expectant face, she shrugged and answered, “Old decisions coming back to haunt me, I guess.”
“I see.” The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Well, do you have a friend you can talk to?”
A lump of bread and lunchmeat lodged in Willow’s throat. How much of the truth did the lady really want to know? That after Ashton had been convicted of killing Daniel Turano and was sent to juvie, he hadn’t responded to any of her letters? That her one true friend had abandoned her and left her here to defend his innocence? That everyone at school either treated her like she was invisible or a freak of nature? Would she want to hear all that?
Willow rolled the sudden tightness out of her shoulders and attempted a light tone. “Not really.”
“I see. Well, you can talk to me if you like.”
Willow concentrated hard on her sandwich. When she finished, she folded the empty wrapper into a perfect square. She didn’t want to confess the evil weed that had sprouted in her heart as Mrs. Turano yelled in her face—that her life would’ve been much easier if Ashton had been the one to die that day at the falls. Then she would be the martyr of the story.
But even so, she couldn’t wish it were true, and she certainly couldn’t tell a complete stranger. “Thank you, but—”
“Oh, there you are.” Margaret stopped in front of her.
Saved by her not-for-long boss.
“We need to chat.” She patted down her dyed blonde hair and retied her apron strings before meeting Willow’s gaze.
Of course we do.
Reluctantly, Willow rose and followed her manager’s retreating form but then turned back. “Thanks for the sandwich.” Willow extended her hand. “I’m Willow Lamott.”
“I’m Mrs. McMenamin, but everyone calls me Mrs. M.” They shook hands, a red plaid sleeve falling across the woman’s papery skin.
Willow glanced down and saw scuffed cowboy boots peeking out from the ruffled hem of the woman’s flannel nightgown. She remembered then that Mrs. M had taught English at the high school but retired years ago. Everyone said she was a few clowns short of a circus. Though after her meltdown moments before, Willow didn’t feel qualified to judge.
Mrs. M. held her gaze and leaned in close. “All heartbreak fades with time. Don’t be afraid to move on.”
The woman shuffled away, calling over her shoulder, “And don’t be a victim!”
Willow lugged her overloaded backpack up the winding, cobblestone walkway to her new home. Three stories of Gothic Victorian loomed above her, blocking out the setting sun. Sagging wrap-around porch, chipped gingerbread trim, wood siding stained a dirty gray, and, like the topper on a Tim Burton wedding cake, a rusted-out weathervane leaning precariously from the third-floor turret room. She shifted her backpack to the opposite shoulder and walked into the shadow of the dilapidated mansion.
Everyone in town believed Keller House was haunted, and for Willow it was true. But the specters that disturbed her were not of the ethereal variety.
“Willow, bet you can’t do this!” the boy with the shaggy dark hair and smiling eyes chants as he leaps over the porch railing and jumps to the ground.
“Seriously, Ashton,” Willow muttered, “if you can’t get out of my head, I’m not living in your stupid old house. Even if this is my mom’s dream job.” When her mom had landed the job of caretaker to Ashton’s rundown family estate, you would’ve thought they’d won the lottery. But for Willow, living in her ex–best friend’s house was a form of slow torture.
She jerked as the double-arched doors swung open with a baleful creak. But her fright was short-lived. Her mom posed in the doorway like a character in an old movie, hands on gypsy-skirted hips, heavy salt-and-pepper dreads looped in a lopsided bun. She spread her arms wide. “Velcome home, Villow! Hov vas your day?”
Willow bit her lip to trap a laugh. “Awesome, Count Chocula. How was yours?”
Her mom’s face fell into a pout as she dropped her arms. “I was trying to be Elvira.”
“Who?”
“You know, Mistress of the Dark?”
“That old chick with the black wig and the low necklines?” Willow asked.
Her mom nodded and stuck out her chest, making Willow giggle as she slipped into the foyer. “You’ve made some progress in here.” The dust cloths had been removed from the entry table and parlor furniture. The cherry wood floors gleamed, and the bright scent of lemon filled the air.
“Only one problem,” Mom huffed, pointing up.
Willow tilted her head back and stared at the centerpiece of the two-story foyer,