Black Bird of the Gallows(34)



Dad’s recovery is decent. After an initial fumble, he yanks off his glove and extends his hand. “Good morning. I’m Bradley Dovage, your next-door neighbor. We spoke on the phone. Once. About snow removal. And this is my daughter, Angelina.”

Angelina? I don’t think he’s used my full name since telling the doctor to put it on my birth certificate. He must be nervous.

The woman smiles. One of her arms is in a sling, but she shakes his hand with the other. My poor dad’s Adam’s apple rocks up and down.

“Ah, it’s a pleasure to meet you at last.” Her lovely accent has an immediate effect on my father, who starts fidgeting with the fringe on his scarf. “I’m Lucia Fernandez, but please call me Lucy. Come in, come in. You’re just in time for breakfast.”

“Breakfast?” My dad’s eyes go wide. “Oh no. We couldn’t. We just stopped by because we heard about the accident and—”

Lucy smiles sadly. “My arm will heal, as arms do. I am blessed beyond words to be alive. Others in that accident were not so fortunate.” Her mouth turns down at the corners, before she opens the door wider and steps inside. “Today, we celebrate life. It’s easy to forget how precious it is. Come, come inside. My Brooke makes the best pancakes you will ever eat. And enough to feed an army.” You cannot refuse that kind of invitation. A celebration of life makes polite retreat impossible.

My dad is no match for this woman. He goes right in like a corralled cow, but I’m not so easily herded. And I’m suddenly not so eager. Reece said it himself: death follows these people, and it’s soaked in the bones of this house. My mind draws up the images released to the media of blood-spattered floors and smeared handprints scrabbling for doorknobs. A crow on the roof above me lets out a noisy kraa. A wave of dizziness washes over me. My dad shoots me a pointed get in here look, so I drag myself inside.

Lucy studies me with interest and knowledge. “Angelina—or do you prefer Angie? We have heard so much about you.” Her gaze lingers, assesses. I can’t imagine what Reece told her about me. Maybe she knows that I know they’re not quite what they seem.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Fernandez,” I say. “I do prefer Angie.”

Her smile is warm, lacking even the slightest threat or warning. “And I do prefer Lucy. Now, come inside. Before breakfast gets cold.”

These people are not entirely human. I must try to remember this, even though standing in this house, hearing the sounds of a typical family, the thought is surreal. It’s difficult to feel menaced here. One look around and my nerves ease. What did I expect? A moldering house with peeling paint and graffitied walls? Not a chance. The sounds of living people pour through the walls. The smell of fresh paint mingles with coffee, maple syrup, and hot butter wafting from the kitchen. The two young children I met with Roger race past. Their footsteps pound down the hallway, until they spot us and stop abruptly.

“I believe you’ve met Fiona and Paxton, Angie, but Mr. Dovage has not,” Lucy says. “How do we greet guests?”

The children blink up at us, gap-toothed and flush with energy. Paxton nods his regal little head. “Hello, Mr. Dovage. It’s nice to see you again, Angie.”

Fiona looks around me, mouth turned down in disappointment. “You didn’t bring Roger?”

I grin at her. “No, but I’ll let him know you missed him.”

She nods, serious and satisfied. “Okay, but bring him next time, okay?”

“What did we say about manners, Fiona?” Lucy asks.

“Oh, sorry.” The girl rolls her eyes theatrically. “Please bring Roger.”

I grin at her. “It’s a deal.”

She leans toward me, conspiratorially. “Reece still talks about you, you know. All the time.”

My face heats with the mother of all blushes. Dad gives me a raised-brow look that says, are you sure there’s nothing going on? “Oh, well.” I fumble for words. “We go to school together.”

Fiona rolls her eyes again, and the two children run off.

Lucy looks after them fondly. “My late husband and I have five. All adopted.” She takes our coats and hangs them on hooks next to the front door. Then, her gaze moves to the staircase behind us. “Ah. Here comes another one. Good morning, sleepyhead.”

I turn around, and my breath catches. Reece halts midway down the stairs. Loose gray sweatpants hang perilously low on his hips. And I’m pretty sure that’s all he’s wearing.

He rubs his puffy eyes and squints. “Oh.”

I’m staring. My throat is suddenly bone dry and I’m staring. There is no looking away from him. Reece Fernandez shirtless is making me rethink the merits of hockey players. He’s hiding a ripped bod under all those layered shirts. Dad and Lucy are probably aware of my staring, but I can’t summon the will to care.

Reece stares right back at me in a bleary, are-you-really-here? sort of way.

Lucy clucks her tongue. “Reece, for Pete’s sake, say hello to our guests.”

“Oh. Um, good morning, Mr. Dovage, Angie.” His voice is still sleep-roughened and absurdly cute. He scratches his head, where the hair is flat on one side and sticking up on the other.

“Well done,” Lucy says drily. “Now kindly take yourself back upstairs and put on some clothes.”

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