Page 4 of His to Haunt

But there’s the rub. This inheritance is the only reason I’ve been able to accept a well-paying internship at Hodge’s Psychology and Associates—a perfect post-college job while I work on my Master’s degree online. I could never have afforded to live and work even within a two-hour radius of downtown San Francisco otherwise. Not possible when even a tiny shoebox rents at three thousand dollars per month.

Even though this manor is not technically a home, that is precisely what I will use it for—a landing spot for my fledgling career. In the meantime, I’m sharing it with a stranger.

I can only hope that he’s not a total alpha-hole. But he’s a groundskeeper, so I doubt it. He’s probably a calm, simple, down-to-earth man of bee-keeping age. Good at fixing things.

Stacy emerges from the white car, which answers the question about the Camaro. The groundskeeper probably attends car shows in his spare time. Old guys are into that.

“Leena,” sings Stacy, heels clicking on concrete as she reaches me. She almost sounds as relieved to see me as I am her.

She has perfectly pressed short dark hair, which she tosses back, smiling. She is dressed like a realtor, in pink heels and a loud, pink-and-black camisole top with jeggings. She’s big-city skinny, with solid-looking shoulders and veins running down her arms and hands like she spends hours daily at the gym. Cycling class. Cross-fit. Or maybe she’s a runner. I bet she lives in San Francisco proper. She must make good money.

Maybe after a year of living here, I will be just as skinny. Then again, maybe not so much.

Athletic but soft around the edges, I’m shaped like a normal girl who grew up swimming and dancing before going to college, which was all books and parties. The kind of girl who generallywatches what she eats and loves to hit a park trail for a walk or jog but isn’t obsessed over keeping a strict routine.

Stacy gives me a quick once over, and I get the feeling I don’t quite live up to her expectations. I’m dressed in baggy cut-offs, a dark blue cotton tank, and soccer sandals. I started the day in a tidy, long brown ponytail, but after hours of driving, who knows? Comfort was my only aim for today.

“It’s so nice to meet you in person,” she smiles, shaking my hand.

“Yeah, nice to meet you, too,” I smile back before head-turning at Mom, rolling her black suitcase, which matches her black blouse.

She’s always wearing black, and I’m always wearing blue. They say people dress for their moods. Go figure.

The sky cracks, triggering our collective gaping at the flashing sky—late summer in California can be stormy, and autumn often arrives unfashionably early with a bang.

“Well,” exclaims Stacy, hands clasping at her chest. “My apologies, ladies, but this will have to be a quick tour. I’m on the other side of the bay and would rather avoid driving in the rain at night. There wasn’t supposed to be a storm. But…you know how that goes.”

“I understand,” I nod. “Sorry, we couldn’t get here earlier.”

“Traffic?” she nods rhetorically.

“Yeah.” Traffic was a bitch, a steadily thickening metallic flurry before finally fading to the backwoods of Moonvine.

“Shall we?” She puts her hand out, letting me and Mom lead the way. I’m sure that’s the polite thing to do, but surely, she knows the place better than me.

Turning, I climb the big stone steps, which lead to a large patio framed by columns and decorative walls encasing a fully circular arch around the landing. I pass through the old-world portal, ferns dangling over black wicker furniture. One plant hasa price tag still hanging from it. Beside the door is a table with a large package. Expecting to see Rachel’s name on the label, my stomach jumps. But the package is addressed to Zand Byron.

“He must have added those ferns recently,” muses Stacy from behind as I fumble with the screen door. “I do hope you and your cousin will get along well. He’s a fabulous artist. I have a piece by him in my living room.”

Brows furrowing, I pause. “Oh, you must mean Rachel’s cousin, not mine. I’ve…never met him,” I add, my nostrils flaring as I open the front door to a big waft of musty, old-home air, the burned-out smell of lingering sandalwood incense and candles, not entirely masking a mildew odor.

Inside the foyer, wood paneling and ornate trim wrap around to a dizzying height. Wood everywhere—the floors, the walls, the roses on the archways and trim, and the big banister. A grey carpet runs up the center of the winding staircase, where a faint light filters down from above.

A strip of dark grey and black floral wallpaper stretches along the upper half of the paneling along the stairway.

I sniff my nose. I’m wondering how long it will take to freshen the air and if my clothes and hair will start smelling musty in the meantime.

Stacy shuts and locks the door, which initially hits me as odd. Back in our little neck of rural California, we didn’t lock the doors unless we were gone for the day or when we went to bed at night.

But we weren’t near a major city, and our old house wasn’t formerly a crime scene. For all I know, Rachel’s blood may still be soaked into the driveway outside, just where her car was parked before being hauled off for investigation.

My stomach turns queasy at the thought of finding the remaining blood evidence.

“The house has fabulous bones,” cuts Stacie’s voice. She isn’t letting on if she is disturbed by my sister’s disappearance.

She smiles. “I’ll text you some local home repair contacts. The roof is in a questionable state. Hasn’t been replaced in twenty years. Let me show you something down the hall.”

We follow her to a doorway just off the kitchen. She creaks the door open and pulls on a big lever, revealing a shallow, empty space. She sticks her head in, craning her neck.

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