Credence Read online

  I still, not sure what that means or if it should make me feel better.

  You look like your mother. He’d said at the airport that I looked like my mother. Did he see her when he looked at me, then? Was that what he meant?

  His eyes darken, and I watch as he rubs his thumb across the inside of his hand before he balls it into a fist.

  I’m rooted, my stomach falling a little.

  “And you don’t have to call me uncle,” he says. “I’m not really anyway, right?”

  But before I can answer, he clicks his tongue to call the dogs, they follow him out, and he pulls the door closed, leaving me alone.

  I stand there, still, but the nerves under my skin fire. One phone call, a coach seat, and four states later, it finally occurs to me... I don’t know these people.

  Tiernan

  I yawn, the warm smell of fresh coffee drifting through my nostrils as I arch my back on the bed and stretch my body awake.

  Damn. I slept like shit.

  I reach over on the nightstand for my phone to see what time it is, but my hand doesn’t land on anything, just falls through the empty space.

  What?

  And that’s when I notice it. The roughness of the new sheets. The whine of the bed under my body. The pillow that’s not the feather one my neck is used to.

  I blink my eyes awake, seeing the faint, morning light stream across the ceiling from where it spills in through the glass double doors in my room.

  Not my room, actually.

  I push up on my elbows, my head swimming and my eyelids barely able to stay open as I yawn again.

  And it all hits me at once. What had happened. Where I am. How I ran away, because I was rash and I wasn’t thinking. The uncertainty that twisted my stomach a little, because nothing is familiar.

  The way I don’t like this and how I’d forgotten I don’t like change.

  The way he looked at me last night.

  I train my ears, hearing the creak of tree branches bending with the breeze outside and how that breeze is getting caught in the chimney as it blows.

  No distant chatter coming from my father’s office and the six flat screens he plays as he gets ready for his day. No entourage of stylists and assistants running up and down the stairs, getting my mother ready for hers, because she never leaves the house unless she’s in full hair and make-up.

  No phones going off or landscapers with their mowers.

  For a moment, I’m homesick. Unbidden images drift through my head. Them lying on cold, metal slabs right now. Being slid into cold lockers. My father’s skin blue, and my mother’s hair wet and make-up gone. Everything they were—everything the world would recognize—now gone.

  I hold there, frozen and waiting for the burn in my eyes to come. The sting of tears. The pain in my throat.

  Wanting the tears to come.

  Wishing they would come.

  But they don’t. And that worries me more than my parents’ death. There’s a name for people who lack remorse. People who can’t empathize. People who demonstrate strong anti-social attitudes.

  I’m not a sociopath. I mean, I cried during the Battle of Winterfell on Game of Thrones. But I don’t cry—not once—when both of my parents die?

  At least no one in this town will care about me or how I’m coping with their deaths. The only person back home who’d understand is Mirai.

  And then I blink, realization hitting. “Mirai…”

  Shit. I throw back the covers and climb out of bed, heading for the chest of drawers where my phone is charging. I grab it, turn it on, and see a list of missed notifications—mostly calls from my mother’s assistant.

  Ignoring the voicemails, I dial Mirai, noticing it’s before six on the west coast as I hold the phone to my ear.

  She answers almost immediately.

  “Mirai,” I say before she says anything.

  “Tiernan, thank goodness.”

  She breathes hard, like she either ran to the phone or just woke up.

  “Sorry, my ringer was off,” I explain.

  “You’re okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Chills spread up my arms, so I flip open the top of my suitcase and pull out my black sweatshirt, juggling the phone as I try to slip it over my head.

  “So…are you going to stay?” she asks after a pause. “You know you don’t have to. If the house isn’t comfortable or you feel weird—”

  “I’m okay,” I tell her. “The house is nice, and he’s…” I trail off, searching for my next word. What is he? “Hospitable.”

  “Hospitable,” she repeats, clearly suspicious.

