parent who committed murder. I’m guilty by association. Now imagine what that kind of attention could do to an entire town, its reputation, its property values. House of Horrors put Bartleby, Vermont, on the map for all the wrong reasons.
“And what about you?” I ask Dane. “What’s your take on my father’s book?”
“Don’t have one. I never read it.”
“So you’re the one,” I say. “Nice to finally meet you.”
Dane grins again. This time it’s genuine, which makes it so much nicer than his earlier effort. It shows off a dimple on his right cheek, just above the edge of his stubble.
“Not a fan, I take it,” he says.
“Let’s just say I have a low tolerance for bullshit. Especially when I’m one of the main characters.”
Dane leans against the patch of stone wall next to the gate, his arms crossed and his head tilted in the direction of Baneberry Hall. “Then I guess you’re not scared of staying all alone in that big house up there.”
“You’ve been inside more than I have,” I say. “Should I be?”
“Only if you’re afraid of dust bunnies,” Dane says. “You said you plan on fixing the place up. You have any experience with that?”
The irritated prickle returns, itching the back of my neck. “Yeah. A bit.”
“That’s a pretty big job.”
There’s more to the sentence, the unspoken part left dangling like an autumn leaf. I know what it is, though. Something vaguely sexist and patronizing. I get it all the time. Constant questions that would never be posed to a man. Am I skilled enough? Strong enough? Capable enough?
The rest of Dane’s sentence, when it finally drops, turns out to be only slightly more egalitarian.
“For just one person, I mean,” he says.
“I can handle it.”
Dane scratches his chin. “There’s lots to do inside. Especially if you really intend to trick it out for resale.”
That’s when I realize he isn’t completely being a sexist jerk. He’s also, in a roundabout way, asking for a job.
“You have experience in home renovation?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Dane says. “A bit.”
Hearing my own answer thrown back at me is more amusing than annoying. Clearly, Dane Hibbets and I have underestimated each other.
“It’s my main gig,” he says. “General contracting. Home repair. Things like that. But business lately hasn’t exactly been booming.”
I take a moment to size him up, wondering if hiring Dane will be more trouble than it’s worth. But Allie was right—despite my knowledge and skill, I will need some help. Dane’s been inside Baneberry Hall. He knows the place better than I do. And if my father thought him good enough to keep paying him, then it might be wise to do the same.
“You’re hired,” I say. “I’ll pay you a fair wage for working on the house. When I sell it, you can claim the lion’s share of the work. Might help get you some new clients. Deal?”
“Deal,” Dane says.
We shake on it.
“Good. We start tomorrow. Eight a.m.”
Dane gives me a clipped salute. “Sure thing, boss.”
* * *
—
The drive from the gate to the house itself is a series of expectations either met or subverted. I had assumed the spiral ascent would feel like climbing the lift hill of a roller coaster—all mounting dread and stabs of regret. Instead, it’s just a calm drive through the woods. Uneventful. Peaceful, even, with twilight adding a hazy softness to the surrounding forest.
The only thing that gives me pause is an abundance of spiky-leafed plants along the side of the road. Sprouting from them are tight clusters of red as bright as stage blood in the glare of the truck’s headlights.
Baneberries.
They’re everywhere.
Spreading deep into the woods. Swarming around tree trunks. Running all the way up the hillside. The only place they’re not growing is at the top of the hill, almost as if they’re intimidated by the presence of Baneberry Hall.
Again, I had steeled myself for the moment it rose into view. Since I have no actual memories of it, I expected a heart-in-throat fear of a house I’d known only through my father’s writing. The pictures in the Book make Baneberry Hall look like something out of a Hammer horror film. All dark windows and storm clouds scudding past the peaked roof.
But at first glance, Baneberry Hall doesn’t resemble a place one should fear. It’s a just a big house in need of some work. Even in the thickening twilight, it’s clear the exterior has been neglected. Strips of paint hang off the windowsills, and moss stipples the roof. One