Gilt Hollow (2 page)

“Your mother signed the papers for your discharge last week. But since you turned eighteen yesterday, it became unnecessary. You can be released into your own custody now.” St. James's lips pressed together.

“My mom . . . was here?”

“Yes, Ashton.”

Of course she hadn't wanted to see him.

He hadn't seen or heard from his parents since his conviction. All his so-called friends had abandoned him. Even the girl he thought would stick by his side through anything had disappeared from his life. Apparently loyalty through a manslaughter conviction had been too much for her. But he didn't need them to start over. He didn't need anyone. Not anymore. Ashton swallowed the rejection that never seemed to fade, set his jaw, and lifted his chin. During the past week in solitary with nothing but his deepest fears and past regrets to keep him company, it had become clear what he needed to do. And who he needed to make pay.

Zane went over his release paperwork, the schedule for check-ins, and all the terms and conditions. If Ashton so much as stepped a toe on the wrong side of the law, he would
violate the terms of his parole and risk ending up back in jail. Not here, but an adult joint. The real deal. No way would he risk it.

Ashton signed the papers and then shook hands with Bob and St. James—who actually flashed a genuine smile—and then turned to his parole officer.

“A taxi's waiting for you out front. Here's fifty bucks. You'll need to contact me with your new address within twenty-four hours, and we'll set up a home visit within the week.” Zane handed him the cash, and they shook hands for the second time. “Where're you headed?”

Before Ashton could answer, the image that haunted him flashed across his mind—Daniel's broken body, his blood mixing in the water that lapped against Ashton's skin as he searched for a pulse, the horrible grief and fear when he didn't find one. Ashton would uncover his friend's true killer and make them pay for every hour that he'd lost in this place.

He leveled his gaze on the probation officer. “I'm going back. Back to Gilt Hollow.”

T
he familiar squeeze enveloped Willow's chest as she ducked behind the cappuccino machine. Sweat coated the back of her neck and a chill raced across her shoulders. She peeked out, searching the faces in the one-room café until she found the petite blonde perusing the shelf of organic pastas and sauces. Why did she have to come in
here
?

Mrs. Turano hated Willow with a passion that bordered on psychotic. Avoiding the woman did Willow little good. In such a small town, their paths continued to cross.

The room began to shrink.

No, no, no! Not now!
She lifted her eyes to the paneled ceiling as she attempted to shake the tingling from her fingers. Her second day on the job; she
so
did not need this right now.

“Willow!” her manager barked. “I asked for a slice of carrot cake to go.”

Wishing she could disappear, Willow ruffled her bangs so they fell over her eyes, rushed to the display case, and squatted behind it. Her arm shook as she slid the spatula under an icing-coated wedge, and she barely managed to wrangle the cake into a plastic container before she heard the voice like nails on a chalkboard.

“Margaret,” Mrs. Turano snapped. “I thought you had better judgment.”

Reluctantly, Willow stood and met pale blue eyes—the same shade as the woman's late son Daniel's—lined with a road map of red. Mrs. Turano had been drinking again.

“I refuse to be served by the girlfriend of a murderer!”

A hard silence descended on the room, every set of eyes darting between Willow and the poor woman who'd lost her son. Which, by default, made Willow the villain.

She longed to defend herself, to yell that she'd had nothing to do with Daniel's death. That she'd never been Ashton's girlfriend. But she knew from experience that denial wouldn't help. The woman would only insist that Willow admit Ashton's guilt. Demand that Willow denounce the only true friend she'd ever had. And Willow would walk away without saying a word. As always.

“Claire, I—” Willow's manager sputtered, her face flushing a deep red.

“There's no excuse, Margaret! If
she
works here”—Claire Turano pointed a trembling finger at Willow's head—“then you've lost my business. Which includes catering the annual art fund-raiser
and
the Sleepy Hollow Ball!”

The panic attack in full force, Willow's airway constricted as if she were breathing through a straw. Wheezing, she backed away from the counter.

Margaret glanced over her shoulder. “Willow, take a break,
now
.”

Gladly.

Willow spun on her heel and ran through the kitchen and out the side door to the shaded patio. She could feel people staring holes in her back, but she didn't care. She fell into a chair and searched for her focus color. Directly across from her, above a sign advertising the CC Café, she found a sky-blue flag with a peace symbol in the center. It would have to do.

