6
Bella
The gear stick grinds as I shove it into second, and the whole car shudders like it’s about to give up on life.
“Come on, Betsy,” I mutter, patting the cracked dashboard. “You’ve got one job. Don’t make me regret not buying a bus pass.”
The GPS on my phone chirps from its precarious spot wedged between two air vents.“In 2 hours, arrive at Shadow Hill.”
“Two hours?” I snort, glancing at the speedometer that stubbornly refuses to climb past 45. “At this rate, I’ll get there just in time for retirement.”
I tap the brakes to avoid a pothole big enough to swallow my front bumper. The car jerks forward like it’s trying to eject me, and I grip the wheel tighter. Dad’s voice comes back to me from when I was 16, sitting in the passenger seat of his truck, watching him handle the gear shift with an ease I’m still trying to fake.“It’s all about finesse, Bella. Don’t force it.”
“Yeah, well,” I grumble, shifting into third, “finesse doesn’t come standard on a 2005 Dodge Neon, Dad.”
I hitplayon my phone’s music app, and the car speakers wheeze out the first notes of my favorite playlist. At least I’ve gotsomethinggoing for me. If Sandra’s going to make me drive to the middle of nowhere to photograph a haunted mansion, I might as well have a decent soundtrack.
A semi roars past me, honking loud enough to rattle my teeth. The wind from its wake shoves Betsy to the side, and I swear the whole car lets out a pitiful groan.
“Okay, okay, I get it!” I yell at the truck’s disappearing taillights. “I’m a turtle, you’re a Formula 1 car. Thanks for the reminder.”
The speedometer wavers at 50 for a moment, like it’s mocking me, before settling back down to a humble 48. I sigh and glance at the fuel gauge, which is hovering dangerously close to E.
“Great. Just great.” I turn the music down and let my head thunk back against the headrest. “Shadow Hill better be worth it, Sandra. Because this is my birthday, and if I end up stranded on the side of the road, you’re getting haunted, not the mansion.”
My mind drifts to Julian as I pass a billboard advertising some diner with “the best pancakes in town.” He’s probably elbow-deep in coffee grounds right now, trying to look busy while worrying about college loans he shouldn’t even have to think about yet. Mike and Peggy burned through most of our inheritance faster than a kid burns through Halloween candy, and now Julian’s stuck wondering if he’ll even make it to college.
“Sorry, Jules,” I murmur, gripping the wheel tighter. “I’m trying. I really am.”
The road stretches out in front of me, lined with trees that look more skeletal than scenic. The GPS recalculates, cheerfully announcing,“1 hour and 45 minutes remaining.”
“Oh, sure. If I’m suddenly driving a spaceship,” I snap at it.
The heater wheezes out another puff of lukewarm air, and I crank it up; not that it’ll help much. My toes are still freezing from standing outside the house earlier. It’s like this car was designed specifically to test my patience.
Another truck zips past, honking unnecessarily as if I don’t already know how slow I’m going.
“What’s the rush? Are you late to deliver disappointment somewhere?” I mutter, flipping the wipers on as a light drizzle starts. The windshield squeaks in protest, the blades leaving behind streaks that blur my vision even more.
“Perfect,” I sigh. “Rain. Because nothing screamssafelike bad visibility and a car that doesn’t believe in anti-lock brakes.”
But work is work. I need to sell houses—haunted or not—if I’m going to make enough to keep fighting Mike and Peggy. The thought of their smug faces makes my grip tighten again.
“No pressure, Betsy,” I say, patting the dashboard once more. “Just get me to Shadow Hill in one piece, and I promise to get you an oil change. Maybe even clean out the fast-food wrappers in the backseat.”
Betsy shudders again, as if to say,I’ll think about it.
Twenty minutes later, the gas light blinks on with an annoying littleding. I glance at the gauge, which has dipped below empty, as if it’s decided to stage its own funeral.
“Seriously?” I groan, flicking the GPS screen. It recalibrates for the hundredth time, now flashing an arrival time of“2 hours and 15 minutes.”
“Oh, sure,” I mutter. “We’re adding time now? Great. At this rate, I’ll get there just in time to take a nice sunset photo of the haunted mansionbefore I die of old age.”
The drizzle outside has slowed, but the windshield wipers are still leaving streaks like an abstract art project. A car whizzes past, spraying water onto my already streaky window.
“Perfect! Thanks for that, stranger. I really needed the assist.”
As I turn into the gas station, the brakes screech like I’m trying to reenact a bad action movie. Betsy protests with a groan when I park near the pump, the rain having reduced itself to a fine mist that clings to everything.
