“Honey, we have time to get him.”
She shook her head. “You know how Roger is. He’ll be embarrassed. It’s better if I drive him.”
She caught us exchanging curious glances as we always did when she brought up Roger. They swore they were only friends, but they’d been inseparable since kindergarten. Only a Roger-in-need could throw my sister off her rigid schedule. Their friendship was one of the few things that brought out her softer side.
“Look,” she said. “Driving with us will only make Roger feel even shittier. He’ll have to watch Mom and Dad be perfect together minutes after his parents let him down again.”
“If you say so,” Dad said.
“I say so.” Delia kissed his cheek, gave Mom a hug and patted me on my head. “Be good,” she said. “I’ll meet you there. Drive safe, but don’t dawdle.”
She gave a final, stern look, then swept past us, out into the warmth of the late May afternoon. Her sharply pressed robes snapped crisply around her smart, low-heeled pumps that clopped on the pavement like a snare drum. Get. Out. Of. My. Way.
“Awesome,” I said. “Now we can stop for pizza.”
Mom gave her blond-going-silver curls a pat. “I think one of the best graduation gifts we can give your sister is to be in our seats when she arrives.”
“Hold up.” I slipped off the heels and took my yellow sandals from the shoe rack at the door.
“Thea,” Mom said. “You promised.”
“Hey, I promised this boring dress. Delia-approved footwear was not in the contract. She won’t know until it’s too late.”
We climbed into Dad’s silver Cadillac. Mom rode shotgun while I sat in the back behind her, and we hit the road, heading out of Richmond toward Charlottesville, Virginia. The views were stunning—rolling green hills and trees under a cloudless blue sky. I loved my home state, but I had no plans to stay in it. After graduating from VCU School of the Arts next year, I was hauling my ass directly to New York City.
“How about some music, Pops?” I said from the back seat.
“Eight seconds of silence,” Dad said. “A new record.”
“Music is life,” I said, laughing. “Right after painting. And The Office. And pizza.”
“No pizza.” Dad fiddled with the knob until he found my favorite station, and “Bad Romance” filled the car. “Good?”
“Can’t go wrong with Lady Gaga.”
Dad smirked. “I’ll take your word for it.”
I grooved to the song as best I could within the confines of my seatbelt until Mom turned down the volume.
“Poor Roger,” she said. “What are his parents thinking?”
“I wonder what Delia is thinking,” Dad said. He peered at me through the rearview. “You have any sisterly intel on the two of them? Are they an item?”
“No idea,” I said. “You know how Delia is. Wound up tight. She never tells me anything.”
Mom craned around to peer at me. “And how about you? No date for the occasion?”
“This is a family thing,” I said. “And none of the guys I’ve dated lately are worthy. They think I’m ‘fun’ and don’t want anything serious with me. Or maybe I don’t want anything serious with them. Maybe I’m not capable of serious.”
“I’m sure that’s not true, honey,” Mom said.
“Delia would beg to differ.”
“I love your sister to pieces, but a monastery isn’t serious enough for her.”
“Honestly, I can’t wait to fall in love, but I guess you can’t force these things. It’ll happen when it happens. I’ll meet That Guy. The one I can’t stop thinking about. And when what I feel about him starts to spill over into my art, I’ll know he’s the one.”
“A wise philosophy,” Dad said.
“Speaking of art,” Mom said, “how is your latest project coming along?”
“It’s done. I finished just as Delia was about to blow a gasket.”
“Wonderful, I can’t wait to see it.” Mom knocked my knee with the back of her hand. “You and your pyramids.”
“Right?” I laughed. “If I ever get famous, Egypt will be my thing. Like Kahlo’s self-portraits or O’Keeffe’s vagina flowers.”
“Thea.” Dad chuckled.
“I’m not saying I’m a Frida or a Georgia—”
“You wouldn’t say that because you’re too modest,” Mom said. “But as your mother, I’m allowed to brag that you’re right up there with the greats.”
“As my mother, you’re contractually obligated to say that,” I said. “But thanks, Mama. You’re the best. I—”
“Dear God,” my father cried out.
Mom started to turn. “What…?”
A flash of pale blue and blinding chrome.
A bang as loud as the universe. I felt it in my bones. In my teeth. It echoed through the hood, through the windshield.
It kept coming and coming and coming, tearing through us until there was nothing.
Chapter 1
Jim
The red-and-white For Rent sign caught my eye through my helmet’s face shield. I slowed my Harley FX, parked it at the curb and lifted the visor.
Behind a rickety fence was a tiny house, probably no more than nine hundred square feet, squatting on a patch of dried grass. The cement path leading up to the door was cracked. A crooked step on the stoop. Peeling white paint on the siding.
Small, plain, and cheap.
Perfect.
I took off my helmet fished my cell phone out of my black leather jacket and called the faded number on the sign.
It’s just a damn phone call, I thought, inhaling deep. Keep your shit together.
A man answered. “Yeah.”
Inhale. Exhale.
“I’m calling about the house for rent in Boones Mill?”
No stutter. Not even on the m in Mill. A minor victory.
“Okay,” the guy said. “Six-fifty per month. Utilities included but not water. No pets. Wanna see it? I can be down there in five.”
“I have a job interview at the Blue Ridge Sanitarium,” I said. “If I get the job, I’ll be back in a few hours. I could see it then.”
The guy sighed. “So why call me now?”
“I don’t want anyone to take it.”
He chuckled over the distinct sound of an exhale of a cigarette—half cough, half laugh.
“Son, you’re the first to call in a month. I think you’re safe.” A drag off his smoke. “You going to work up at Blue Ridge? With all the head cases and whackos?”
I gripped the phone tighter. Asshole. “Just don’t rent the house, okay?”
“Sure, sure. I’ll put a courtesy hold on it, just for you.”
“Thanks,” I muttered. I hung up and my hand dropped to my jeans-clad thigh.
The guy was right—no one wanted his crappy little house but me. The phone call was a dry run for my job interview at the sanitarium. I’d been driving since six this morning from Richmond and didn’t want my interviewer to be the first person I talked to.