Page 25 of Somewhere Without You
I tilted my head.“Did you nothearme? Gran’s dead. She’s gone.”
“Yes, but her house isn’t,”Katherines eyes gleamed with manic excitement.“She left it to both of us. It’s perfect.”
Perfect.Perfect for her,maybe.Butfor me? I thought of the old farmhouse on the outskirts of Windhaven, tucked away in the Appalachian hills. The oneI’dbeen dragged to after Mom’s death. The oneI’dswornI’dleave and never return to.
“Kat, I can’t. . .”I murmured, sinking further into the bed.
“Why not?” she asked, eyes narrowed.
I sighed, trying to find the right words, buttherewasn’tagoodenough reason. At least not one Icouldshare with her. Crawling backtherefeltlike admitting defeat. Itwasn’tjustthe stifling small-town atmosphere, or the way people avoided us because Granhadalways been different.Therewereother things. ThingsI’dburiedso deep I thought theyweregoneforgood. Things I wanted to run from and neverlookback. Going home would mean reopening wounds Ihadspentyears stitching shut.
“I don’t want to be alone,”I said, the words a half-truth.
Katherine’s small hands wrapped around mine, her grip tight as she searched my face.“Aslong as we have each other,you’ll never be alone.”
Twelve
Before
Rowsofyellowingmagnoliatrees stood like silent sentinels along the long, dirt driveway. Their branches hung heavy with petals drifting to the ground, shedding themselves for fall.
Ahead, the farmhouse rose up, small and weathered against the towering mountains behind it. Gran’s Crown Vic rumbled to a stop near an old red barn, a few paces from the house. The eight-hour drive from Michigan to West Virginiahadbeenmostlyquiet, save for the occasional hum of the radio. Katherinehadspentmost of the journey staring out the window, while I hummed along to whatever came on the radio.
WhenGranfinallykilled the engine, Iwasquick to jump out, flinging the back door open with a loud creak. Rust peeled off in flakes as I stretched my legs.
“Aren’t you coming?”I called to Katherine, still buckled in her seat.
She nodded slowly. “You go ahead, I’ll be rightthere.”
I shrugged. Gran stood waiting on the porch, as I bounded toward her.
“Careful where you step,”she pointed to a small circle of painted stones near the porch.“Your papa took his last breath rightthere. Bad luck to stand on it.”
My eyes widened as I sidestepped the memorial.
AsGran fumbled with the keys to unlock the door, I turned to take in the view of the backyard. A small, tidy garden satneatlybehind the house, framed by a white picket fence. Beyond it, endless fields of tall grass danced in the breeze, leading up to the mountains, their trees already dressed in the deep reds and golds of autumn. Itwasunlike anything Ihadever seen—like something straight out of a rich oil painting.
“You comin’?”Gran’s voice pulled me back.“Oryou gonna stand out here all day, waitin’ to catch your death?”
I glanced back at the car.“What about Kat?”
Gran shot a quicklookat Katherine and shrugged.“She’ll come when she’s ready.”
The inside of Gran’s houselookednothing like the outside.Forone, itwascrowded. Shelves sagged under the weight of several books and various colored rocks lined the windowsills.
A massive stone fireplace dominated the living room, its hearth filled with fresh ashes. The faint scent of smoke lingered in the air, evidencethatithadbeen usedrecently.
I sank into the worn floral sofa as my eyes scanned the cluttered coffee table. A broken remote. A burned out candle. Several mismatched crocheted coasters, alongside a stack of old magazines.
I fidgeted, crossing and uncrossing my legs,clearlyuncomfortable in my new home. Gran joined me a few minutes later, settling into a matching armchair opposite me. She set the two large mugs down, each on its own coaster. I picked one up, eyeing the dark, murky liquid inside.
“Itsmellsweird in here,”I blurted out, setting the mug down without taking a sip.
Gran glanced at a smoldering stick on a shelf across the room, a thin wisp of smoke trailing from the end.“Pachouli,”she murmured,“and a touch of sage. Keeps the spirits away.”
“Spirits?”A chill ran down my spine.“Like. . . ghosts?”
Gran took a slow sip from her mug,thenset it down with a soft thud.“The mountains are alive with things,”she said, her voice lowering.“Some natural, others. . . not so much. Best to be prepared.”She winked at me.
