Year One (Chronicles of The One #1)(63)

“Ah, hey, guys?” Eddie sat on the snowy ground, gathering Joe to him. “Am I, like, you know, a witch?”

Lana found she had an answer after all. Easing away from Max, she crouched down, stroked Joe with one hand, cupped Eddie’s face with another.

“No. What you are is a good man.”

“But, like, a regular dude?”

“I’d go with special, but yeah. You’re a regular dude, Eddie.”

“Cool.” He heaved out a relieved breath. “That was way out of the awesome, but I’d like to get the flock away from here if it’s okay now.”

“What was done was done.” Max looked back at the dead earth. “But it won’t be done here again. We’ll head back. We’ve already been gone longer than we intended. We should grab some downed branches on the way.”

“For cover.” Eddie accepted Max’s outstretched hand, pulled himself up. “Because maybe one of them…”

“No point taking that chance.”





CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Arlys Reid’s childhood home sat sturdily on just shy of an acre in a neighborhood southeast of Columbus. People owned their homes here—the brick ranches, the tidy and old-fashioned split-levels, the bungalows, and the Cape Cods.

It was a neighborhood of screened porches and chain-link fences.

While most of the homes had been built in the post–World War II boom, generations of owners made changes. A deck, a bonus room, a second story with dormers, man caves, and great rooms.

She’d grown up riding her bike on the frost-heaved sidewalks and playing in the grassy park with its fringe of trees.

Until she’d left for college, it had been the only home she’d known in the quiet middle-class neighborhood that edged toward dull.

As their convoy of two turned onto her old street, nostalgia and hope squeezed her heart in brutal, twisting hands.

“Never would’ve pegged you for Midwestern suburbia.”

She stared out the window, thinking of neighbors she’d known. The Minnows, the Clarkstons, the Andersons, the Malleys.

She remembered, clear as day, coming home from school to find her mother sitting with a tearful Mrs. Malley in the kitchen—and having herself shooed out.

Mr. Malley, father of three, manager of the local bank, and backyard barbecue king, had fallen in love with his dental hygienist, had moved out that very morning, and wanted a divorce.

Small matters now, she thought as they passed houses with darkened windows, with curtains drawn tight on a street where no snowplow had passed for weeks.

She turned to Chuck. “It was a good place to grow up.” Something she hadn’t appreciated until she’d left it behind. “There, on the right. Brick house with the dormers and the covered front porch.”

“It’s really pretty,” Fred said from the back. “A really big yard. I always wanted a really big yard.”

Inside Arlys, the low-grade stress that had lived in her through this last leg, with its detours, its inching progress, spiked. The really big yard Fred admired formed a white blanket, straight across the driveway, and piled at least a foot in front of the closed garage doors.

No one had shoveled the drive, the front steps, the walk.

The eyes of the front windows showed dark with tightly closed curtains. The azaleas her mother prized formed misshapen white lumps.

Chuck pushed up the drive in the Humvee so Jonah could follow in his tracks. Arlys shoved out, went nearly knee-deep in snow. Heart hammering, face burning hot, she waded through it.

“Hold on, Arlys.” Chuck pumped his long legs behind her. “Just slow down.”

“I have to see. My mother … I have to see.”

“Okay, okay, but not alone.” He had to wrap an arm around her shoulders to slow her down. “Remember, we all agreed? Nobody goes anywhere without a buddy. We’re your buds.”

“They haven’t shoveled the porch, the steps, the walk. Somebody always shovels the snow. Why haven’t they cleaned off the bushes? She’d never let snow pile on her azaleas. I have to see.”

She pushed past one of the pink dogwoods her father had planted when a storm damaged the old red maple.

“Hold it right there!”

Arlys heard a hard slide and click. Chuck’s arm released her as he tossed his hands in the air. “Take it easy, mister.”

“Just keep your hands up. All of you! Hands up.”

In a half daze, Arlys turned, stared at the man in boots and a flannel jacket who was holding a shotgun while his glasses slid down his nose.

“Mr. Anderson?”

Behind his silver-framed glasses, his eyes flicked from Chuck toward Arlys. Recognition sparked in them. “Arlys? Is that Arlys Reid?”

“Yes, sir.”

He lowered the gun, broke the stock open, then plowed through the snow to reach her. “Didn’t recognize you.” His voice cracked as he wrapped one arm around her in a hug. “Didn’t expect to see you.”

“I’ve been trying to get here, trying to … My parents.”

Because she knew, already knew, her throat narrowed on grief, then just closed.

Now his hand rubbed up and down her back, already comforting. “I’m sorry to have to tell you, honey. I’m sorry.”

She’d already known, and still it came as a blow to the heart. For a moment she just pressed her face to his shoulder. Caught the faint scent of tobacco.