For a second it seemed like he’d understood. Like I’d reached him somehow, but then his eyes turned hard, almost as if he’d flipped a channel. After a long silence, he said, “Will helping you erase the hell I lived?” He latched his unblinking gaze to me. “Will it bring my mama back?”

“N-no, but—” I jiggled my head to clear it. “What about the promises you made?”

“The boy who made them is dead.” He cast me aside with a glower. “Amazing. After all you’ve done, you got the nerve to—”

“You just said you didn’t fault me! My God, how can you blame me for something I’m still confused about? I was barely fourteen,” I cried. “Mother was dead—and…and I saw you crouched over her! You had the spade and there was blood all over your hands…and your jeans were soaked with it! If you were me, what conclusion would you have drawn? Given everything that happened that week with…with all the fighting and the rumors about you and—”

“Don’t even go there!” Anger flared in his eyes like a struck match. When I retreated in fear, he registered momentary surprise, but his ire returned a split-second later. “I already said I didn’t hold any of that against you!”

“Then what—”

“I’ve been sitting here waiting for you to bring it up, but you’re obviously bent on playing dumb. Stop the innocent act!”

“Act?” I snapped. “I have no idea what you’re—”

“Bullshit!”

“Trace, I don’t—”

“Enough!” Veins stood out in his neck. “I’m done with this.” He punched the intercom button. “Put the brakes on, Jeeves. I’ll see myself out.”

The limo came to a violent halt. I went for his arm, but he wrenched it away, glaring back at me as if I’d just spit on him. His hatred was a tangible thing that made his silent message all too clear. Back off, his eyes told me.

“Please, don’t leave like this,” I begged.

Trace was beyond hearing me. He snatched his pillowcase and tore outside. Horns blared. Wind smacked me when he whipped around. His face was a gray blur through my veil of tears.

“Bye, Shannon,” he blurted. The cold sheathed his words.

“No, wait! I swear I don’t understand what’s—”

Another loud chorus of horns exploded when Trace’s pillowcase hit the ground. “You got amnesia about this too?” He shook his head. “Unfuckinbelievable!”

“This? This what?” I screamed back. “Tell me!”

“The letter you wrote the parole board!”

“What letter?”

He snagged the pillowcase. “That’s it. I’m gone.”

“Damn it, what letter!”

He blazed a look at me, then said through clenched teeth, “The one that killed my mother. Ring a bell?”

Eyes wide with mortification, I wagged my head as my mind raced to connect the dots. “But I never—”

He slammed the door so hard the limo rocked.

“…sent a letter.”

TRACE

____________________________

I’d warned her. Told her straight out to drop the subject. All I’d wanted was a ride and an explanation for what she’d done. I’d never intended to get into a deep conversation, not with my soul still gushing blood. But she had to press me, goad me, so I chewed her up and spat her out.

Maybe now she’d leave me the hell alone.

Stalking down Jefferson Boulevard with the wind at my back and pain in my ribs, I tried to shove Shannon out of my mind, but I was still boiling mad. ‘Let’s make amends,’ she’d told me. ‘Let’s bridge gaps.’ Screw her gaps; screw her prick of a fiancé and her olive branches. What a joke. She’d cowered in the limo like I was a monster. No wonder she’d sent the letter.

I scared the hell out of her.

When she’d penned the thing, she was an adult, capable of making her own choices and living with the fallout. Whatever she wrote swayed the board’s decision to deny my parole last year. The consequences set a tragic chain of events into motion, events that would haunt me forever.

I ducked my head against the lashing wind and zigzagged across the street to my childhood home. The pillowcase I’d slung over my shoulder seemed to weigh a ton as I took the porch steps, going slowly because my knees were shaking. So were my hands. This place was my greatest nightmare. The house of cards built with cement and brick.

‘Stare the monster down,’ Doc Rosen had said.

I sighed. “Easier said than done, old man.”

It was a typical cracker box; probably still swarming with cockroaches and an equally impressive rodent population. The battered screen door smacked my butt as I fished the chain from my pocket. I shook lint balls off the key and unlocked the door, giving it a gentle nudge with my foot. The rusty-hinged block of wood wailed open. It reminded me of the muted squeals the sows on Bisabuelo’s farm used to make while birthing.

Pale light spilled in from a long hallway that led off to the kitchen. I took a whiff, and my stomach rumbled. The scent of home cooking softened the visual. Maybe Bev had left me some dinner. I flipped the wall switch for the ceiling lamp, but nothing happened. Burned-out bulb, no doubt.

Even in the dimness, the room looked homely. Like fruitcake, cockroaches, and taxes, Mama’s patchwork furniture—complete with plastic slipcovers—would endure forever. Add a maze of water spots on the ceiling and an ugly orange carpet, and you had the makings for a bass-ackwards funhouse in hell.

I eased down on the sofa expecting to feel grief or even anger, but it wasn’t there. Maybe Doc Rosen was right about facing the monster, because the knot in my gut had slackened. If I could survive Gainstown, surely I could endure Gary Dawson’s House of Horrors.

But what about the basement?

A chill rippled over me when I glared at the basement door. Funny. I didn’t remember it looking that damn creepy. The wood appeared worn in some spots, splintered in others, and where the bottom met the floor, two inches of darkness reached out from beneath.

I looked away, shelved the thought altogether. These were temporary digs. Aside from my share of the money in Mama and Daddy’s retirement account, the one good thing the old man had done was deed me this house. Ten-and-a-half months of rent money from a revolving door of tenants—a little over six thousand—along with whatever I could net from the sale of this hell hole, would further my plans. I’d satisfy the conditions of my parole, deal with the situation with my brother, and get this place in shape for the market. In two months, six tops, I’d start on my BA, and later I hoped to launch my own business. Somewhere.

But first I’d have to do a major overhaul here. The walls needed spackling and paint. Crown molding along the ceiling. Wainscoting in the stairwell. A pine floor lay beneath the carpet. Maybe I’d rent a buffer—

Light flooded in from the adjacent dining room. I leapt to my feet and pain speared my ribs. In the hallway stood my apron-wearing sister. She cradled a white bowl filled with what looked like dough. An iPod was clipped to her waist. Headphones draped her neck.

I breathed a relieved sigh. Seeing Bev made my soul feel a hundred pounds lighter. She flashed a smile and a tear dashed down her cheek. Her long auburn hair was gathered up high in a ponytail. That combined with a sprinkling of freckles, made her look much younger than her thirty-two years.

“I was beginnin’ to worry,” she said. “Are you hungry?”

“I could eat.” I glanced beyond her. “Is Icky in there?”

She set the bowl on the table and scrubbed her hands together. A cloud of flour wafted up. “I haven’t seen him since he left to get you.”

So she didn’t know about our fight. Good. ‘Cause I wasn’t in the mood to rehash it. “What’s up with the lights?”

“Fuse musta burnt out.” Her grin faded as she drew near and frowned up at me. “What happened to your face?”