Gasping for breath, she concentrated on the blue fabric and blocked everything out. The loud chewing of the woman beside her. The scrape of iron chairs against cobblestone. The mumble of voices . . .

Inhale through your nose.

1, 2, 3 . . .

Fall into the blue.

Exhale through your lips.

After three repetitions, the fog in her brain began to clear, but the pain in her chest persisted. Her shrink had given her a “panic script”—phrases to talk herself down. Unfortunately, it only worked when she said it aloud.

“Here goes nothing.” Still focused on the flag, Willow recited, “This is an opportunity for me to learn to cope with this problem.”

Cue the furtive glances and scurrying away.

Deep inhale.

“I have survived this before, and I can survive this time too.”

Slow exhale.

The slam of her heart gentled to its normal beat. She could feel eyes on her, hear them gathering their things and whispering to one another, but she didn't dare look. She knew what she would see—condemnation and fear with a sprinkle of pity that equaled nothing but ignorant judgment.

Willow stared up at the fluttering green and yellow leaves and then drew a strong, clean breath before chancing a glance at the woman beside her—the only one who didn't leave. But the old lady's unwavering gaze made her swallow and look away.

“It's all right, dear. I talk to myself all the time.”

Willow didn't respond, hoping the lady would get the hint and go away like everyone else.

The woman lifted half of her sandwich in arthritic fingers. “Want some? It's ham and cheese.” The woman grinned, her cheeks plumping and eyes glittering in sweet enticement.

Willow blinked. Everyone knew you didn't accept food from strangers, especially not old women with stained dentures, but she'd made the sandwich herself not ten minutes ago and she hadn't eaten since breakfast. Her stomach growled like an angry beast, making up her mind for her. “Sure.”

Accepting the offering, she peeled back the paper and sank her teeth in for a bite. The salty ham and creamy cheese melted in her mouth, dissolving the last of her anxiety. Willow slumped against the back of her chair.

“So, why are you so upset?”

Willow chewed, her eyes darting in search of an excuse not to talk to a complete stranger about her screwed-up life. But they were the only two left on the patio. When she glanced back at the woman's expectant face, she shrugged and answered, “Old decisions coming back to haunt me, I guess.”

“I see.” The woman's eyes narrowed. “Well, do you have a friend you can talk to?”

A lump of bread and lunchmeat lodged in Willow's throat. How much of the truth did the lady really want to know? That after Ashton had been convicted of killing Daniel Turano and was sent to juvie, he hadn't responded to any of her letters? That her one true friend had abandoned her and left her here to defend his innocence? That everyone at school either treated her like she was invisible or a freak of nature? Would she want to hear all that?

Willow rolled the sudden tightness out of her shoulders and attempted a light tone. “Not really.”

“I see. Well, you can talk to me if you like.”

Willow concentrated hard on her sandwich. When she finished, she folded the empty wrapper into a perfect square. She didn't want to confess the evil weed that had sprouted
in her heart as Mrs. Turano yelled in her face—that her life would've been much easier if Ashton had been the one to die that day at the falls. Then
she
would be the martyr of the story.

But even so, she couldn't wish it were true, and she certainly couldn't tell a complete stranger. “Thank you, but—”

“Oh, there you are.” Margaret stopped in front of her.

Saved by her not-for-long boss.

“We need to chat.” She patted down her dyed blonde hair and retied her apron strings before meeting Willow's gaze.

Of course we do.

Reluctantly, Willow rose and followed her manager's retreating form but then turned back. “Thanks for the sandwich.” Willow extended her hand. “I'm Willow Lamott.”

“I'm Mrs. McMenamin, but everyone calls me Mrs. M.” They shook hands, a red plaid sleeve falling across the woman's papery skin.

Willow glanced down and saw scuffed cowboy boots peeking out from the ruffled hem of the woman's flannel nightgown. She remembered then that Mrs. M had taught English at the high school but retired years ago. Everyone said she was a few clowns short of a circus. Though after her meltdown moments before, Willow didn't feel qualified to judge.

Mrs. M. held her gaze and leaned in close. “All heartbreak fades with time. Don't be afraid to move on.”

The woman shuffled away, calling over her shoulder, “And don't be a victim!”

