Gilt Hollow (3 page)

With a drawn-out sigh, he says, “Why would she
spray perfume in her eyes? Besides, it's only vinegar. The perfect complement to my sister's sweet personality.”

The click of high heels echoes in the hall, and he grabs her arm, tugging her deeper into the room.

“We have to go!” she hisses.

“No time.” He ducks and slides under the dust ruffle of the bed, and she scrambles after him just as the door opens.

Lying flat on her stomach, she watches Kristen apply fresh lipstick, run a brush through her long blonde hair, and lean into the mirror. “Flawless,” she says to her own reflection before reaching for the blue bottle.

Three squirts, and a screech rents the air.

Willow jerks and shrinks farther under the bed, but Ashton's face is right there. Flashing a broad crescent of straight, white teeth, he squeezes her hand, and something like an inflating balloon fills her chest.

“Ugh.” Willow's ribcage expanded as if her fingers were still entwined with his. She took several slow breaths and blew the dark veil of bangs out of her eyes. By sheer force of personality, Ashton had imprinted on this house—and on her.

She forced her feet to move. In theory, her own massive bedroom should make her ecstatic with joy. But in her heart, she wished her mom hadn't accepted the caretaker job. Willow preferred their cozy two-bedroom cottage to this abomination of hardwood, stained glass, and endless memories.

But even if she could convince her mom, it was too late to go back. A couple of newlyweds had rented their old house
and turned it into a tattoo parlor/holistic healing center—as if Gilt Hollow needed another one.

Willow flopped down on the king-sized bed and tucked a pillow under her head. Most of her homework wasn't due until the end of the week. She could afford to close her eyes for a moment . . . A chill of awareness tiptoed up her spine, like when a teacher caught you texting in class. She twisted around, ready to yell at Rainn for sneaking up on her. But there was no one else in the room.

Willow couldn't sleep.

There's no such thing as ghosts
, said the scientific part of her brain. But the little girl, the one who'd listened to all of Ashton's spooky stories, the one who used to have nightmares about the ghoul who lived in the attic, shivered under the covers. Ashton had sworn for years that he'd seen things in this house. Lights flickering. Chairs rocking in empty rooms. Doors swinging open by themselves. And as she lay straining to hear every sound, a part of her believed him.

She rolled onto her side and clutched a pillow to her stomach. The harsh digital display seemed to throw the time in her face—3:04 a.m. Propping up on an elbow, she spied the drawing of the tree house leaning against her lamp. In the moonlight, she could just make out the shape of the tiny dwelling that she and Ashton had helped her dad build the summer before he passed away. They'd scouted for weeks for the perfect spot. When they'd found the sprawling oak on the back of the Keller property, her dad went to Mr. Keller for permission, hoping he'd join them in the project. When he'd granted them the land but declined to help, her dad had made a big deal about Ashton being the architect.

Willow flopped onto her back. The dark paneled walls and twelve-foot ceilings loomed, stretching and contracting in the shadows as if they had a life of their own. She should go downstairs and make some warm milk or peppermint tea, but the thought of walking through the spook factory of a house in the dead of night kept her glued to her mattress.

A low groan sounded from somewhere close, followed by a clacking like metal against wood. A shiver skittered across Willow's shoulders, and she tugged the comforter up to her chin.

Ugh! She needed to relax. The noises were just the house settling.

Working to calm her thoughts, she pulled a long breath in through her nose and blew it out through her mouth. Her eyes drifted shut and she pictured a white-sand beach, turquoise water, the gentle rush and ebb of the tide, the warm sun on her skin . . .

Bam!

Willow sat straight up and held still, waiting for the sound to come again. Had it been a door slamming or something heavy crashing to the floor? Visions of Rainn falling out of Ashton's old four-poster had her springing out of bed. Without turning on a light, she ran around the corner and down the hall, the slap of her bare feet the only sounds. She rushed into Rainn's room and found her brother sleeping peacefully, his stuffed ninja turtle clutched to his chest.

