Faster
Carrson
The road to my house in Ashport twists and turns, a narrow ribbon cutting through trees that crowd too close on either side. I gun the engine, tugging the wheel harder than I need to as I fly around the curve. Becky throws her hands out, bracing against the seat so she doesn’t slide off, andlaughs.
“You trying to impress me,” she says, gripping the edge harder as I take the turn, “or kill me?”
“Depends,” I answer.
“On what?”
“Whether it’s working.”
She grins at that. “Well, is it?”
“You’re smiling.”
“I find overconfidence entertaining.” She tilts her head, looking entirely too pleased with herself. “You think you’re in charge.”
It’s not what she says. It’s the way she says it, so easy, unbothered. No hesitation. No fear.
Most people have one or the other. Not her.
“I don’t think it,” I say. “I know it.”
The next turn comes up fast. Most people would tense, grip the dash, go quiet. Becky smiles wider, leaning into it instead of away.
I’ve been in a bad mood all morning, dark thoughts flooding in like a drowning tide, but her response, the buoyant way she grins, breaks through the noise and pulls me out of my head.
“Mmm.” She settles back in her seat as the road straightens. “Just so you know, if I die, I’m haunting you.”
“You’d have to catch me first.”
“Oh, I would.” She laughs again.
I like that sound. High and light.
She’s been doing it more recently, although I don’t think she realizes.
I glance over. Her hair falls in long waves over her shoulders, smoother now thanks to Louellen’s hairdresser. She wears slacks that fit cleanly, tailored to her body, and a green silk shirt with buttons down the front that dips into a V at her throat.
My gaze lingers there, at the line of her neck, the pale sweep of skin, before I drag it back to the road.
This entire drive I’ve second-guessed it, my decision to invite her home for spring break.
I hate coming back to this house. There’s nothing here I want to remember, but there’s business to handle, estate work with my father’s lawyers. It wasn’t optional.
Bringing her was.
Maybe it’s weakness. Or maybe I just didn’t want to walk back into that place alone.
I won’t be telling her that.
Better for her not to understand what this house is. What it does to people.
Becky turned twenty last week. Louellen and the sisters got her a cake with pink frosting. They sang at dinner, soft at first, then louder, voices building until the whole room joined in. Her face lit up, brighter than the candles.
I know because I saw it through the window.
