probably get me fired. So I turn and stomp down the stairs, trying to stifle all the rage I have building in my chest.
I can't help but hear echoes of what I’ve heard my whole life in what Nate said.
I’m bad.
I’m in trouble.
I have it coming for what I did.
My jaw is clenched so hard and my fists are squeezed so tight that my head is about to pop. I can't stop picturing my father looming over my eight-year-old self, slowly taking his belt off.
You know what’s going to happen now, he would say. Get ready, you sack of shit.
I shake my head stiffly, shaking the image until it’s gone too.
Fuck that. And fuck Nate too. As a matter of fact, fuck the whole entire National Park Service for ever hiring such a prick to be my supervisor in the first place.
Nate is just doing his job. A small part of me realizes that. And that part of me is the only thing that keeps me from wailing on him. Instead my fury just washes through my body, growing more and more concentrated each time I think about it.
As I head to my cabin, I’m half blinded by my anger. I need a drink. Actually, I need a fuck, a really fantastic piece of ass to wash away the bitter bile I’m tasting right now.
Stopping still, I reverse my course. I can come back for my stuff later. Right now, whatever I’m seeking isn’t going to be found in Whiskey Bend. I storm over to my Jeep and get in, peeling out into the night.
Chapter Three
Olivia
“Ugh!” I groan.
I toss my phone on the seat of my beat up, borrowed sedan with a disgusted sigh and peer out the windshield. My map on my phone doesn’t work if I have no service, and apparently being a whole hour and a half outside Seattle is far enough for that.
It’s pouring with rain way out here in Belway Point. Now that I have actually made it out here, the lush greenery surrounding my car on both sides mixes with the white patter of the rain, making the entire world look like an abstract impressionist painting. Just two turns back I was looking out at the deep blue sea over a bluff, and now I am deep in the jungle somehow.
The pacific northwest is so confusing to a girl from New Jersey.
I’m supposed to be driving out to the Morgan estate, in the desperate hope that they will hire me as an archivist. Old documents and family records are what I’m the most interested in; but without going to school for my master’s degree, I’ve sort of hit a dead end in the archiving business.
That is, assuming that this doesn’t pan out.
Starting the car again, I creep forward on the unpaved road. I’m afraid I will hit something or someone if I go any faster in this downpour. Looking at the clock on the dashboard, I start to sweat.
I’m supposed to be at my meeting in fifteen minutes. I arrived here with plenty of time to spare, but now I’m caught up on this last step. I look out the window, hoping against hope for a sign that will point me toward the house.
“Come on,” I mutter. “Where are you, Morgan estate?”
After another minute of driving along very slowly, I see a wrought iron sign with the family name on it.
“Yes!” I squeal. Turning slowly down an overgrown lane, I bump my way down for a few minutes until I reach a large clearing with the house in it.
The rain slows down enough for me to make out details of the house a little bit better. It is three stories high, painted a dull gray color, and extremely old-fashioned looking. It is missing most of the shutters and the paint is peeling. And either I’m crazy, or the whole entire house is leaning distinctly left.
Still, it’s definitely worth looking at. I didn’t expect it to be so big, even though it is referred to as an estate. Looking at the dash, I realize that I’m almost late. So I straighten my dress, lift my shoulder bag onto my shoulder, and then make the mad dash from the car up to the porch.
I make it to the porch fine, but my dress doesn’t. Long and made of white linen with a skinny little leather belt, it looks like a hot mess when I examine it. That’s not even considering my hair, which I’m sure hangs