We roll through Agatha’s old neighborhood first. Her house—or what used to be her house—is nothing but debris and yellow tape now. The smell of smoke still hangs heavy, a ghost in the air. I stare at it too long, wondering if the bones turned to dust or if they’re still there somewhere under the rubble.
Then the church comes into view. Or what’s left of it.
Fire trucks still idle nearby, engines rumbling. The front wall’s gone, the steeple collapsed like a broken neck. A coronervan waits by the wreckage, and two men roll a gurney with a black body bag on it. It doesn’t matter. They can know it was murder. They just won’t know who pulled the strings.
We get back on the highway. The hum of tires fills the car, and for a while, nobody says anything. Then Little Horror starts singing. It’s quiet at first, a hum that turns into off-key words. Baybe’sFather, Son, Holy Spirit.The irony makes my jaw ache with laughter I don’t let out.
When the song ends, another starts—Bea Miller’sDracula.She belts it out, voice cracking, hair whipping in the breeze from the cracked window. She looks so alive I almost forget all the death we just delivered.
We take the second exit off the highway.
She stops singing long enough to glance between us. “Where are we going?”
I grin. “A little pit stop.”
She frowns but says nothing as I drive the familiar road, trees crowding close on either side. The sun’s just starting to rise now, painting the world in that pink light.
When the house comes into view, Little Horror gasps.
The place looks like something out of a gothic fairytale—massive white columns, pale yellow siding, dark red roof, two wraparound balconies.
“Welcome to where we grew up,” Evander says, half-smiling.
Her eyes are wide. “You lived here?”
“Yeah.” Garron leans forward. “Been in the family forever. Great-grandparents, grandparents, now Mom and Dad.”
“So you guys come from money? You’re rich murderers?”
I snort. “Yeah, old money and older trauma. Don’t get too romantic about it.”
“It’s… amazing,” she whispers, still staring.
“It’s just a house,” I mutter. “The people inside are what matter.”
“This is not what I pictured when I imagined your childhood. I was thinking more murder shack but with a porch swing.” She raises a brow at me as she sasses me.
“Careful,” I tell her, climbing out of the car. “You keep mouthing off like that, my mom’ll adopt you out of spite.”
“Good,” she fires back. “Maybe she’ll teach me how to handle you three properly.”
That earns a laugh from Garron. Even Evander cracks a grin.
Garron grabs her hand and leads her toward the walkway and porch steps. The house looms larger the closer we get. White steps, big front door, flowerbeds lined with neat little stones. The porch smells like lemon polish and honeysuckle, the same way it always did when we were kids.
Mom swings the door open before I can even reach for the handle. “My boys!” She barrels out like a five-foot hurricane, wrapping her arms around Evander, then me, then Garron, in that exact order she’s done since birth. Her auburn hair is pinned up and as always, she’s barefoot. Then her gaze lands on Agatha. “And who is this stunning creature?”
“Mom, this is Agatha,” I say. “Agatha, Caroline.”
“You’re beautiful.” She takes Agatha’s face in both hands, looks her over, then pulls her into a hug.
“She’s also your grandson’s teacher,” Garron adds.
“Ohhh really?” Mom’s grin widens. “So you’re the one wrangling my little Gummy Bear every day.”
Agatha laughs softly. “He’s a sweetheart. Total handful, though.”
Dad appears in the doorway, wiping his hands on a rag. “Gets that from his uncles.” His eyes are the color of the sky, his hair is iron gray, and he’s wearing a black t-shirt that says Dead Man Forge.
