Chapter Sixty-Five Raine
Chapter Sixty-Five
Raine
Molly and I searched everywhere—closets, under her bed and mine, and behind all the long heavy drapes. The only room we avoided was my mother’s. I wanted to be alone when I entered that room for the first time.
As the shadows stretched outside, I reminded myself: Ghosts weren’t real. This was a child’s way of handling her grief.
Thankfully, no trespassers—dead or living.
I tucked her into bed and read the story Madeline. She listened. Yawned. Within minutes, her breathing deepened, and her small body finally relaxed. She tumbled into a deep sleep.
Carefully, I eased off the mattress and tiptoed down the stairs. In the kitchen, I made a cup of tea. Darkness spilled across the back lawn, deepening the restless shadows.
I wanted to save this place. But I sometimes wondered if it even wanted saving. Hale House was a sleeping monster—slumbering now but ready to bite if disturbed.
I scrolled on my phone until I saw the contractor’s email. He’d outlined three renovation options: the bronze, silver, and gold plans he’d mentioned. The names made me think of the good, the bad, and the super ugly.
Looking before bedtime was a recipe for a sleepless night. Better wait until the morning. Still, I had to look. Either way, Hale House promised nothing but expensive surprises.
I opened the silver plan first. Middle of the road. Capable of making the house livable. Not crazy luxurious. The number made me catch my breath. Mid-six figures would make this place acceptable. If not for Molly, I would’ve shut the email and poured a tall glass of wine—given up and walked away.
But this land, this house, would help Molly—and me—maintain our roots in the area. Two hundred years of Hales, and it was down to the two of us.
The bronze was lower six figures, which almost seemed reasonable. The gold had too many numbers for me to process.
To pay for it all, I’d need to sell land.
My attorney had warned me to wait until the divorce was final, so Ken couldn’t touch the proceeds.
The trust had kept Hale House and the lands separate, untouchable.
But Ken had dragged things out, and now—unbelievably—he was talking about reconciliation.
And one signature from me and it was all mine . . . and maybe his.
A year ago, I’d have been glad to save our marriage. To live on the land together. Now, I wanted the divorce finished and the land out of his reach.
The hallway clock ticked. At midnight it chimed twelve times. The sounds echoed in the house. October 24. My birthday—the big thirty-five—was already a distant memory.
I hadn’t celebrated my birthday in years. The last real one was my fourteenth. My dad was still alive. I was home from boarding school. Edith had baked a cake, and she, Maria, Gabe, Mom, Dad, and I had gathered around the dining room table. They’d sung “Happy Birthday.” Simple but very special.
The following year, Dad was dead, and Mom’s fragile health was failing. No more cake or silly songs. At fifteen, I was washing down pills with a bottle of bourbon and pressing a blade to my skin.
And now I was an heir to woods and ruin.
As I cradled the teacup in my hand, I thought about Judson. If there was anyone I would have wanted to celebrate my birthday with other than Molly, it was him. Quiet, steady, so sure of himself. Of all of us, he’d aged the best.
Thirty-five. All grown up. Older beyond my years.
The ceiling creaked, and I thought Molly must be out of bed. I climbed the stairs, slipping my phone in my back pocket. At the top landing, the light was dim. The attic floorboards moaned.
I went toward Molly’s room. More creaks above. The door was ajar. Had I left it that way? I wasn’t sure.
I pushed open the door. Her bed was a tumble of sheets, the pillow that had been mine, empty. My chest tightened.
Panicking a little, I hesitated, then gripped the coverlet, ready to pull it back. And then I saw the tuft of dark hair peeking out from under the covers. I stilled and watched the rise and fall of her chest.
One. Two. Three.
Carefully I backed out of the room and closed the door. I glanced toward the room at the end of the hallway. It had been Mom’s for as long as I’d been alive.
I’d had the exterior latch removed and the screw divots filled with wood putty, but the faint outline remained.
“Let me out! Let me out!”
Mom’s screams cut the silence.
I cleared my throat.
I’d had this room cleaned. Closets and drawers were emptied, and we’d discarded anything that had been Mom’s. I’d wanted nothing.
Curious, I walked into the room. I traced the shadow of the old latch. It had been sturdy, unshakable. No one had ever confessed to leaving it open.
The brass knob caught before it turned. Hinges groaned. A stale scent clung to the air.
I flicked on the lights. The four-poster bed was stripped bare. Mom’s glasses, plastic water cups, and chocolate candies were gone. The nurse’s table stocked with pill bottles, IV supplies, and special protein drinks was clean.
The dresser, side table, and tufted chair by the window were covered in white sheets. If Molly wanted a ghost, she’d have found one in here.
I noticed the walk-in closet door: It was ajar. I made noise on purpose as I approached. My hand trembled when I pulled it open.
My knees nearly buckled.
Inside, a mattress was neatly made with a pink, fluffy pillow. A lamp glowed faintly on a crate. A small trunk sat at its foot.
My heart rammed my ribs.
Someone had been living in this closet. My mind leaped to Amy. She’d loved this house. And this was where she’d stayed.
I opened the trunk, half expecting bones. Instead: folded clothes. Toiletries in a plastic bag. A scrapbook.
I opened the book. And froze.
Photographs. Amy and me from high school. But also, recent ones of me—pulled from media on the city website. Others were candids taken of me in Alexandria—leaving the courthouse, exiting the gym, and unlocking my town house’s front door.
The most recent picture had been taken three and a half weeks ago. I knew the date because I’d just been released from the hospital. My arm was in a sling. Ken was at my side. I’d been on painkillers and hadn’t noticed anyone was watching.
There were hundreds of images spanning seventeen years.
How long had she been following me?
A stack of notes slid loose. They all began with the phrase I used to believe . . . And then lessons and insights. Cheaters don’t win . . . Good planning leads to success . . . Bad people are easy to spot.
The handwriting was uneven, hurried. I didn’t remember Amy’s handwriting, but it reminded me of Maria’s.
Could Maria have written them? And if she had, how did Amy get ahold of them?
I scanned the closet sleeping place. Amy had set up shop in Hale House. Not in a room where she could be found, but a closet where she could squirrel away.
I’d been uneasy ever since I’d arrived. On some level, I’d sensed Amy’s presence.
I took pictures of the notes and photos with my phone, documenting them. I tucked the notes in the scrapbook, closed it, and placed it all back in the trunk. I snapped more images of the room.
Photo evidence would prove this was real when I called Judson in the morning.
I backed out of the closet. A part of me wanted to take Molly away from this house. I was fooling myself to think a contractor could rip out memories along with the old walls.
But she was finally sleeping. And I was exhausted. Driving on the roads now wouldn’t be safe.
I glanced down the stairwell and realized I’d left all the lights on. Fine. Let them burn all night.
Back in Molly’s room, I lay on my side of the bed and very slowly eased my feet under the covers. I nestled close to Molly and rolled toward the door, cell phone in hand, when it dinged.
A text from an unknown number. Belated Happy Birthday, Raine.