Wait.
I pulled up short.
Why had the man been out on that road? Where had he come from, where was he going? He’d been so close to my house. What if he meant to harm me? What if he’d been here while I was gone? It was no secret I went to my sister’s for dinner every Saturday night.
Water dripped from every inch of me, puddling at my feet. I shivered.
If the man wanted to harm me, why hadn’t he taken his chance when he had me alone on the road, not another car in sight?
Maybe because the accident had hurt him just enough…
I lifted my hand from the knob and stared at the door, afraid of what I might find on the other side. I shook all over, miserably cold. Logic wormed its way into my brain once more—the man hadn’t hurt me, far from it. He’d given me incredible information. Melissa knew what had happened.
But how could I trust this man when he hadn’t even been willing to show his face?
Fine, Joanne—and if you don’t walk through your own door right now, just what do you plan to do?
A violent shudder possessed my limbs. I could barely feel my fingers and toes. I needed a hot shower. Warm, dry clothes. I needed to think this through.
The SUV’s engine ticked. I looked back at the car. Water plinked from it onto the garage’s concrete floor.
I could get back inside the car, return to my sister’s house.
Then what?
I faced the door, heart stuttering. Another hard shiver wracked my body. I craved heat. Needed it, now.
Breathing a prayer, I opened the door and ventured into the house.
FOUR
JUNE 2004
Wow. Sixteen-year-old Melissa Harkoff’s jaw hinged loose. The house was crazy.
She gaped through the back window of the Jacksons’ fancy car. A Mercedes. That should have given her a clue. But nothing could have prepared her for this mansion. Two-story, with big gray stones around the front door, and chimneys on each end. The driveway circled in front, a long sidewalk sweeping up to three wide steps of the porch. Green, thick bushes lined the sidewalk, and big pots of flowers sat on the porch. The windows were large and clean. And the house went on for…like forever.
How many rooms did a house like that hold? Twenty? Fifty? Each one must be as long as a yacht.
And one of them was for her. A bedroom. With a sturdy door she could close.
Tears welled in Melissa’s eyes. This couldn’t be happening. Any minute now she’d wake up back in her mother’s filthy trailer. She’d open her eyes to a stained, saggy ceiling. Hear her mother’s hack and cough, the clink of the first bottle she’d pulled from a paintpeeling cabinet. Gin. The whiskey would come later. Melissa would smell the trailer’s stale mustiness of dirt and despair. A life going nowhere. She’d pull on old clothes and slip out the door to school before taking a true, deep breath.
Melissa blinked back the tears. She never cried in front of anybody, much less people she hardly knew.
She looked down at her lap, taking in the new designer jeans Linda had just bought for her. The pink, crisp top. Matching sandals. They’d stopped at a big mall before coming here. Mr. Jackson—Baxter, he told her to call him—had waited patiently while she tried on a bunch of stuff. He told Melissa she looked “very nice” when she came out to show Linda the jeans and top she liked best. He was holding Linda’s hand, and they smiled at each other like they shared a fun secret.
Baxter wasn’t hot-looking at all. He had a boyish face, kind of round, with thick, dark hair parted on the side. The hair looked totally eighties. He had brown eyes, and his jawline was a little soft. Sort of looked like a grown-up choirboy. But there was something about him. He wasn’t that tall, but he seemed to tower over Melissa, as if some power vibrated from his body. She’d found herself eyeing him, trying to figure him out. He was nothing but kind to her. Not coming on to her in any way. But what was it about him? In a huge party, you’d know when this guy entered the room. You’d feel it, as if the air changed. Magnetism, that was the word. He oozed it.
Melissa’s hands trembled. She stuffed them between her knees. This day was too much already. Had to be a dream. One wrong move with these people, and she’d find herself back in the system tomorrow, praying for another foster home.
The last one hadn’t turned out so great.
“You like the house?” Linda asked from the front seat. Her voice was light, sort of chirpy. As if she was talking to a child. She half turned around, part of her face in view. She was pretty, with smooth skin and gray-blue eyes. Her makeup looked stunning. She’d done the model thing with eye shadow, darker at the corners, and colored liner smudged just right underneath. Melissa wanted to learn how to do that. Probably needed expensive makeup, not the cheap stuff she’d managed to buy for herself. Or steal.
“Yeah.” Melissa affected a shrugging tone. “It’s nice.”
Linda smiled. “Good. I hope you like your room. We can change anything you don’t like.”
“Are the walls all gray stained?”
Linda made an empathetic noise in her throat. “No.”
“Does it smell like old socks and stale cigarette smoke?”
“No.”
“We don’t smoke,” Baxter said. “Nasty habit.”
Tell me about it. “Then I’ll like it.”
Baxter pulled the Mercedes into a three-car garage. In the space next to them sat a blue BMW. And on the other side of that, a red Corvette.
Melissa thrust her jaw forward, studying the vehicles. Why have three cars when you didn’t even have kids? Mrs. Campbell, her social worker, had told Melissa the Jacksons couldn’t have children. Maybe they planned to bring a bunch more foster kids home. Maybe Melissa would end up babysitting a bunch of little brats. Or cleaning out the fireplaces like Cinderella. Something had to go wrong here. This was looking too perfect.
Baxter turned off the engine and caught Melissa’s eye through the rearview mirror. “Welcome home, Melissa.”
Home. Not “welcome to our house.” Welcome home.
Melissa stared back at him. She wanted to say something, but her throat felt too tight. She nodded.
Linda turned around again, and Melissa’s gaze wandered to her face. She studied Melissa with a mixture of sadness and hope. “We know you’ve had a hard time, honey.” Linda’s voice was soft. “But everything’s going to be fine now. We’ll all work together to make it fine.”
“Better than that.” Baxter patted his wife’s arm. “We’ll make it great.”
FIVE
FEBRUARY 2010
In the kitchen I flipped on the fluorescent light, the door to my garage closing behind me. My gaze cruised the room. The porcelain sink lay clean and empty, a glass to its right on the counter. The beige cabinets and drawers were all closed. The floor, except the spot I stood upon, was dry. Nothing looked out of place.
My eyes fixed upon the sliding glass door that led to my small backyard patio. Locked.
I took off my dripping coat and laid it on the counter. Set my purse on the table. The sounds of my movements seemed so loud. For a moment I stood, breathing. Feeling the house. Had that man been here, done something?
Why would he?
My feet took me through the kitchen and into the living room, in the front part of the house. I lingered just inside the doorway, looking at my brown suede couch and matching armchair, the women’s magazines scattered on the long wooden coffee table. My TV and stereo and tall, slim cabinet of CDs—most of them classic rock. All appeared normal.