Page 180 of Tis the Season to be Bullied

“Yes?”

“It’s Indi.”

“Excuse me?”

I grind my teeth as I bend at the waist to put my mouth closer to the slotted microphone. “Indigo. Virgo. Your granddaughter?”

“I was expecting you several hours ago.”

I straighten, thinning my lips and hoping to all hell the voice on the other side of the line isn’t expecting a reply. It was a five-hour drive through states and counties I’ve never been. What the hell was she expecting?

Slamming my car door, I rev the engine and tear through the gates as soon as they’re just wide enough for me to pass.

As much as I would have liked to knock those majestic gates off-kilter, the last thing I need is Mom’s insurance company billing me for damage to their car.

It’s super hard to stay angry. I mean, I’mtrying, but this place is just so fucking beautiful. The air is fresh and piney. A chill promises a cool night.

Lakeview—which I still insist should have been named Swampview—was always so hot and sticky. Even in winter, the nights were hot. We had air conditioning at our lake house, of course, but I’ve always been the outdoors type. I hated being cooped up in my room. Mom used to?—

The road curves, and I almost don’t make the unexpected turn. My wheels go off the side of the paved road, digging intosoft grass and spitting it out behind me before I can steer back onto solid ground.

“Fuck.”

I slow down the car, and then stop. As I wait for my heartbeat to drop back to normal, I peer out my windows to take in the towering pines and the dark, distant peaks.

They’re prettier on this side. Not as sharp, not as jagged.

Hiding their true form.

It takes me a good few minutes to reach my new home.

I was expecting a mansion, but gran’s place is just a big house. Double story, with a loft or attic on top. Big wrap-around porch. Immaculate lawn. No fences either—the lawn ends several yards away from the house.

Right where the now-black forest begins.

There’s a woman standing by the front door. She looks like those old, rich ladies who wear pearls to breakfast and have a butler whose name is undoubtedly James. But contrasted against a house that needs a new coat of paint and some replacement roof tiles, Grandma Marigold looks out of place.

I stop my car in the drive, get out, and wave at her.

She’s wearing a dress-suit and standing tall and proper, with her lips pursed and red as a raspberry. She shifts her shoulders a bit, purse intensifying the closer I get.

It’s been years since I’ve seen her last. Close to two decades, in fact. That was right about the time Mom and I moved to Lakeview.

She’s not anything like I remember, except if what I have in my head are manufactured memories from a toddler.Mygran had rosy cheeks, a chubby body perfect for hugs, and a smile that could light up the room.

Just like my mother.

I force a smile. “Hey, Granny?—”

“You shall call me Marigold,” she cuts in. Her eyes rake over me, and don’t I feel every inch of a pile of brittle yellow autumn leaves right now?

“You look just like your mother.” It should have been a compliment—Mom was the epitome of grace and beauty—but in that tone of voice, it becomes an insult.

Eyes the color of flint dismiss me. “And you’re late, just like she always was.”

“Yeah, I do take after her,” I murmur to myself as Marigold pivots on her mules and struts inside.

I glance out at Lavish before following. I’m starting to wish I’d had a flat on the way and had to sleep in my car instead of washing up here.

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