Page 32 of The Sweetest Obsession

Just raccoons, just mice.

And if it’s not, well...

I may be short, but I can kick a dude in the kneecaps—or a little higher, if I really need to.

The years spent lifting orthopedic patients early in my career would turn any girl into a beast.

Only, there’s no sign of motion when I stop in front of the shed. But what’s that?

Light?

Yeah. Just little flickers of light through the windows.

Someone’s in there.

Well, crap.

Crap, crap, shit!

Moving carefully, I peer inside the little window next to the door.

I’m expecting—I don’t know.

A teenage punk. Some creeper, or maybe one of the Jacobins doing whatever it is the Jacobins do when they stalk around the hills at night hunting and making moonshine and God only knows what else.

I’m definitely not expecting a little girl.

She’s small—no more than ten—and she’s rearranged all the old junk in the shed to make a little playhouse.

One that’s probably been there for a long time, considering the books and toys tucked on a shelf, and the nest of blankets and pillows she’s made for herself in there.

The light splashes from her bright-pink phone screen. It’s one of those kiddie things parents give their little ones that can only use certain apps and contact preset numbers.

She’s crying.

The light from the phone’s screen reflects off the bright streaks on her cheeks and shines off her tousled brown curls and soft brown eyes.

I have no idea who she is.

But I can’t ignore a crying little girl, especially not one hiding on my family’s property. So I pull the door open slowly, careful not to spook her.

“Hello?”

Her head jerks up.

“M-Miss Ros?” she gasps—then flinches back, shrinking against the wall. “Oh. Y-you’re not Ros or Miss Angela...”

“No, sweetheart.” I exhale softly.

So she knows my sister. Probably why she felt so comfortable sneaking into the shed.

I slip inside and hunker down, making myself shorter and keeping my distance so she won’t feel cornered.

“I’m Ros’ big sister, Ophelia. I came home to take care of our mom.” I hold my hand out. “What’s your name, hon?”

“N-Nell,” she stammers softly, then bursts into a wail so abrupt it makes me flinch, loud and keening as she flings herself at me.

I catch her with a gasp, rocking back with my arms full of little girl.

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