“Problem?” came a voice, and Parker jumped and whirled around. It was Fling Material—um, Malone—sitting in a somewhat battered pickup truck, and ten minutes apart hadn’t diminished his appeal. Unless he was stalking her, which, though a flattering thought, was somewhat terrifying.
“Oh, hi again.” She held her phone up to her ear. “Just talking to my lawyer,” she lied, in case he was a serial killer. “But I found it fine, thanks. See you around. Have a good night.”
“You’re at the wrong place.”
Parker blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Julia Harrington’s is back there.” Malone nodded behind him.
“Where back there?” Parker asked.
“That little place you just passed.”
Parker looked back down the road. There was nothing except the shed. She glanced at Malone. He nodded.
No. That couldn’t possibly… Oh, no. Uh-uh. Her stomach twisted abruptly.
That wasn’t a house. It was a shack. A falling-into-the-ocean hut.
“That?” she squeaked.
“Ayuh.”
No. No, no. That house had boards over the windows. It was…crooked somehow. It couldn’t have been more than five feet from tumbling down to the rocky beach below. Square-footage wise, it wasn’t really a house at all! It was the size of her bedroom back home.
Odd little noises were coming from her throat. She swallowed and turned to the lobster guy. “You sure?”
“Julia Harrington’s?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sure, then.”
Bugger! Bugger and damn. Parker took a deep breath, then another.
“You need anything?” Malone asked.
“Um…a different house?” He didn’t respond. “No, I’m…fine. It’s okay. Thanks for checking, though.”
He nodded and put his truck in gear.
“Wait! Malone, is there a hotel in town?”
He shook his head. “Used to be a bed-and-breakfast, but it burned over the winter.”
Well, tie her to an anchor and throw her in an ocean full of hungry sharks.
“Good night, then,” Malone said, then was gone, his taillights disappearing around the corner. Good news was, he hadn’t murdered her. Bad news was…oh, crap! This beautiful house wasn’t hers, and that…that…tenement appeared to be.
Parker got back in the car and sat for a minute. It’s a fixer-upper! chirped the Holy Rollers. “Easy for you to say,” she snapped. “You’re imaginary. You won’t be picking up a hammer and helping, will you?” She threw the car in Reverse and backed out the driveway. “I really wanted you!” she called back to the Pines. Yes. She wanted a house with a name. Call her shallow, but bugger, she did not want to live in a shack, even for a few weeks.
Ninety-seven Shoreline Drive was on the ocean side of the road; the hill was steep as it rose from the harbor, and it was clear why there weren’t many other houses around—most of them had probably fallen victim to storms over the years.
The shack sat on cement pilings, a two-foot gap between the earth and the house. No basement, clearly. She walked around the house slowly, the grass up to her knees. Were there mice in there? Probably. She shuddered. She hated mice. Her father liked to dangle them over Apollo’s cage before dropping them to their doom.
Upon further inspection, she saw that the shack was, or had once been, an actual house, like something Nicky would draw–a square box with a triangle on top. The gray shingles had warped, pulling away from the side of the house like eyelashes, and great shards of paint peeled from the once-white trim. The roof was patchy and battered, complete with crumbling chimney, but at least there was some form of heating, she guessed. All the windows were boarded, and the aluminum screen door was off its hinges, leaning against a rusting front door. Clearly people had tried to break in over the years—there were dents all around the door handle, and the small windowpane was broken.
A cluster of lilac trees was in full bloom. “Good sign, right?” Parker asked, her voice a bit unfamiliar. The HRs agreed that yes, it was indeed a positive indicator.
There was a wooden stairway down to a small dock, but it was nearly full dark now, and Parker was not about to break her neck figuring out whether or not the stairs were sound.
“Bite the bullet,” she said aloud. “Time to go inside and view your inheritance.”
The key Thing One had supplied fit fine. Had he known this was her house? Had Harry? Think they might’ve given her a hint at what lay ahead?
Parker turned the lock, which slid open after some wiggling. The door was warped, however, and stuck fast, so she shoved harder, using her shoulder. Once, twice, three times, and bam, it opened.
Pitch-dark inside. She groped on the wall for a light switch and got lucky. Someone had turned on the electricity—or it had never been turned off—and a harsh yellow light momentarily blinded her.
Permanently blinded might’ve been better.
Parker closed her mouth, then opened it to swear, then realized that she didn’t know a word bad enough.
Aunt Julia had been a hoarder.
Faded boxes and stacks of crumbling newspapers lined the hallway so there was only a tiny path leading into the house. The smell was so thick and dry Parker choked. There was so much crap everywhere, it was hard to take in—pots, pans, candlesticks, yellowing plastic containers, paper plates, old fabric, swollen paperbacks, a set of encyclopedia, plastic dolls. Cripes! And this was just the hallway! Parker lifted her gaze to the cracked plaster walls visible above the hoard to the cracked plaster ceiling. God. The place was a wreck. She tried to take a calming breath, choked and pulled up her shirt to cover her mouth—or muffle her scream, she thought darkly. It’s only stuff, Spike said. Check it out a little. See what you got.
Good advice, good advice. To her left was a bathroom, the door open. Pepto-Bismol-pink tub spilling over with…stuff. But there was a sink visible, and a toilet, thank the Lord. First things first.
You’re not really going to pee in there, are you? asked the female Holy Rollers. When was that last cleaned?
“Where else should I go?” Parker answered. “Outside?”
A girl had to do what a girl had to do, especially after two coffees on the way up. Still, the horror of the situation was not lost on her. An eyeless doll lay in the bathtub, just in case the place wasn’t creepy enough. The toilet flushed, but when Parker turned on the faucet to wash her hands, nothing came out. Fine. She had Purell in the car.
Across from the loo was a bedroom, she guessed—too much junk to open the door all the way. Praying no bats were currently living inside, Parker poked her head in. There may have been a bed, but it was hard to tell with all the boxes. Clothes, some still on their hangers, lay abandoned and forgotten. Shoes, hats, a box full of ceramic kittens, bags of yarn, books, macramé plant holders.
A second bedroom held more of the same.
She sidled down the hall, trying not to touch anything, toward what proved to be one big room, the kitchen on one side, what had once been a living room on the other. Another single lightbulb hung from a wire in here—still worked, showing piles of plastic bins filled with old clothing, more newspapers, sewing bric-a-brac. There was a fishing pole on the counter, couch cushions in front of the refrigerator, which looked to be from 1950, rounded and hulking. The oven was green, its door hanging open as if in a scream—Parker could totally relate. More boarded windows that