Unmissing(62)

At the bottom of the page is a sales history, claiming it was purchased three years ago for seven hundred fifty grand. Next to the total is a hyperlink connecting to the county assessor’s page. I can’t imagine any scenario in which I’d need to know the property taxes on this thing, but I click it anyway.

Scrolling down a khaki-colored page filled with little white squares of information—acreage shape, square footage, outbuildings . . . I stop when I get to the owner line.

Luca and Merritt S. Coletto

I shove the chair out from under me and pace the tiny confines of my office.

He sent me that location along with the words “for your fresh start.” Then he got out of town without telling anyone here where he went—I’ve asked.

If he were an actual human being with a bleeding heart, I’d almost think he was giving me this property.

But since I know The Monster, I know better.

It’s bait.

And I’ll bite.

Only this time, I’ll be prepared.





CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE


MERRITT

Wind howls through the drafty farmhouse window as I feed Everett. I’m not sure the time—somewhere between two and three AM if I had to guess. Luca and Elsie are asleep. The house should be silent, only it isn’t. It never is. This old thing creaks and moans day and night, never shutting up.

If I believed in ghosts and that sort of nonsense, maybe I’d wonder if this place is haunted by its previous owners—the Jamesons. Can’t imagine building an entire life out here, raising your children and grandchildren in these picturesque rolling hills, only to have them cash in on your death the first chance they get.

Talk about a slap in the face.

My children will know what it means to appreciate where they came from.

Maybe the Jamesons were shitty parents who cared more about their farm than their family?

It’s easy to idealize strangers, to view them through our own life lenses. Growing up, I would’ve sworn everyone had it better than me and that my parents were the only ones with an embarrassingly dysfunctional marriage. Now that I’m grown, I know better.

There’s no such thing as a perfect marriage.

Though Luca and I came pretty damn close.

The floorboards settle from the hallway.

“Luca?” I call out, waiting.

Nothing.

Just the house adjusting, as per usual.

But then it happens again. Footsteps. Three of them. Then another. All spaced apart in random increments.

Placing the baby over my shoulder, I rise from the rocking chair and lumber to the door, peeking my head into the hall. But there’s nothing. No one. Darkness and a few pictures on the walls.

With Everett in my arms, I make my way around the old house, stopping at Elsie’s room to click off the sound machine. Luca always forgets to set the twenty-minute timer. Inhaling the scent of lived-in must and other people’s memories, I linger over my daughter’s bed for a moment and watch her sleep.

Someday soon this will be a memory.

After we leave, we’re never coming back. I haven’t decided where we’re going yet. Maybe we’ll make our way across the country and wind up in Manhattan at my sister’s. It won’t be ideal shacking up with her and her single-girl-in-the-big-city lifestyle, but until I’m able to get on my feet again—and I will—she’s the best chance we have.

The windows rattle. They said a cold front was coming through tonight, but I don’t remember hearing anything about a windstorm. Peeking beyond the lacy curtains, I can see the wall of leaning, stretching trees that line this side of the property. I suppose it makes sense then—this noise. We’re not insulated out here. There’s no cocoon protecting this house from the elements or outside threats.

With one hand, I adjust Elsie’s covers in case it grows colder tonight. And then I carry the baby downstairs. I could easily put him to bed in his bassinet and climb in beside my husband and catch a few hours of sleep, but I’d rather hold him a little longer.

Everything’s about to change.

I need to soak in these last little moments. Maybe do a little preemptive mourning.

It takes forever to get to the bottom of the stairs with Everett in my arms and my incision flinching with pain, but I make it. A minute later, I manage to get us settled in the microfiber La-Z-Boy, a throw blanket keeping us warm. Milk-drunk, my son falls asleep on my chest, his little chest swelling and emptying with each breath.

My lids grow heavy as I press my toes against the floorboards, rocking us both to sleep.

If everything goes to hell in a handbasket, at least I have my babies. There’s nothing in this world more priceless than a child’s love for their mother. Nothing in this world that can take it away. That’s the thing about children, they love without reason, without fear, and without condition.

It never mattered that my mother sent me away year after year, that she could never sit through a family gathering without having downed a gin and tonic and a benzo. Or that she forgot my birthday more times than I could count over the years. I still loved her. And I still miss her every day.

I rub Everett’s back, press my cheek against his silky hair, and breathe in his powdery scent.

I don’t need money, a luxury car, an enviable house, or a useless husband to validate my place in this world.

Everything I’ve done—and everything I’ll ever do—is for my children.