halfway between Northern Virginia and Crozet. Maria had reached out to me, and I’d been delighted to reconnect.
“Good, right?” It was our second bottle of chardonnay, and we were both relaxed.
“She’s smarter than Gabe and me put together. Can’t get anything over on that kid.” And then on the tail of a laugh: “And I have tried.”
“Isn’t that good?” I asked.
“Not really. Sometimes I wish she were a little less perceptive. Then I wouldn’t feel so judged all the time.”
“Why do you feel judged? She’s a child. Your child.”
“I never live up to the standard.”
“What standard? Neither one of us had a major role model in that department.”
“Yeah, maybe. But I owe that kid the world. She deserves better. And I’ll do anything to give it to her.”
And now it was my turn. And I didn’t have a clue how I’d make this work.