“Straight as a stiff,” she said with a serious face.
I shook my head. “Nice analogy.”
Her lips curved. “Never again. Cross my heart.” She paused, tilting her head. “Unless someone hurts my baby. Then all bets are off.”
“Mom,” I groaned.
“Kidding.” But we both knew she wasn’t.
“You’re not making me feel better about this,” I replied, opening my door.
Mom followed, heading for the trunk. She popped it open with a hollow thunk. I climbed out, my legs stiff from hours of sitting. The air was perfumed with notes of salt, pine, and earth. Different from Texas. Alive in a way that made my skin prickle.
We both looked at the trunk, then each other. “So do we start to unload or go check out the house?” Mom asked.
“Is that even a question?”
“Right.” Leaving the trunk open, she took off toward the house, not waiting to see if I followed. Of course, I did, racing up the porch steps right behind her.
Mom unlocked the door; it stuck a little, swollen from humidity. The cottage smelled like lemon cleaner and old wood. It was everything I wished for and more. Hardwood floors. White walls. A real stone log-burning fireplace.
I stood in the doorway and glanced back at the Impala, at the trailer, and at the street that ended in darkness. This was my chance to be a normal girl and have a clean slate with no corpses ahead.
Fingers crossed.
2
MALLORY
By late afternoon the next day, I’d developed a new skill: pretending unpacking was a talent I excelled at.
Spoiler: I didn’t.
Cardboard boxes sat in various states of disarray across the living room floor, some gutted completely, contents spilling out like they’d been murdered, others barely touched, their flaps still sealed with packing tape. I’d managed to hang exactly three items: a mirror, a clock, and my determination to never unpack again.
The sun hung lower now, painting the hardwood floors in stripes of amber light as dust particles danced. I watched them drift and decided I’d been productive enough for one day. I took a quick scan of my progress, ignoring the boxes. Despite not having much furniture yet and only a blow-up mattress for now—they were far easier to move—I could see the vision, and I was excited to get started, to put my stamp on the room and give it personality.
I stopped at the mirror propped in the corner of my bedroom and gazed at my reflection, at the girl staring back at me. I’dgrown accustomed to my unusual eyes and hardly noticed the contrasting colors, but today, the sun seemed to highlight the difference. My cheekbones were sharp, my mouth soft but full. I fussed with my mess of black waves, the strands never quite cooperating, and quickly gave up trying.
I wore a simple outfit, my favorite type. A fitted black tank, the fabric soft from being washed a thousand times, and my favorite pair of dark denim shorts. Black-on-black was my signature look. A silver crystal pendant hung at my throat, catching the light. Stacks of rings lined my fingers, and several sizes of hoops trailed up both my ears. The whole thing read: small-town witch who shops at thrift stores and has commitment issues with people, not cats. And honestly? Accurate.
Taking the creaky stairs to the first level, I spotted Mom deep in the messy kitchen. As usual, she unpacked with no sense of order, much like she packed. Piles of boxes were scattered all over the floor, waiting to have a home.
She knelt in front of a box labeled “KITCHEN” in my handwriting. The box cutter in her hand sliced through tape and folded back the flaps, revealing hercollection.
Knives. So many fucking knives.
It was her weapon of choice.
She lifted them out one by one, unwrapping each from its cloth as if she were unveiling art. A boning knife with a curved blade. A cleaver that looked medieval. The santoku she claimed was for vegetables but had definitely seen other uses. They clinked softly against each other as she arranged them on the counter in a fan pattern.
She lifted her head and blew a strand of loose dark hair out of her eyes when she heard me. Her lips curled. “Giving up already?”
“Taking a break,” I corrected, leaning against the small kitchen island, not that you could tell what it was under all the stuff scattered atop it.
“Hmm.” Mom pursed her amused lips.
“Actually, I came to let you know that I’m going to walk downtown. Do a bit of exploring and maybe look for a coffee shop. I’ll bring you back a drink.” We had no food in the house, except for the leftover road trip snacks, and my stomach was screaming at me to eat substance.
