Page 10 of Goode Tidings

A scream comes from outside the cabin. A siren, I think.

"You called the police?" he asks, but he sounds more like he's nearing wit's end than he is fearful.

"No," I answer.

The sound gets louder. Closer.

My head snaps to the front door, and the boy waiting beyond it.

I break into a run.

CHAPTER 5

Callum

"Ernest." I nod my greeting at the sixty-year-old man climbing from the driver's seat of an SUV with Snowflake Police emblazoned on the body of the vehicle. A scented Christmas tree dangles from the rearview mirror. He's average height with a generous middle, the type of guy who'd probably be pounding beers at Roosters, the town's beloved tavern, if he weren't the law.

"Her—" Ernest catches himself, folding back my nickname. He repurposes it into, "Hello, Callum."

I almost congratulate him on stopping himself from calling me Hermie. But I don't. I don't want the people of Snowflake to know I'm on to them. If they know I know, they'd stop and I wouldn't get to watch them trip over themselves in their attempts to not use the name in my presence.

Ernest glances between me on one side, and Eden and Oliver on the other. Using two hands, he grabs his brown leather belt and yanks, pulling his pants up higher on his rotund midsection. Some police officers love donuts, but not Ernest. His drug of choice is raspberry cream cheese danish.

"What seems to be the problem here?" he asks. "I got a call about a trespasser?" He gives Eden a dubious look. She might appear non-threatening in her Andes Mint outfit, but that woman is currently posing a threat to every facet of my life. Maybe Ernest should be reminded that criminals come in all shapes and sizes.

Eden opens her mouth to respond, as do I, when Ernest looks at Oliver and says reproachfully, "It's not funny to call the police for nothing. It takes us away from people or situations that might really need our assistance."

Or, in Ernest's case, may cut short his afternoon nap.

"He didn't call you for nothing," Eden pipes up, defending her kid. She looks at me, gaze hardening. Her nose wrinkles and her head does a small, fast-paced shake, silently yelling at me to fess up.

"Oh, uh." I snap my fingers, like the thought is only just now occurring to me. "We've had a misunderstanding, but it's ok now."

Ernest looks torn between doing his job, and returning to the station where he can continue to not do his job. He looks at Eden, bushy eyebrows raised. "Is this true?"

I'm a little insulted he doesn't automatically believe me, but I guess I understand. I am the town hermit. Reclusive behavior doesn't offer much in terms of trustworthiness.

I look to Eden, nodding encouragingly at her to corroborate my story, but she says...nothing. Nothing! She simply stands there, lips sewn shut while a breeze lifts a single wisp of hair from her shoulder and blows it across her chin.

Is Eden considering snitching on me?

As far as the town of Snowflake knows, the owner of the cabin (Justin) asked his stepbrother (me) to stay in his cabin and keep it up after it fell into disrepair from years of neglect.

That's the story I've sold, and it's mostly true. Except the part about Justin asking me to stay here. And that I'm still his stepbrother. So, most of it's not true.

What is accurate is the part where the cabin was in disrepair from years of neglect. I hadn't planned to come here, didn't realize I was headed this way at all until suddenly here I was, turning my car onto Lake Circle. I'd thought if I was so close, I might as well drive by and see the cabin. For old times' sake. I was already an emotional disaster, why not throw nostalgia on the heap?

I knew right away nobody was living here. The cabin, home to some of my happiest childhood memories, was left for dead. The roof sagged. The front porch was dry rotted. The paint chipped and peeled, and two windows were broken.

Something inside me snapped. I couldn't allow such an offense to continue. It was an affront to my memories, and I became consumed with fixing it. A quick internet search told me the place had never been sold. This meant it was either still owned by Justin's dad, or had been handed down to Justin. Either way, it wasn't being cared for.

Enter: me.

I called the utility company. I guessed Justin's password (his childhood dog's name. Seriously?) and supplied them with answers to his personal questions, and the lights came on. Everything else followed.

And yes, I know that objectively, all of this was morally incorrect. But I was emotionally drowning. And restoring this cabin? It saved me. I'd rather not be legally forced from this place, but I would give it up for a mother and her teenage son. Because I, unlike my former stepbrother Justin, am nice.

Besides, I'm not exactly going far. There's a little outbuilding behind the cabin, closer to the lake. I converted it into an office about a year ago, when my website traffic showed no signs of slowing and I needed to separate work from life. The building has a small bathroom, a kitchenette, and while it doesn't have a bed, it boasts an extremely comfortable chair that fully reclines. I'm all set until I can figure out something with more permanence.