Page 35 of Wicked Dreams

“Sorry, baby. You don’t get a choice.”

I blink, at a loss before it registers that he’s replying to my earlier statement about wanting to end the game. Or at the very least, not play.

No choice in the matter?

Great.

Without further ado, Caleb climbs out of the car. I take a deep breath and mirror his movements, following him up the steps onto the covered porch. He unlocks the door and opens it, gesturing for me to go in front of him.

This place…

Memories sucker punch me. Chasing him around, eating dinner in the summer on this porch. There used to be outdoor furniture down a bit, cushioned rocking chairs and side tables that we would sit at, listening to his mom read us chapter books.

My mother kissing the top of my head as she set down plates beside us.

All that, and I’m not eveninyet.

My stomach twists. “I changed my mind.”

I back away, right into him.

“Oh no, you don’t.” He grips my arms and propels me forward, straight into the house. “You asked for this.”

“Caleb, stop.”

“Who said we could stop?”

I dig my heels in, but he doesn’t relent. It’s either walk or topple over, and I don’t think Caleb would mind either option. I finally take a step, then another, into the house that hosts too many memories to bear.

But the farther in we go, the more confused I get. Room after room, the furniture pieces are covered in white sheets and dust. The air is still and almost stale.

A chill rattles my bones, and I fight against the urge to rip myself free of Caleb’s hold and sprint out of the house.

No one has been here in a very, very long time.

“What happened?” I manage.

He squeezes my arms.

“Caleb.”

“I’m not sure a little lamb could be so direct.” He talks above my head to the empty house. We enter the kitchen, and he stops suddenly. Releases me to stumble ahead a few paces and stare at the huge expanse of counters and appliances.

This is where my mother worked. She was their private chef, after all. She’s the reason we ended up in Rose Hill, although the particular details of the job allude me. I was young, and it didn’t really matter to me at that age.

We didn’t eat with the Ashers—they weren’t running a charity, Mom often told Dad—but I was allowed in when Caleb was home, or when she was preparing meals for their family. I sat at the kitchen bar many times, doing my homework while she worked.

Everything has changed.

My eyes burn, and I blink rapidly to try and keep tears from forming.

“I don’t want to be here anymore.” I turn back to him when I have a handle on my emotions.

He regards me, and nothing in his expression is nice or understanding.

I move to slip past him, and he catches me around the waist. I grip his wrist, but my fight is half-hearted. This place, and the horror of it being so abandoned, sucks at me.

He drags me toward the counter and lifts me onto it. He parts my legs and steps in close, effectively trapping me there.

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