Page 14 of Malice

Hudson

Ihate that being in my house feels uncomfortable, but since returning from the hospital, it’s like the energy has shifted. It’s not the peaceful place it was, with all the potential I envisioned when I moved in. I’m sure it’s the lingering trauma of finding out in the worst way that Chester found me.

I shudder just thinking of his name. Did I ask the detectives to allow me to look at his dead body at the morgue? I sure the fuck did. Luckily for me, he was still in storage, waiting for law enforcement to locate a family member.

I thought seeing him on a cold slab with lifeless eyes would make it click in my head that he was really gone, but the opposite happened. I swear I catch glimpses of him lingering in the shadows or as a brief reflection in my mirrors. Yesterday, I was positive I saw him at the grocery store, hovering near my favorite sourdough loaves, but I blinked and it was just an old lady.

I know it’s all in my head, but that doesn’t make it easier.

It doesn’t help that the house is constantly cold and drafty and I can’t figure out where it’s coming from. It’s seventy degrees outside, so why is my house chilly? I don’t remember it being like this before the incident.

It’s times like these I wish I had a traditional job where I had to leave and go to a place with other people instead of spending all my time stuck with the ghosts of the trauma I endured. Glancing down at my cooling coffee, I flip the card the hospital gave me for the grief and trauma counselor between my fingers. Maybe I should call.

The knock at my door startles me and I splash a bit of my coffee. It’s probably Melody checking on me or bringing me more food. She’s sort of adopted me and I can’t say I hate it.

There’s a second knock, this one more urgent, so I rise and hurry over to answer. I unlock the two deadbolts I installed, and when I swing the door open, I’m surprised to see a man standing there. A very handsome man. He’s about as tall as me, I think, close to but not quite reaching the six-foot mark, with a lean, fit build, a few visible tattoos dotted on his naturally tan skin, and a head of thick, wavy black hair. His eyes are dark brown, like a cloudless night sky, and something about them draws me in without my conscious consent. He’s wearing a simple black t-shirt and jeans.

He clears his throat. “Hudson Davis?”

I blink, snapping out of my daze. “Yeah. That’s me. Who are you?”

“Aster Charboneau.” He extends his hand, but when I don’t take it, he drops it, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Can we talk?”

“About what? I don’t know you.”

“You don’t, but I’m here to do…” He fumbles his words, taking a slight step back then glancing to his left as if he can see something I can’t. “Apologies. I’m here to investigate the damage you sustained. To the house.”

“Damage? I don’t have any damage. It’s all been repaired.”

“Are you sure? I was assigned your… case.”

“You work for the insurance company?”

“No. I work for the…” He pauses again, giving me a strained smile. “State. There was an incident here recently, yes?”

I nod as my mood darkens even more. “Yes. I didn’t know there was more follow-up.”

“Hopefully not much. If I could come in and check it out, I won’t be long.”

“Sure.” I start to move, but then step back as my defenses kick in. “Sorry. Do you have paperwork? Identification?”

Aster stares blankly at me for a moment. “Of course. Why don’t I have that with me? One second.”

I watch him walk back to the dark blue sedan in my driveway. His lips move like he’s talking to someone, but I don’t hear his voice as he ducks inside the car. After a minute, he stands, producing a folder. He walks back but there’s an uncomfortable smile on his face.

“My apologies, Mr. Davis. I’m new at my position, but I assure you, I’m capable of handling it.”

“Handling what?”

“The damage. Potential damage.”

He hands me the folder, and I flip it open to find what looks like a claim form. At the bottom it lists his name and position—Aster Charboneau, Junior Investigator. It looks official enough and there’s nothing off-putting about him except for a little awkwardness, so I step to the side.

“Come in.”

“Thank you.”

Aster passes me, smelling faintly of cinnamon. He glances around my foyer and down the hall.

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