Page 35 of The Best Laid Plans

I hid my grin as she whispered something I couldn’t understand.

Back at the carriage house, Charlotte tried to hand me a small bag after she unlocked the door.

I didn’t take it right away. “What’s that?”

She sighed. “Not an explosive device, I can tell you that.”

“Wouldn’t put it past you at this point.”

“It’s a key, Burke. Calm down.” She tossed the bag at my chest, and I caught it. “Went to the hardware store to make an extra in case you ever get back here and I’m gone.”

The sun was streaming through the large west windows when I followed her inside. I still felt just a bit like I didn’t know what to do with myself when I walked into the carriage house.

“Aren’t you always here?” I asked. I hardly ever saw her leave, unless she went to her aunt’s house down the road.

“Sure feels like it. But since I have no idea how often you plan to be here, I’m just trying to make you feel at home.”

I snorted.Unlikely.

I wasn’t sure I’d felt like that anywhere I’d ever lived.

She had her established routine. Keys went into a small ceramic bowl on a small console table next to the door that led into the kitchen. Then she’d kick her shoes off and toss her purse onto her bed.

My bedroom—the yellow room, as she’d called it—wasn’t as big as hers, but it worked for me. A twin-size bed was tucked into the corner just underneath a big window with ornate white trim. A solidly built dresser, something desperately in need of a new paint job, was set at an angle opposite the bed.

My feet hung off the end of the mattress but not enough to bother me. And because I knew she was waiting for me to complain about it, I’d never say a word.

Charlotte disappeared into the bathroom, and after I set my shoes in a neat line just inside my bedroom, my phone buzzed with a text from my sister.

Tansy:This one just went on the market. What do you think?

With a sigh, I clicked on the link she’d sent. It was ... fine. Three bedrooms. Two bathrooms. Ocean view.

I thought about my blank-walled house in Dallas, a cookie-cutter version of all the homes in my neighborhood. This one gave me those same vibes—probably one of two dozen identical homes surrounding it, and the house number was the only way you could tell it apart.

Me:Neighbors are too close. I think I want something with more privacy.

Tansy responded with a thumbs-up emoji. When I set my phone down, I kept thinking about what I’d seen in that falling-apart book. I didn’t dare voice out loud what I was thinking, at least not yet.

Charlotte was still in the bathroom when I walked out into the kitchen, glancing around at the piles of her stuff she had set against the wall behind the couch. The rolled-up construction plans for the main house were tucked in the corner next to the low table that held the TV. With a quick gander at the bathroom, I tugged them out from behind her bags of samples and quietly closed the door behind me when I left the carriage house.

I’d never been inside the Campbell House by myself, and something about the hushed quiet had goose bumps prickling along the tops of my arms.

I wished I had a record somewhere of what Chris had told me when we stood outside the house. How he felt about the house and why.

What memories he’d made there.

What future he wanted to create inside the walls of this place. But it hadn’t seemed important back then.

Wasn’t that always the way it was after you lost someone?

Everything they’d said and everything they’d done was permanently highlighted in your mind. But the worst part was that you couldn’t force those memories to the surface. Not the details, at least.

You couldn’t call them and ask what they’d said. Send a text to help your recall.

The memories were mine, and mine alone, now. And I fucking hated that too.

I stared at the entryway, the holes in the plaster, the damage to the floors, and for the first time during this entire thing, I wished I knew what it had looked like before.

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