though, to the right buyer.” I could hear him considering it, his voice slow and thoughtful. He didn’t seem to be thinking about axe murderers or ghosts.
“Right, but . . . It needs a lot of work.”
He nodded. “If I live here for a bit and fix some things up, maybe you could move in second, and then, after a year we could sell.”
I couldn’t imagine what I’d be doing next month, but I knew that in a year I was not going to be living in this creepy old house alone just so we could sell it. If I was going to collect whatever we could get out of this place, it would have to be as quickly as possible. And there was no way I could live with Mom for another six months. I’d lose my mind while gaining thirty pounds in muffin fat. “I don’t think that will work. I’m not staying that long.”
“Oh, right, sure.” He sounded disappointed, his gaze moving to the dark edges of the yard. “You have to get back to . . .”
“New York. Work. My actual life.” Although not much of my actual life still existed. At least not the man, or the place to live. I wasn’t totally sure about my job.
“Right. Of course.”
We sat in silence for a long minute, each of us lost in thought. It was strangely quiet here, considering how near to the town center we really were. If the garden hadn’t been so lush or the vines so thick, I probably could have seen Mom’s cafe from where we sat—we were a straight shot down the hill to the square.
“Well, I guess we can go back and talk to Augustus, see what our other options are,” Michael said, standing.
I stood too, confused as a stab of disappointment winged through me.
“Daniel!” he called, taking a few steps back toward the gate.
No answer came.
“Daniel!” he called out again, an edge of something a little more urgent in his voice.
We were met by silence, thick and heavy, all around us.
“Shit,” Michael said, and without speaking, we went in opposite directions, searching the masses of greenery around us for his son.
Gnomes in the Garden
Michael
In the long list of crap I’d screwed up in my life, even I realized that losing my son on the grounds of a dangerously run-down and potentially haunted house was going to be up there. Shelly would have a field day with this one—she was usually the less responsible parent, and she loved any opportunity to point out one of my failings.
“Daniel!” I called his name as I circled the house, wading through a decrepit rose garden, past a cellar door (locked) and across a weedy patio out back, where I ran into Addison again. Her wide eyes and worried expression told me she hadn’t found my son on her half of the search either.
“Daniel!” I shouted again, a twinge of desperation edging my voice. “Where the hell could he have gone?” I asked.
Addison shook her head, and we both turned back to face the house. The kitchen door stood ajar, as if beckoning to us, and without speaking, we went back inside. Had we come out that way? Did we leave it open? I hoped Daniel was inside, though there was plenty in the run-down house to worry about.
The house was like a different world. The second we crossed the threshold, the atmosphere around me took on a dampened feeling, rich with the whispers of memory and decaying things, dust and layers of time. It felt wrong to disturb it all by yelling inside the house, but I was increasingly worried about my son.
“Dan!” I called out, moving back to the bottom of the big staircase.
“Upstairs!” His voice came back, sending my heart galloping with relief, and Addison and I exchanged wide-eyed expressions before heading back up the stairs, sending little clouds of dust swirling at our feet.
On the second floor, I could hear creaking from the ceiling over the master bedroom, and I realized exactly where he’d gone. Telling Daniel no, or we’ll look later, had never been especially effective. He was an impulsive, live-for-the-moment kind of kid, and he usually found ways to get what he wanted. He was in the attic. Anger threatened, but it was shadowed by the relief I felt to hear Dan’s voice, to know he was okay. We’d need to chat about disobeying directions.
“Upstairs,” I shrugged, opening the closet door and eyeing the narrow stairs skeptically. “You