The Cursed Series, Parts 3 & 4 (Cursed #3-4) - Rebecca Donovan Page 0,68

your words were true, then I broke my own heart. And shattered yours.

It hasn’t even been two months since I last rode down this street, the street I spent my entire life on. But it’s already foreign, like I’m returning to a different world after being away for years. The usual chaos that passed by me like white noise now rakes against my nerves, like it’s blaring through loudspeakers. The people walking along the sidewalks or hanging out on their dilapidated porches appear even more weary and defeated. Everything is broken and cracked, as it always has been. But now, I notice.

I hated being sent off to Blackwood, more because it was forced upon me than for any other reason. But now, I wish to be back there, surrounded by the trees. I appreciate it more than I ever thought I could. It’s the opportunity to escape all of this—a cyclical life without possibilities. I never wanted to be another of its tragic endings, but I also had no idea how to escape it.

Now … I have a chance for more—whatever that ends up being. I do know I won’t find it here.

“Have you eaten?” Joey asks when the Jeep bounces along the pocked dirt driveway.

“No,” I say, recognizing for the first time that I’m hungry.

“I can pick up some breakfast sandwiches while you get what you need. I should be back before Parker arrives. Don’t talk to him without me though. I want to hear what he has to say for himself.”

“Sure. Do you know where to go?” I ask, a little concerned that he’ll end up in a worse neighborhood.

“Yeah. Lincoln used to take me to this place not far from here,” he says as I unbuckle my seat belt. “I won’t be long.”

“Okay.” I climb out of the Jeep.

Joey pulls out as I pause on the front steps. My attention is drawn to the darkened windows of the first floor. No one’s moved in since Morgan’s mother moved out, right after he was killed. I didn’t know that at the time though. The Wolfe family owns the house. According to my mother, there’s always been some family member living downstairs since she moved in as a girl. I’ve never wondered why it’s remained vacant—until now.

When I reach my door at the top of the stairs, I press my forehead against the splintered crack running down its center. I didn’t think this through, apparently. First, I left the hospital room without a ride or bus fare. Now, I don’t have the key to get inside. But I do have … I pull out my Blackwood student ID. Angling it, I carefully ease it into the space between the frame and the dead bolt, twisting the doorknob open when I feel it give. Some skills are hard to forget.

The apartment is the same. A blanket is bundled up at the end of the couch, and several pairs of shoes create a trail from the front door to my mother’s bedroom. I follow the shoes to her room and am struck by the floral, fragrant incense infused with the air. I think the room will forever smell like this.

I search the nightstand for the medicine, but it’s not there. I find an empty bottle in the drawer from an old prescription but not the new one. I scan the room, trying to think where it could be, wondering if maybe she had it with her last night. Something I didn’t take into consideration, like everything else, when I left the hospital.

I text Nick, asking if he could check her things because I haven’t come across it yet.

Before he responds, I notice the wooden box that she always keeps locked under her bed. It’s open with its contents strewn across the dresser. I’ve never seen the box open before, although I tried prying the lock many times when I was younger. Whoever made it knew what they were doing. The key is an old skeleton key that my mother wears on the long gold chain around her neck and never takes off unless she’s sleeping or in the shower. Even then, she hides it. So to see its secrets haphazardly on display is more alarming than if the front door had been busted open.

The hairs on the back of my neck rise, like the air behind me moved.

I whirl around. But no one’s there.

I hesitate before approaching the box, feeling guilty for just thinking about looking in it. These are her