RAY DAD’S FRIEND
Take care of yourself. Job will be here when you’re ready.
That makes me feel worse, but what choice do I have?
The GPS on my phone gives up after I turn onto a winding road somewhere on the outskirts of whatever tiny town I’m in. I try to remember the instructions Donny gave me:
Turn right at the red barn. Follow that road until you reach a rusted mailbox, then turn onto the gravel drive.
I haven’t seen a mailbox in miles, so when a rusted hunk of metal appears, I know I’m in the right place. My car shudders over the gravel as it winds through the trees. Bob, who’s been super chill during this entire trip, starts panting.
I have to say, I’d feel more comfortable if I were going somewhere in the city, but I guess you can’t drag a possessed serial killer into your house kicking and screaming in a suburban neighborhood without someone calling the cops. I’m very aware that going to an isolated location to move in with two random men I met in a parking lot could be a terrible idea, but then again, so would sleeping in my car and waiting for the next dead person to show up.
But you know what else I’m very aware of?
I’m going to see Nico again.
Even the thought makes my stomach do this swooping thing that makes me glad I haven’t eaten anything more than saltines. I stopped at a rest area an hour ago to give Bob a chance to stretch his legs and give me the opportunity to change into a pair of clean clothes, brush my teeth, and wash all the vomit and mysterious goo off my face. Even though Donny told me the job was mine on the phone, I’m going to treat this like an interview. I need to look professional, andnotlike I was up all night puking.
I also need to do my best not to think about how Nico’s going to be my coworker, because the things I want to do to that man are far from professional.
What the hell, Eden? You met him, like, five minutes ago. What is wrong with you?
My experience with men consists entirely of one-time sex with guys I’ve met at random jobs and never seen again (usually in motel rooms or the bed of their pickups), and Dylan, whothinks foreplay is asking if I’m ready. That’s what’s wrong with me.
The driveway ends at an iron gate that’s at least ten feet tall with arrows on the top that look designed to skewer any people who try to climb over. I stretch out my window to press the button on the call box.
“Eden?” Donny’s voice crackles through the speaker.
“Hi.”
The gate opens with a hum, and I drive into the property. An iron fence with the same sharp arrows stretches from the gate and disappears into the trees. I come around the corner of the driveway, leaning over the steering wheel to take in what I expect is going to be a very scary and very haunted-looking house, and find?—
A farmhouse.
It’s unassuming, and three stories tall, with weathered gray siding and a wraparound porch. The house stands alone in a small clearing, surrounded by dense trees with skeletal branches reaching toward it like spindly fingers. There’s a small brown shed sitting to one side in the back, a detached garage (also brown), and this enormous barn on the other side of the house, painted the exact shade of red a child would choose when drawing a farm. The panel van is parked out front, next to a Jeep and a dark blue pickup that has seen some serious use.
I sling on my backpack and set Bob on the grass, keeping one hand hovering under his stomach in case his legs give out. He wobbles on his cast as he pees, and only when he’s done do I turn to what I sincerely hope won’t be the setting of my murder documentary.
It occurs to me that no one knows where I am right now, which seems like a bad idea considering I’m about to walk into a stranger’s house in the middle of nowhere. I find Tori in my contacts. Tori is probably the closest thing I have to a friend.She’s a year older than me, and we were in the same foster placement for two years when I was fifteen and sixteen. She’s living in Long Island City now with her boyfriend and is so busy—we haven’t talked since I wished her happy birthday over the summer, but she’s the only person in my life who I can send this mildly insane text to.
I type out the address and‘if I don’t text you by tomorrow call the police’and hit send.
Bob’s cone catches on the grass as he follows me across the lawn. The main door is all the way on the left of the facade, and there are three windows to the right of it, so the house looks asymmetrical.
I look for a doorbell, but instead find a cereal box taped to the door, scribbled with:
DOORBELL’S FUCKED
YELL DING DONG
I peel up the cardboard to see a doorbell with a cracked button and a piece of Scotch tape over it withDO NOT PRESSwritten on it.
I try knocking. Nothing happens.
I can feel a smile tugging at my mouth.
Clearing my throat makes the rope burn ache, but it doesn’t hurt as much as yesterday. Maybe all that vomiting soothed it. “Ding dong?”