  I clear my throat. “So how is the world?” I ask, changing the subject. “Anything that needs me?”

  “Just take care of yourself,” she says, and I don’t miss the way she cuts me off. “I won’t bug you again. Call me if you want—I want you to—but I’ll stick to texts to check in from time to time. I just want you to forget about everything here for a while, okay? I got it handled.”

  I look around the bedroom I slept in, thankful I have it to myself, because at least I have one place here that’s mine where I can go to be alone.

  But the thought of walking out of this room and confronting new people makes my stomach roll, and I…

  Just book me a flight back home, Mirai. I want to tell her that.

  But I don’t.

  Jake seems to be amenable to letting me be and not pushing too hard, but Noah is friendly. Too friendly.

  And I’ve yet to meet Kaleb, so that’s another new person coming.

  I walk for the double doors, needing some air.

  The least of my worries should be what people are thinking or saying about my absence back home—and what they’re thinking and saying about my parents—but I can’t help it. I feel like far away and out of the loop is suddenly the last place I should be right now. Especially when I’ve foolishly hung my hat in the middle of nowhere, with some guy my father hated, and on land that smells like horse shit and dead, rotting deer carcasses.

  I pin the phone between my ear and shoulder as I throw open the doors. “I should be there for…”

  But I trail off, the doors spreading wide and the view looming in front of me.

  My mouth drops open. Suddenly, I’m an inch tall.

  “You should do what you need to do,” Mirai replies.

  But I barely register what she says. I stare ahead, absently stepping onto my large wooden deck as I take in the expanse before me that I didn’t notice in the dark the night before.

  My heart thumps against my chest.

  So that’s “the peak.” It didn’t cross my mind that the town was named so for a reason.

  In the distance, in perfect view between the trees beyond my balcony, stands a mountain, its granite peak gray and foreboding, skirted with green pines and topped with white clouds that make the scene so beautiful I stop breathing for a moment.

  Holy shit.

  It’s just there. A cathedral, sitting in front of a blue sky, and before I can stop myself, I raise my hand, reaching out for it like I want to take it in my fist, but all I can feel is the morning air breeze through my fingers.

  I inhale, the smell of the earth and stone drifting through my nose even from here, the memory of the dead animal smell from last night forgotten. The scent of water hangs in the air, fresh but musty where it soaks into the soil and rock, and I inhale again, closing my eyes.

  The hairs on my arms rise.

  I need to leave now. I don’t want to get used to that smell, because it’ll stop being special before long.

  “If you want to be here for the funeral, then be here,” Mirai goes on as if I still care about anything we were discussing. “If you don’t, I don’t think anyone will question the only daughter of Hannes and Amelia de Haas if she’s too distraught by the sudden death of both parents to attend the funeral.”

  I open my eyes, part of me wanting to smile and part of me disappointed in myself, because I k
now I won’t leave. Not today, anyway. I raise my eyes and look at the peak, not wanting to stop looking at that view yet.

  I swallow, remembering Mirai. “Thanks,” I tell her. “I’ll take a few days and think about what I’ll do.”

  The funeral wasn’t for four or five more days, at least. People from around the world would need time to get to California, as well as all the arrangements that had to be made. I had time.

  “I love you, Tiernan,” she says.

  I pause. She’s the only one who says that to me.

  All the memories come flooding back, except now I catch things I didn’t catch before.

  All the times she—not my mother or father—called me at school to see if I needed anything. All the presents under the tree I know she—not them—bought for me and the birthday cards she signed for them. All the R-rated movies she got me into that I couldn’t otherwise, and all the travel books she’d leave in my bag, because she knew they were my favorite things to read.

  The first pair of dangling earrings I ever owned were a gift from her.

  And I fucking nod through the phone, because that’s all I do.

  “Breathe, okay?” she adds.

  “Bye.”

  I hang up, needles pricking my throat, and continue to stare at the beautiful view, my hair blowing in the soft breeze and the wild smell of the air so much like a drug. Heady.

