Page 30 of The Wrong Heart

My brows knit together as I shake my head, pulling my gaze from the painted sky, and it’s then that familiar tires roll into my driveway, gravel and stones crunching beneath the wheels.

Bree parks diagonally, jumping out of the SUV in her scrubs and wild hair, her door hanging open as she jogs over to me. “I’m glad I caught you,” she beams, her voice an octave higher than usual as it penetrates the music blasting from her Bluetooth. Kelly Perry or something. “Off to the Jameson’s? The third floor reno, right?”

“Yeah.” I sniff, tossing my keys into the air. “That for me?”

Bree holds up a plastic grocery bag, flashing me her teeth. “Yup. Lemon poppyseed muffins, your favorite. Plus, dental sticks for Walden because his breath is bordering on toxic, and a new tool belt I got on sale. Yours is looking rough.”

I glance down at my belt, thinking it looks just fine. “I like this belt.”

“So did I. Twelve years ago.” Bree steps forward, handing me the bag. She wavers when she catches me momentarily spaced out, my gaze pointed over her shoulder, then she follows my line of sight. “Pretty sunrise today, huh?”

I blink away the colors. “Not really.”

“You’re such a Scrooge. You’d have the women lining up at your door if your face didn’t permanently look like you scheduled a root canal, colonoscopy, and vasectomy all on the same day.”

“You know I don’t like women.”

Bree scoffs at that. “I know you like to tell yourself that. Breaking news: I’m a woman, and you love the crap out of me.”

“You’re an alien,” I dismiss, folding my arms over my chest, the bag of goodies dangling from my grip. “Possibly a robot. Did you seriously come all the way out here at six A.M. to drop off stocking stuffers?”

“My shift starts in an hour. You’re basically on the way.”

“Bullshit. I’m eleven miles in the opposite direction.”

“Yeah, well, I guess I just love the crap out of you, too.”

A sigh filters out, and I wish I could return the sentiment, match the tenderness of her words and the humanity warming her brown eyes, but that’s not me. I’m not wired that way, and she knows that, so she just gives me a light punch to the shoulder and trudges backwards.

“Keep me updated on materials,” Bree says. “I can order more boxes of the walnut flooring on my lunch break.”

“Yeah, okay,” I shoot back. Before she disappears into her car, I call out, “Hey, can you text me another copy of my jobs lined up for next week? I need to squeeze in a bathroom remodel.”

“Talking directly to the customers? Shit, little brother. There’s hope for you yet,” she grins, then adds, “But don’t overdo it—the last thing we need is another hospital stay. You’re busier than usual this year.”

“Tell me about it. I’ve been pissing sawdust since March.”

Bree’s laughter rings loud over the music as she hops into her SUV and backs out of the driveway, a happy little wave sending me off before she vanishes down the dirt road.

There’s hope for you yet.

A grating huff passes through my lips as I spare the rising sun a final glance and climb into my pick-up truck.

I’m on my knees pulling up carpeting, staples popping up from the subfloor, thinking this is the worst fucking part of the job, when my phone vibrates in my rear pocket.

Leaning back on my haunches, I swipe the back of my wrist over my sweat-lined brow because it’s hot as shit up here on the third floor, then reach behind me to fetch my phone.

A familiar name stares back at me.

Magnolia:I’m not sure where you live, but I’ll assume you’re relatively local to me given our circumstances. If that’s the case, I have to know… did you see the sunrise this morning?

I purse my lips together, rereading the message, then I slip my phone away and smooth the dark tufts of hair back from my forehead. Adjusting my tool belt, I shuffle out of the room to find a bathroom. Activity buzzes two floors below me, some prim housewife making plans for a lavish tea party or something. Pretentious bullshit.

Eyes casing my surroundings, I see what looks to be a washroom down the hallway to the left, so I head towards it. But when I peek through the crack in the entryway, I’m startled to find a little boy sitting at the foot of his bed, knees drawn up, face buried between them.

He’s rocking back and forth, muttering something into the valley of his kneecaps.

The image sucker-punches me. I’m thrown back in time, locked in that dark closet, huddled up and petrified in the exact same position.

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