In Strange Woods - Claire Cray Page 0,1

this ramshackle little corner of the Pacific Northwest, as far as he could get from everything he’d lost.

Well, sort of. Brooks wasn’t exactly a random destination. Somewhere upriver from here, deep in the foothills of the Oregon Coast Range, was a piece of property in his name. He’d inherited more real estate than he could keep track of, but this was the only one that stuck out like a sore thumb. It had been placed in a separate trust by his mother, Grace, labeled as the Woodstock Trust. Woodstock had been his and Grace’s surname before she married Bryce Worthington Crane, who then legally adopted him when he was just four years old.

If James were in his right mind, he’d be very confused by this. Because Grace—he’d always called his parents by their first names—had never said a word about Oregon. Grace Woodstock had been born in rural upstate New York before running away to the city with only a few hundred dollars to her name, later to become Grace Worthington Crane, New Yorker of all New Yorkers. There was no conceivable reason why she’d have a random patch of timberland on the Oregon Coast under her maiden name, or why she’d leave it to James alone.

But James wasn’t in his right mind, and damned if he could guess what it was about. Damned if he even cared. All that mattered to him was that no one would find him here.

The Sea Witch Inn was an old three-story wooden boarding house topped by a large neon sign that sizzled to life just as he approached, spelling the name out in looping turquoise letters over a buxom mermaid whose tail flipped up and down.

James heaved the old wooden door open and stepped into the lobby. The place was a mix of nautical elegance and Art Deco kitsch, like it belonged to some stately captain’s wife who’d let loose in her old age. The teenage desk clerk was dressed in black, his lip and eyebrow dimpled in multiple places where he must have removed piercings for work. He regarded James with mild interest, but no hint of recognition. “Checking in?”

“Yeah. Can I get something for like, a week?” While the goth worked, James stared dully at the mermaid painting behind the desk and began to wonder what the fuck he was doing here. It had made more sense when he was drunk in his Lower East Side apartment, when the only other idea he could come up with was a dive into the East River.

The Manhattan Bridge was clearly visible from the window by his bed, bluish lights shining like a welcome sign…

“Here’s your key,” the goth mumbled, pushing it across the counter. “You’re in Room Seven on the second floor.”

The room was modest but appealing, with two windows looking out at the sea. The oak floors gleamed with old life, and the green and blue quilt on the queen-sized bed looked plush and homey. No TV. Good. James dropped his backpack and duffel near the desk by the window and looked out over the line of rooftops outside. The sky was an eerie blue over the ocean, slowly getting darker as the last of twilight slipped below the horizon.

In the bathroom, he splashed his face with cold water and took a minute to stare at himself in the mirror. You literally never look like shit, an old hookup had once said enviously. Even when you look like shit. Well, if his friends could see him now. His so-called bedroom eyes looked sunken and dead, his full lips pale and downturned, and his sharp cheekbones just emphasized how gaunt he was getting. It was like he’d aged ten years in the past three months.

Raking both hands through his hair with a weary sigh, he went back to the bed and sat down heavily on the edge. He was tired. He’d taken some Xanax before the flight and still hadn’t slept; had four shots of espresso when he landed and still hadn’t woken up. These days, real rest seemed like a distant dream.

But once in a while, fatigue caught up. When he fell back on the mattress and closed his eyes, he passed out almost immediately.

* * *

Shouts outside. James sat bolt upright in confusion before he realized where he was.

Oregon. Right. With a muted groan he slumped and rubbed his face into his hands. What time was it? What day was it? He picked his phone up off the bed and stared