Breathing a sigh of relief, she tiptoed to her mother's room and heard her snores before she even reached the door. So what had made that loud slamming noise?

She wrapped an arm around her waist as she crept back into the hall and toward an arched picture window. There were hundreds—maybe thousands—of trees on the
five-acre property. The noise could've been one of them falling against the house.

When she reached the window that faced the overgrown back garden, a cloud obscured the moon, turning the yard into a tangle of dark shapes and twisted silhouettes. Leaning close to the glass, she didn't see any broken limbs or branches close enough to scrape against the siding. She recalled the sound and realized it had seemed to come from below her on the first floor.

And then something moved.

She jumped back from the window, her heart pounding into her ears. The quick, furtive movement had been a living being. Something large. Gathering her courage, she stepped closer to the glass. It was probably a deer. She'd seen plenty of them leaping through the woods between their old cottage and the Keller property.

Capturing her nightshirt sleeve in her fingers, she wiped a circle of dust from the window pane and peered into the yard. Directly below, a circular stone walkway bisected the unkempt lawn overrun by tangles of weeds and wildflowers. Beyond, the trees stood sentinel in a thick line, their leaves rustling in the wind.

Willow scanned the edge of the woods, skimming broad trunks and sweeping pines. Her eyes darted back to a group of narrow birch trees. The gloom between their silver trunks moved, and she pressed her nose to the cool glass. Had it been a trick of the light? Or . . .

Then the clouds shifted and revealed a figure. A midnight shade between ghostly white trees—tall and solid, its features in shadow—it turned and disappeared into the forest.

Willow stumbled back. Had he seen her watching? Her pulse ratcheted into overdrive. Had that person tried to break into the house?

She ran. Not caring if she woke her family, she ran down the creaky staircase and through the drafty, cobweb-infested hallway, flipping on every light switch she came to. When the first floor blazed like daytime, she ensured all the doors were locked. But there were too many windows to check. Should she wake her mom? Call the police?

And tell them what? She heard a noise and thought she saw a shadow in the yard? The cops would laugh all the way back to the precinct, joking about the girl who lived in the haunted house of her ex–best friend, the murderer.

Willow stood in the middle of the kitchen shaking, the room spinning around her. Maybe she was losing it. Her chest tightened as the panic attack tried to steal her breath.
Not again!
Determination pushing back her fear, she poured a glass of milk and gulped down her anxiety with the cold, soothing liquid.

Her equilibrium restored, she wandered from room to room, switching off all the lights, and then climbed the stairs. After checking on her mom and brother once more, she went back to Kristen's room—
her
room—and locked the door.

T
he words blurred in front of Willow's eyes and her cheek slipped from her fist, but she caught herself before her face smacked into her chemistry text. Finding a table outside at lunch had seemed like a good idea, but her lack of sleep the night before caused the late-summer sunshine to feel like a cozy blanket.

“Hey, there you are.” Lisa rushed over, her navy star-covered skirt forming a pouf behind her. She plopped down on the bench across from Willow and handed her a Coke. “Looks like you need this more than I do.”

Willow sighed as she cracked open the soda, knowing it would make her stomach bloat like a balloon, but too desperate for the caffeine to care. She took in a long sip of the cool bubbles and thanked the girl who seemed determined to be her friend. Lisa Gifford had moved to Gilt Hollow over the summer. She and Willow had bonded over their love of fried Oreos at the Gilt Hollow Street Fair, and then Lisa had shown up on Willow's doorstep the next day with two lemon shake-ups and invited her to watch a local band. Lisa had been the first person who didn't treat Willow like the weirdo who used to be friends with a convict. In fact, when Willow confessed the whole sordid tale, the ex–New Yorker shrugged and said, “That was a long time ago.”

Willow grinned at the crystal headband holding back Lisa's blonde curls and her swoosh of heavy eyeliner topped by silver shadow. In Gilt Hollow her ultrachic look stood out like a Coach bag at a mud volleyball tournament. But she
didn't give a fig what anyone thought. Just one of the many things Willow liked about her.

