The Cousins(83)

“Hey!” Allison shook Adam’s shoulder as she yelled in his ear, and he jumped a mile. “What are you guys doing?”

Anders turned, his eyes glittering in the moonlight. “Taking care of a problem.”





Once I’m through the gate, I park my bike behind a thick tangle of honeysuckle shrubs and approach the driveway leading to Catmint House, considering my next steps. I can’t exactly waltz up to the front door all Hey, hi, could you spit into a cup for me? Just need a little DNA and I’ll be on my way.

Even thinking the words makes me feel like I’m losing my mind. Sane people don’t break into mansions looking for evidence that their grandmother is an imposter. I kept asking myself, as I pedaled here, if there might be an explanation for the lack of a birthmark on my grandmother’s hand.

Maybe she had it lasered off?

I’d asked about laser removal when I got teased mercilessly as a preteen. “You should be proud,” my father said. “Your grandmother was. She wouldn’t remove part of herself to please other people.” Which was actually good advice, for once, but my mother agreed to let me consult with a few plastic surgeons. They all said the same thing: the color was too dense and too deep. It might fade a little, but it would never go away completely.



Maybe she was wearing makeup?

But then why the gloves? Why the gloves, always, even on a hot summer day?

Maybe you just missed it.

I hadn’t, though. I know that birthmark like the back of my hand, and that’s exactly where it should have been on her. It’s the only characteristic my grandmother and I share, and it wasn’t there. I’m sure of that.

The lush landscaping of the grounds lets me skirt behind bushes all the way up the driveway and then around to the back of the house. Then I pause, looking at the sun-drenched yard. It’s surprisingly big, given how close to the cliff Catmint House looks from a distance, and not as well maintained as the front. The grass is too long, the bushes too wild, and the flowers are unkempt and overgrown. I can hear the roar of the sea crashing against rocks behind the house, and the faint cries of seagulls circling above.

What am I doing?

I start to back up, suddenly horrified with myself. I’m trespassing, is what I’m doing, with the intent to break into a house whose owner explicitly told me to stay away. I could get arrested for this, and for what? I should just tell somebody my suspicions and leave it to the police, or whoever, to sort everything out.

And then I see it: a first-floor window barely five feet off the ground, half open. It almost looks like an invitation.

I creep forward until I’m beneath the sill, then raise myself on tiptoes to peer inside. It’s a beautiful room, with crown molding and an elaborate chandelier, but it looks as though it’s being used for storage space. It’s empty except for piles of boxes, rolled-up rugs, and chairs stacked neatly one on top of the other. The hallway behind the open inner door is silent and dim.



Am I really going to do this? Can I do this? I curl my palms around the sill, debating. I haven’t worked out here like I did while I was swimming competitively, and it doesn’t take long to lose muscle strength. But I’ve always been good at pull-ups.

I take a deep breath and hoist myself up, surprised at how easily I rise. My feet scramble for purchase on the side of the house and I almost lose my grip, but I manage to get one arm up and over the windowsill, which gives me enough leverage to pull myself halfway through. I stay there for a few seconds, panting, then crawl the rest of the way inside.

I land in a crouch, flexing my sore palms. Take that, Dad, I think as I rise. Arm strength comes in handy sometimes.

I have no idea what part of the house I’m in. I slip off my sneakers and leave them beside the window, then pad across the hardwood floor until I get to the doorway. I move silently down the hall, pausing after every step, until I come to a staircase. I stand there a long time, straining my ears for any signal that someone’s near the top, but there’s nothing.

I navigate the stairs carefully, stepping lightly until I’m on the upstairs landing. I don’t know what part of the house I’m in, but it’s so quiet that I become a little bolder and move more quickly. Maybe I got lucky, and nobody’s home.

I climb a second set of stairs, steeper and narrower, and pause at the door at the top. I place my hand on the knob and turn slowly, as far as I can. Then I push. It swings open with only the tiniest creaking noise, and I peer into a wide hallway. There are doors on either side, and my heart starts pounding when I realize that I might’ve found a back stairway to the bedroom area. Which is where I need to be, because the only way I can be sure that I’m grabbing something of Gran’s is to take it from her room.



I approach the first door noiselessly and open it quickly, stepping inside. Right away, I know this isn’t anyone’s current bedroom; it has a deserted, musty feeling to it. Not to mention outdated curtains and bed linens that look like they haven’t been changed in years. There’s a red blanket at the foot of the bed that reads MARTINDALE PREP in bold white letters, and two lacrosse sticks propped in one corner.

Wait. Could this be my dad’s old room? I creep in a little farther and spy a framed photo on the wall beside the window. It’s the same picture of my father and Gran that I saw in Sweetfern: the two of them holding that ugly painting and beaming for the camera. I zero in on my grandmother’s hand, dominated by that prominent birthmark.