Willow lugged her overloaded backpack up the winding, cobblestone walkway to her new home. Three stories of Gothic Victorian loomed above her, blocking out the setting sun. Sagging wrap-around porch, chipped gingerbread trim,
wood siding stained a dirty gray, and, like the topper on a Tim Burton wedding cake, a rusted-out weathervane leaning precariously from the third-floor turret room. She shifted her backpack to the opposite shoulder and walked into the shadow of the dilapidated mansion.

Everyone in town believed Keller House was haunted, and for Willow it was true. But the specters that disturbed her were not of the ethereal variety.

“Willow, bet you can't do this!” the boy with the shaggy dark hair and smiling eyes chants as he leaps over the porch railing and jumps to the ground.

“Seriously, Ashton,” Willow muttered, “if you can't get out of my head, I'm not living in your stupid old house. Even if this is my mom's dream job.” When her mom had landed the job of caretaker to Ashton's rundown family estate, you would've thought they'd won the lottery. But for Willow, living in her ex–best friend's house was a form of slow torture.

She jerked as the double-arched doors swung open with a baleful creak. But her fright was short-lived. Her mom posed in the doorway like a character in an old movie, hands on gypsy-skirted hips, heavy salt-and-pepper dreads looped in a lopsided bun. She spread her arms wide. “Velcome home, Villow! Hov vas your day?”

Willow bit her lip to trap a laugh. “Awesome, Count Chocula. How was yours?”

Her mom's face fell into a pout as she dropped her arms. “I was trying to be Elvira.”

“Who?”

“You know, Mistress of the Dark?”

“That old chick with the black wig and the low necklines?” Willow asked.

Her mom nodded and stuck out her chest, making Willow giggle as she slipped into the foyer. “You've made some progress in here.” The dust cloths had been removed from the entry table and parlor furniture. The cherry wood floors gleamed, and the bright scent of lemon filled the air.

“Only one problem,” Mom huffed, pointing up.

Willow tilted her head back and stared at the centerpiece of the two-story foyer, a massive chandelier dripping crystals and cobwebs.

“Can't find a tall enough ladder,” her mom grumbled.

“I don't know, I kinda like it.” She met her mom's dark-chocolate eyes, the exact shade of her own. “Could go a long way for the Elvira image.”

“I want to keep it for Halloween!” A four-foot ball of energy in the form of her little brother sped past, his bony elbow knocking the backpack off her shoulder.

“Hey!” Willow called to the boy who'd sped around the corner. “How was school?”

Rainn poked his head out and threw a sock at her head. “Good!”

Willow flicked the tiny stink bomb from her shoulder. For such a little kid, his feet sure packed a punch. Rainn's satisfied snigger echoed back to her as he disappeared into the house.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Her mom walked to the entry table and returned with a wooden picture frame. “I found this while cleaning out Ashton's old closet.”

Willow gaped at the intricate pencil drawing of the tree house at the back of the Keller property. She and Ashton had spent so many hours there in the summer months, their parents had jokingly referred to it as their vacation home. It brought back happy, uncomplicated memories of before—before her best friend went to jail for manslaughter.

She took the picture and opened her mouth to make a witty remark about the property value skyrocketing after the scandal, but only managed to mumble, “Thanks.”

Her mom bent to pick up the discarded sock. “I'm working at the soup kitchen tonight. Want to come?”

“Not tonight.” Willow hefted her bag back onto her shoulder.

“What happened? Something's bothering you.”

“I'm fine.” Unwilling to admit she'd lost another job, she turned and began climbing the wide wooden staircase. “Tons of homework—trig, lit, chemistry . . .”

“No one told you to take all those honors classes!” her mom called after her.

If Mom had her way, Willow would stay home and attend Annherst next year. With no traditional grading system and classes like Experimental Body Art and Media Conspiracy Theory, the liberal arts college attracted freethinking societal anarchists from all over the country. And while the school infused the town with an eclectic mix of people and produced an inordinate number of famous musicians and actors, it didn't offer undergraduate degrees in biochemistry.

Willow opened the first door at the top of the stairs and inhaled a cloud of dust and powdery Shalimar. A sneeze rocked her chest, and she slumped against the mahogany wood frame, pushing her glasses up on her nose. This had been Kristen's room . . .

Ashton turns, shoots Willow a wink, and sets the baby-blue glass bottle on the vanity table. She reaches out and adjusts it to the proper angle, even as butterflies war in her stomach. “What if she gets it in her eyes?”