Good for You: A Novel (13)

So in that way, it wasn’t really a surprise that Luke’s will included plans for his house to continue to be tended to. His lawyer had confirmed that someone was taking care of the place when he’d sent over the papers, which Aly still hadn’t been able to bring herself to read. At least she’d thought to tuck the thick folder into her suitcase on her way out of the city; she’d probably need those documents to legally sell the place.

She parked her compact rental car beside the SUV, then sat there for a few minutes with her forehead pressed to the steering wheel as she tried to prepare herself. Instinctively, she knew the place would smell like Luke. It wasn’t like he had a signature scent or anything—mostly he smelled sort of clean, like soap and fabric softener. That was notable because growing up, their parents both smoked, and their washing machine had been perpetually broken, which meant their clothing usually announced their presence before they had a chance to. And of course, Luke had personally chosen every item of furnishing in his home. The total effect was a bit nautical for Aly’s taste—lots of navy blue and big framed maps of the Great Lakes, with model sailboats and anchors for decor. But it was undeniably him.

And it was going to hurt like hell to have to see it.

As she fished around in her purse for the keys, which Luke had attached to a small compass key chain, it occurred to her that maybe she shouldn’t have resisted this visit so much. It might be exactly what she needed to get past her weird mental blips and be more present at work. Besides, she didn’t have to dip a single toe in the lake. She could walk along the dry sand and stroll through town, and maybe read some of the novels Luke had lined his shelves with. (“No boring business books,” he’d told her with a wink as she combed through his vast selection. “Those days are behind me.”) She did need to regroup before returning to the office. This might be just the place for that.

And maybe—just maybe—being at Luke’s house would help her understand why her preternaturally intelligent brother would do the dumbest possible thing and get himself killed.

Okay, she told herself, finally stepping out of the car. You can do this. You can. You know how to do hard things. First, she would walk to the door. Then she would place the key in the keyhole, twist, and turn the doorknob. And . . . step inside.

If she could just get that far, it would almost be alright.

But when Aly reached the door, she discovered it was slightly ajar. Really? she thought with irritation. She’d have to have a word with these cleaners.

“Hello?” she called, tentatively sticking her head into the house.

Oh no, she immediately thought as her eyes swept the room. The house was mostly open concept, with a spacious kitchen that led directly into the living and dining areas, which looked out at the patio, and beyond that, the lake. But rather than the clean, tidy space she’d expected, there was . . . stuff.

Everywhere.

Piles of clothes in the middle of the entryway. Empty cereal boxes and open cans strewn across the counter. Bedding on the sofa, food wrappers on the floor. A blizzard of books on the dining room table. Luke had been robbed! And—Aly nearly gagged—what was that smell? It was like someone had forgotten to take the trash out for months.

Trash. A burglar didn’t leave trash behind. No, this was even worse than she’d imagined. Someone had broken in and was living here. She’d read about renegade squatters who took over people’s homes while they were out of town. Then they used some archaic law to justify their occupation, and it took forever for the authorities to force them to leave.

Oh, this was very, very bad indeed.

Without turning around, she began to slowly back up. The main thing was to leave silently, so the intruder—intruders, she quickly corrected herself; judging from the mess, there must be several of them—didn’t hear her. She would creep back to the car, and since she wasn’t strong enough to put it in neutral and push it down the driveway before turning the engine on, she’d have to manage to peel out extremely fast.

But as she took another step back, she hit something. Something solid and . . . stinky. Like, really rank. Without thinking, she pivoted.

And then she screamed bloody murder.

Because a man stood there. A very tall, very shirtless man with a disgusting unkempt beard and wild dark eyes, staring right at her. So this is how it ends, she thought, her own scream ringing in her ears. She’d made more than a bad decision—she’d made the worst one.

Or maybe it was the best. As the man eyed her like a psycho, the ground beneath her began to sway. That was probably what Luke had been trying to tell her in her dream. He was waiting for her at the beach house because he knew—as the dead must, she decided, even as another voice in her head told her she was quickly losing her already-tenuous grip on reality—that she was about to join him, wherever he was.

The floor crumbled beneath her before she could think anything else, and then everything went black.





EIGHT


Ugh, there it is again, Aly thought as her eyes slowly opened. That terrible, tangy, seven-days-without-a-shower stench. Who knew that a man’s overripe odor could double as smelling salts?

But as soon as the hairy pecs she’d slammed into came into focus, she immediately squeezed her lids closed again. Best to play possum. Maybe if he thought she was unconscious, he would leave her alone long enough for her to dash out the door. Why hadn’t she thought to bring pepper spray—or better yet, a machete? Oh, Meagan and James were going to feel so bad when they heard she’d been strangled and tossed into Lake Michigan. It almost made her forgive them for putting her in this position.