  A woodpecker hollows out a tree in the distance, and the wind sweeps through the aspens and pines, the forest floor growing darker the deeper the woods go until I can’t see anything anymore.

  Do they hike? Jake, Noah, and Kaleb? Do they ever venture farther into the forest? Take time to explore?

  A chainsaw cuts through the silence, loud and buzzing, and I blink, the spell broken. Turning around, I drop my phone on the bed and walk for one of my suitcases, digging out my toiletry bag. Walking for the door, I squeeze the handle, slowly twisting it.

  It squeaks, and I flinch. My parents didn’t like noise in the morning.

  Stepping softly into the dim hallway, the dark wood floors and paneling lit only by the glow of the two wall sconces and a rustic chandelier, I tiptoe past the room Jake told me was his last night and head for the next door, reaching for the handle.

  But before I can grasp it, the door swings open, light spills into the hallway, and a young woman stands there, damn near naked. Her mussed auburn hair hugs her face and hangs just above her bare breasts.

  Jesus… I turn my head away. What the hell? Is she my uncle’s wife? He didn’t mention being married, but he didn’t say he wasn’t, either.

  I cast another quick glance at her, seeing her smile and fold her arms over her chest. “Excuse me,” she says.

  Taut, flat stomach, smooth skin, no ring on her finger—she wasn’t his wife. And definitely not the boys’ mother. I have no idea how old Kaleb is, but Jake said Noah was his youngest, and she’s not old enough to have grown sons.

  She looks only a few years older than me, actually. One of the boys’ girlfriends, maybe?

  She stands there for a moment, and my shock starts to turn to ire. Like, move or something? I need to get in.

  “The difference between pizza and your opinion is that I asked for pizza,” she recites.

  I falter and turn my head to look at her, but she’s looking down at my sweatshirt. I drop my eyes, seeing the one I’d donned and the writing she was reading on the front of it.

  She chuckles at the words and then slips past me, out of the bathroom. I rush inside, and I’m about to close the door, but then I think better of it and dip my head back into the hallway. Unfortunately, though, I just hear a door close. She’s gone before I can see which room she disappeared into.

  Closing the door, I busy myself washing my face, brushing my teeth, and removing the ribbon I use to tie my hair out of my face every night. Years ago, my mother started doing that, because she was told it was healthier than rubber bands.

  So I started doing it, too, for some reason.

  After I brush out my hair, I open the door just as quietly as my bedroom one and peer cautiously into the hallway in case more naked strangers are around. I guess it’s good to know I’m not cramping their style.

  Seeing no one, I dart for my room again, smelling the coffee that woke me up drifting up from downstairs. I make my bed, dress in a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved top, and start to unpack my suitcases, but then I stop just as I’m pulling out a stack of shirts.

  I might not stay. I put the shirts back and close my suitcase, deciding to wait.

  I remain planted in the middle of the room for another eight seconds, but as much as I delay, I can’t think of anything else to do in here to put off making an appearance. Leaving the room, I blow out a breath and close the door behind me, not stopping before I dive in head first and descend the stairs to get this over with.

  But as I step into the living room and look around, my shoulders relax just a hair. There’s no one down here. A couple of lamps light the spacious room, and I turn my head left, seeing the kitchen, dimly lit by a few lights hanging over the center island, empty, as well. I spot the red light of the coffee machine, though, and pad over in my bare feet, keeping an eye out for one of the guys.

  Finding a cup in a dish rack, I pour myself a cup.

  “Morning.”

  I jump, the cup nearly slipping out of my hand as the coffee sloshes over the rim. Searing drops land on my thumb, and I hiss.

  I glance over my shoulder, seeing Jake stroll into the kitchen and open the refrigerator,

  “Morning,” I murmur, brushing the hot liquid off my skin.

  “How’d you sleep?” he asks.

