Page 7 of Marked

Aren’t you?I wanted to ask, but I followed him anyway, fighting both the weirdness of my returning memories and the new tension of knowing exactly who was leading me into my childhood home.

My feet knew where to step, avoiding roots and dips in the ground that I shouldn’t have known existed. Like muscle memory from a life I couldn’t quite remember. Meanwhile, Caleb moved with the easy confidence of someone who’d walked this path countless times.Because he had.

“Watch your step,” he warned, just as I automatically sidestepped a broken paving stone.

“Thanks,” I said, trying to ignore how my heart was hammering in my chest. “You know, it’s weird. I used to live here, apparently. Not that I remember much. My childhoodmemories are about as reliable as my car right now.” I paused, studying his profile in the darkness. “But you probably knew that already, didn’t you? Since your family’s beenmaintainingthe place.”

Something flashed in Caleb’s eyes—too quick to catch—before he carefully looked away. “Must be strange,” he said, avoiding my question, “coming back to a place you can’t remember.”

“Strange doesn’t begin to cover it.” I rubbed at my scar absently. “It’s like… you know when you walk into a room and forget why you came in? It’s like that, but with an entire chunk of my life. I know I was here, but…” I gestured vaguely at the looming cottage. “It’s all just… blank.”

We reached the front door, and my hand automatically reached for the loose board to the right—the one we used to hide the spare key under. I froze mid-motion.How did I…?

“You okay?” Caleb asked, closer than I expected. His presence felt different now that I knew who he was. More significant somehow.

“Yeah, just…” I swallowed hard. “Having one of those moments where my body remembers something my brain doesn’t. Like phantom muscle memory or something.” I forced a laugh. “Next thing you know, I’ll be remembering where Mom hid all her emergency chocolate.”

Top shelf of the pantry, behind the fancy tea tin that no one ever used.

The thought came so clearly it made me dizzy. I wondered if Caleb knew about that too. How much did the Stones know about our life here?

“Here,” Caleb said, reaching past me to flip the porch light switch. Warm light spilled across the wraparound porch, chasing away some of the shadows but not my growingsuspicions. How many times had he done this exact same thing while “maintaining” the property?

I fumbled with the key, trying to ignore how familiar the door’s weathered wood felt under my fingers. The lock stuck slightly—it always does, you have to lift the handle while turning—and then clicked open.

“Home sweet potentially haunted home,” I muttered, stepping inside. The scent hit me immediately: old wood, dust, and something else. Something that made my chest tight. “Oh.”

“What is it?” Caleb asked, hovering in the doorway like he was waiting for an invitation. Which, given all the local rumors about his family, was either ironic or concerning.

“Nothing, just…” I inhaled again. “Lavender. Mom used to…” The memory slipped away before I could grab it, leaving only the ghost of purple flowers and summer sunshine. “Never mind.”

My hand found the light switch without looking—left of the door, hip height, ancient brass plate—and overhead lights flickered to life. “Huh. It works.” I shot him a look. “Thanks to your family’s maintenance, I’m guessing?”

“We take care of what’s ours,” he said, then seemed to catch himself. “What’s in our care, I mean.”

The room was both foreign and achingly familiar. “The furniture’s different,” I said, though I hadn’t known I was expecting anything else. “But the room is…”Still has the scratch marks on the doorframe where Mom measured my height. Still has the crooked floorboard by the stairs that always creaked.“You kept a lot of the original features.”

“Takes time,” Caleb said softly, “for old places to feel like home again.” Something in his tone made me wonder if he was talking about more than just the cottage.

I turned to him, studying his carefully neutral expression. “Is that small-town wisdom, personal experience, or Stone family secret?”

His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Want help bringing in your surviving groceries? Before the ramen makes its great escape?”

“Changing the subject? Smooth.” But I followed him back out anyway. “Lead the way, Mr. Stone.”

He winced slightly at the formal address. “Caleb is fine.”

“Sure it is,” I muttered under my breath, following him into the night. The cottage seemed to watch us go, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that both it and Caleb Stone knew far more about my past than I did.

Just what exactly did Mom get us mixed up in?

“That should be the last of it,” Caleb said, setting down what remained of my grocery haul on the kitchen counter with effortless grace. “At least your ramen stockpile survived the great radiator disaster.”

“Hey, don’t mock the ramen. It’s gotten me through worse than mysterious cottage situations.” I watched him move around my kitchen—mykitchen—with the ease of someone who knew exactly where the weak spots in the floorboards were. How often had he been in here, maintaining the place? What else did he know about this house? About us?

“Thanks again for… you know, everything. The rescue, the towing, the heavy lifting.” I paused, unable to help myself. “The years of mysterious property maintenance.”

He had the decency to look slightly uncomfortable. “About that—”

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