Page 3 of The Parent Pick-Up
I step inside, dripping and exhausted. The air smells like dust and mold, and the room echoes with emptiness. The furniture is draped in white cloths, like lumpy ghosts, and an eerie feeling slides down my spine.
I try the lights, but they don’t come on. Great. I add calling the electric company to my to-do list.
Then, I see the piano.
It calls to me despite the chaos. I walk over, nearly stumbling over the leg of an end table.
When I reach it, I feel instantly calm. My fingers brush the keys. I press one, and it rings out, the sound pure and aching.
My past flashes before my eyes. Being on stage in front of a cheering audience, pounding on the keys with pure passion. There’s nothing that can quite compare.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
A blaring alarm pierces the air. It’s so loud, we both cover our ears.
A mechanical voice shouts from somewhere near the door:
“SBI Security activated. Please identify yourself immediately.”
Olivia freezes. “Are we getting arrested?”
I grab her hand and pull her close. “Not if I can help it.”
Not exactly the fresh start I had in mind.
Chapter Two
Owen
Blueand red lights flash in the rearview mirror, and for a split second, I think I’m getting pulled over.
I ease off the gas and check my speed. I’m going twenty-nine in a thirty. Practically saintly.
But the cruiser barrels past, tires slicing through puddles on the winding bluff road.
“What do you think happened?” Hannah asks from the back seat, eyes wide with excitement. “Is there a car chase? A drug bust? Oh! Maybe someone escaped prison—like that episode ofUndercover: Surburbia!”
I give her a look in the rearview mirror. “You’ve been watching too much crime TV.”
“But it’s educational.”
“That’s highly debatable.”
My stomach knots as the cruiser swings into the drive next door.
The old Reynolds place.
Which, last I heard, had finally sold after years of the family bickering over who would inherit.
The bungalow had once been charming, but now it was in serious disrepair. Whoever had bought it better be good with a hammer and paintbrush.
“Stay buckled,” I tell my daughter as she scoots toward the window to get a better look.
The sight of flashing lights at the place next door makes my gut twist. Break-ins aren’t supposed to happen in sleepy little Starlight Bay. That’s why I moved back to my hometown after Emily and I unraveled.
I’d needed the quiet streets, even if they came with nosy neighbors.
With one last glance at the old Reynolds’ place, I turn onto the cobblestone drive that leads to my house.