  I cast another look, seeing him take out a drink, sweat already glistening all over his arms, neck, and back as his T-shirt hangs out of his back pocket. It’s only about seven. How early do they get up?

  “Fine,” I mumble, taking a paper towel and wiping up the coffee. I actually slept like shit, but that will only open me up to more questions, so it’s easier to lie.

  “Good,” he replies.

  But he just stands there, and I can feel his eyes on me.

  I take another paper towel and wipe the wooden countertop some more.

  “Warm enough?” he presses.

  Huh? I look at him questioningly.

  “Your bedroom last night?” he says, elaborating. “Was it warm enough?”

  His light hair, damp with sweat, sticks to his forehead and temples as he looks at me, and I nod, turning away again.

  But he doesn’t leave.

  He just stays there, and I feel myself wanting to sigh, because this is the part where people usually expect me to make an effort to carry on a conversation.

  The kitchen grows smaller, and the silence more deafening, except for a bird cawing in the distance. I search my brain for something to say, the awkward seconds stretching and making me want to bolt.

  But then he moves closer all of a sudden, and I straighten, on alert as his chest nearly touches my arm. I’m about to move away, but then he reaches in front of me, and I watch as he switches off the coffee maker.

  “I was just keeping it warm for you,” he says, his breath brushing the top of my head.

  My heart starts pumping harder. Keeping it warm…? Oh, the coffee. He left it on for me.

  “You have pretty hands,” he points out.

  I look down at them wrapped around the mug.

  “Your dad did, too,” he adds, and I can hear the taunt.

  I pinch my eyebrows together. Was that a dig?

  “My dad had pretty hands,” I muse, taking a sip without looking at him. “So real men use chainsaws and pick-up trucks instead of Mont Blancs and cell phones?” I ask.

  I turn my head, peering up at him, and he narrows his blue eyes on me.

  “Well, he’s dead now,” I tell Jake. “You win.”

  He lowers his chin, his stare locked on mine, and I see his jaw flex. I turn away and take another sip of my coffee.

&
nbsp; Regardless of whatever bad blood was between him and my father, the orphan is the last person he should be targeting with his insults. Manners are a thing everywhere. This guy’s a prick.

  Despite that, though, my stomach warms, and I sip my coffee to cover up my nerves.

  I feel it. The need to engage.

  After the sadness, anger was my constant companion as a kid. And then the anger went away, and there was nothing. I forgot how good it felt. The distraction of my emotions.

  I like that I don’t like him.

  “Alright,” someone calls, and I hear her footsteps enter the kitchen. “I’m out.”

  I glance over, still feeling Jake’s eyes on me, and watch the naked woman—now dressed—strolling up to Jake with a brown leather backpack slung over her shoulder as she wraps an arm around his neck. She leans in, and he hesitates a moment—still looking at me—before he finally turns to her and lets her kiss him.

  She’s his, then. I take in the smooth skin of her face, in shadow under her baseball cap, and her tight and toned body. She’s nowhere near his age.

  The guys aren’t as cut off from civilization as I thought. Until the weather starts, anyway.

  The tip of her tongue darts out and slips into his mouth for a split-second before she pulls away, and I turn back to my coffee, a strange irritation winding its way through me. Will there be lots of people coming and going?

  “See you tonight?” she asks him.

  “Maybe.”

  There’s a pause and then he repeats himself.

  “Maybe.”

  She must’ve been pouting.

  She plants another kiss on him and leaves, and I exhale, kind of glad he didn’t introduce me to another person.

  “Wanna give me a hand?” Jake asks.

  I look up at him but forget what I was going to ask. He looks a lot like his son.

  More than I realized last night.

  The full head of blond hair, freshly slept on. The lazy half-smile. The constant joke you can see playing behind their eyes. How old is Jake, anyway? My father was forty-nine, and Jake is younger. That’s all I know.

  With sons who are at least twenty, I’d say he’s probably in his early forties?