In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(101)

“Yeah, you can go,” I smile.

She spins before I’m even done speaking and holds her hand up over her head.

“Bye,” she throws in.

I hear her heels click down the hallway and the door opens and closes with the sound of a small set of bells tied to the handle. This is the first time I’ve been here alone. It’s not the old gas station, but it also doesn’t cost a million dollars and come with underground oil wells that would need some serious time, money, and attention. I looked at fifteen, maybe twenty different properties, and this one was dead last. I almost crossed it off the list. But then the address caught my eye.

Murphy Lane.

I’ve never been big on reading into symbolism, or maybe I’ve never slowed down long enough to pay attention. This street, though—it was too obvious to ignore. I drove up with my realtor and something settled in my chest.

The street is ordinary, and, according to the Coffield sisters, it’s “horribly unsafe.” But I disagree. My mother did, too. There isn’t a lot of traffic, sure, but there’s a certain peacefulness here. There’s a distillery next door to me and the two large warehouses across the street are up for sale. There’s been some talk about converting them into music venues, and I’ve even reached out to one of the owners about lending my time there if he decides to go the club route.

When I saw this space, I saw a neighborhood on the verge. My sisters pointed out that neighborhoods have people, but my mom was quick to defend, saying this one has ghosts. My sisters pounced on that, but I got what she meant. There’s a spirit about this place. I’m here at just the right time.

I pull a few files from the last box I carried in and set them on my desk. I don’t have much yet, only some prospective contracts to work with a few people on demos and some editing work to remaster for some small labels who learned about me from Noah, but it’s a start. I have to work out my advertising plan, and it’s going to need to be thin on dollars and fat on creativity. But so far, the grassroots word of mouth has been paying the bills along with a few weekend gigs every month.

My mother brought my father’s painting by this morning. I kept it turned around against the wall in the corner of my office, not wanting it to become a conversation piece for the rest of my family just yet. My sisters won’t know what it is, though I’m sure they’ll recognize it’s of our mother. The symbolism is deeper for me, though, and that’s why she gave it to me. It’s like righting my father’s path and making amends for the passions he missed out on, though I’ve come to terms with the fact that in his own way, he was very happy and satisfied. I just wish he could have been proud. My mom says that somewhere he is, but I doubt that. And it’s okay.

I lift the painting from the ground and test a few places along the wall where I think it would look best, deciding on the space by the doorway, across from my desk. I’ll see it daily, and it will renew me with determination.

I make a small mark on the wall with a pencil, then tuck my writing tool between my teeth and hold the painting with one hand and a hammer in the other as I step from my office in search of a nail. I don’t expect to run into an angel, but when I do, I halt and take every bit of her in.

“It was unlocked,” Murphy says, her voice the same as the last time we spoke, when she told me she was happy where she was and I knew she wasn’t really.

I spit the pencil out on the floor to free my lips. She laughs. My chest fills up.

Home.

“I’m glad it’s you and not one of the vagrants my sisters swear are going to come in here and loot the joint,” I say, my eyes not blinking, not leaving her face. I’m taking a thousand pictures in my mind.

She laughs again at my words, and it’s that familiar laugh, the one that comes from knowing the truth behind the little things. She knows my sisters.

“I’m pretty sure I was the only person out on the street a minute ago. This place,” she says, looking around at my humble headquarters. Half-painted and torn-up floors, it isn’t much to look at yet, but the vision is starting to come together. She grins when her gaze lands back on me. “It’s hard to find, but wow…Casey.”

Hearing her say my name is like a dream. Maybe she’s a ghost.

“I know…it’s rough. Paige is helping, and she’s got plans for just about every wall in this place, and I’ve got a few clients lined up. Business will come,” I shrug.

“I know it will. I saw the article in the paper. Mom sent it to me,” she says. “And this building…I see it. It’s good it’s hidden. Only the right people will find it.”

“Exactly,” I say.

There’s a pause—a beautiful one—after she compliments me. I live in it and revel in her beautiful face and the silence and her smile. Looking to the side, I search for a place to set down the painting and hammer, deciding on a box filled with plastic sheeting and paint supplies.

“I heard your single,” I say, and her eyes brighten. She’s nervous, afraid I won’t approve. How could I not. “They’re playing it on heavy rotation on the country station here. Your brother…” I start, falling away into an “ahh” at my slip.

“You’ve been talking to Lane,” she says, her smile falling a hint as suspicion and questions come into her eyes. I’m a little surprised he’s kept it a secret, but then again, he promised he would.