Every curtain had been closed. She surveyed the foyer, the stairs directly in front of her, the rooms on either side, and the hall to the right of the stairs that led farther into the house.
Temperature—warm, almost perfect.
Notable smells—hints of a pine-scented cleaner and fresh laundry.
Appearance—identical to the pictures.
Her instructions said to go straight. She assumed that meant the hall next to the stairs.
No rugs on the aged hardwood floor. No paintings or pictures on the walls. One lone table rested in the middle of the hallway with a flowered vase on top. The same exact purple flowers dotted along the light brown and cream wallpaper.
“At least it’s not yellow,” she mumbled absently.
After passing the length of the stairs, and the intriguing door in the wall underneath it, the hall suddenly split into two. On her left, a short perpendicular offshoot led to a dead-end window with a door on each side.
Her eye twitched in defiance. She wanted to go that way. Sheneededto go there.
Xander could’ve lied about the cameras not working in the house as a test to see how well she followed directions. They absolutely had some method of keeping tabs on her—she didn’t believe for a second they didn’t. Alternatively, her forced first night imprisonment could’ve been to ensure the mechanisms designed to make the house moan, the doors slam, and the vents whisper her name in the night stayed a secret.
Her palms began to sweat. Temptation was a real bitch sometimes.
She also had to at least consider Xander’s rules might belong to Hennessee itself. Wandering might be unsafe. Maverick said he’d explain more in the morning, but in the next breath claimed nothing happened on the first night. The implication being she’d be protected only if she did as instructed.
If one wanted to rob a bank, the inside man couldn’t immediately begin casing the safe and interrogating the manager on their first day of work. They mastered their jobwhilekeeping their eyes and ears on everyone else’s. Their patience would pay off eventually, organically through trust.
Logic won that afternoon. She’d follow their damn rules for as long as her patience would allow.
Half against her will, she marched forward into the kitchen. A large brown picnic basket with a red gingham trim sat on the center island. The room was decently sized, filled with colorful retro-style appliances, a small round dining table for four, gorgeous windows, and a Dutch door to the backyard.
Her jaw dropped. A large white gazebo partially blocked the view of what had to be an orchard—an actual, honest-to-God orchard thriving with flowering bushes and gloriously colorful fruit trees. She grabbed the counter to stop herself from sprinting outside. That wasn’t in the pictures! Even from where she stood its allure curled around her sweet as smoke, nearly overwhelming, as if it were calling to her, inviting her to walk along its paths, pick its fruit, take naps in its shade—
“Go upstairs. Go upstairs. Go upstairs.” She continued chanting under her breath as she picked up the picnic basket. Eyes narrowed into slits, she flew like a bat out of hell straight to the foyer.
Her abysmal self-control wouldn’t last much longer! She didn’t want to see anything else! It took two painful trips to get all her stuff upstairs. Curiosity pawed at her like a mischievous cat, begging her to break the rules the entire time, but she made it.
Unlike the orchard, the bedroom was the very same she’d seen in the pictures, all dark wooden furniture with rich plum-colored bedding and curtains. She put her clothes away in the walk-in closet and decorated the room with a stack of books on the nightstand, comforting pictures and a jewelry case on the dresser, and a hot pink stuffed lion and her laptop on the bed.
Now this was the part where Lucky was supposed to callsomeone to let them know she’d arrived safely and gush over the beautiful house.
Except she had no one. No point in scrolling through her contacts pretending she did.
Someone somewhere would care if she died. Probably her brother. He’d do the right thing and claim her remains. Until then he, and the rest of them, cared very little about her day-to-day life. Thinking of her family hurt like a recurring muscle twinge, easy enough to massage away. She’d stopped being sad about it a long time ago.
Having friends required dedicating time to cultivating a social life. Her messages used to be filled with all kinds of check-ins and invites. She’d decline—choosing to spend her time researching instead, going on expeditions, conducting interviews, writing papers, and publishing anonymous blog posts with her findings. She made time for her dreams by sacrificing everything, and everyone, else.
And now she was in Hennessee House. Right where she wanted to be with no room for regret.
The attached bathroom was wonderfully equal in size with a clawfoot tub and a separate shower. Drawing perfect baths was as delicate a science as her supernatural research. She’d been forced to master it after years of nannying. She was a hands-on—playtime, cartwheel competitions, trampoline, hide-and-seek—active kind of nanny. Dollar store bubble bath, lavender baby oil, and a sprinkle of Epsom salt hadn’t failed her aching body yet. Carefully, she lowered herself into the hot water, groaning with pleasure as she went. Her feet barely brushed the drain at the head of the tub, and she reclined her head on the rim.
“I could get used to this,” she said to absolutely no one.
Lucky had never lived anywhere with a tub big enough to fit her entire body with room to spare. She always had to bend her knees, or it was so shallow the water barely passed her waist. She’d punch a ghost, unprovoked, dead in the face for this tub alone.
Perhaps that was the thought that caused the bedroom door to slowly drift open wider.
She pretended to not notice, humming as she casually reached into her toiletries bag to get her nail brush and spare switchblade. Under the water, she dropped one and flipped the other open. She might die, but she was sure as shit taking her attacker with her.
A merciless, relaxed calm flooded her taut muscles with purpose. She cleared her mind of everything except her self-defense training. Xander promised there’d be no people running around in sheets or special effects makeup to scare her. She’d warned him she knew how to fight if there were. Learning how had become a necessity after a group expedition in a condemned basement laboratory went sideways. Her self-defense instructor taught her “you don’t have to get ready if you stay ready.” A lesson she took to heart.