“It's the second day of school. How could you possibly have”—Lisa lifted the front of her textbook so she could see the cover—“chemistry homework?”

Willow took another swig before answering. “We have a quiz this afternoon.”

“Okaaayy . . . you know those are just to gauge the students' memories from the previous year. It's not for a grade.”

“I like to throw the curve. Gives me an advantage on the first few tests.”

“Remind me to never take any classes with you, brainiac.” Lisa took a bite of an apple, and her eyes narrowed on Willow's face. “If you let me put some mascara on you, you'd at least look more awake.”

Willow set down her half-eaten strawberry and almond butter sandwich and shrugged. “I don't like to wear makeup.”

Lisa opened her mouth, but her words were drowned out by a large group of guys bursting out of the cafeteria doors with a football. They jogged past the table on their way to the green space, and Willow buried her nose in her book. When the back of her neck tingled, she glanced up and met the pale blue gaze of Colin Martin. He jogged by as he tied his dark blond hair into a knot at the back of his head. In his Nike shorts, topped with a ripped, tie-died T, he was part jock, part tortured poet. And every girl within a twenty-mile radius lusted after him.

Seeing that he'd caught her attention, his lips tilted in a cocky smirk. “Hey, Weepy.”

Willow jerked her eyes back to her textbook.

Lisa leaned forward and whispered, “A good friend would probably be asking why he called you that, but I can't get past his blinding hotness. You
know
him?”

“Sorta.” Willow began packing her books away. “We used to hang out when we were kids.” And he'd been one of the boys who'd testified against Ashton.

“I'm gonna need an intro.” Her friend's eyes followed Colin's agile form as he snatched the football out of the air and took off toward the Solo-cup-marked end zone.

“Okay, sure.” Willow stuffed the remainder of her lunch into her insulated sack. “Then we can eat a tub of Chunky Monkey and watch chick flicks after he uses you and dumps you on your star-spangled butt.”

“Star-spangled butt?” Lisa rose to her feet and rotated her American-flag-print skirt so the stars were in the front and the stripes were in the back. “There. Now can I meet him?”

Willow burst into riotous giggles and, for once, didn't care who was watching.

■ ■ ■

Willow's chemistry quiz had been a total bust. She couldn't stop thinking about the shadow in the trees or the sounds she'd heard the night before. Had someone tried to break into the house? Would they come back and try again?

As soon as she got home, she changed into shorts and a T-shirt and headed out back.

When there were no signs of the trespasser in the overgrown yard or near the stand of birch trees where she'd seen him, Willow entered the forest. The cool, moist air was a respite from the mid-September heat, and she drew in a deep breath as she kicked a carpet of pine needles, releasing their brisk, earthy scent. She wandered deeper, the noise of cars and neighbors fading, branches linking overhead to blot out the sun.

She pushed a sapling limb off the path, and a bird rushed
out, giving her a jolt. The forest felt hushed, as if waiting. Variegated light cast shadows all around her, and goose bumps rose on her arms. This might be the part of the movie where people yelled for the character to turn back to the safety of the house.

Willow quickened her stride. Those were the same people who came up with sayings like “Curiosity killed the cat.” The status quo-ers who were afraid to rock the boat. Not people who discovered cures for killer diseases. Her future career as a research scientist depended on delving into the unknown and daring to theorize based on the tiniest shreds of evidence.

Determined to find clues to her current mystery, she forged ahead until the path became more distinct and then ended in a steep gorge. The old swinging bridge appeared intact, but a layer of khaki moss coated the boards, hiding possible rot and decay. Willow took a tentative step onto the creaking wood, and when she didn't fall into the creek below held on to the rope and bounced up and down. Satisfied it would hold her weight, she crossed the bridge in resolute strides.

The wood parted on a sun-dappled clearing, the familiar sprawling oak pushing back the rest of the forest. She hadn't been here in years, despite Rainn's attempts to convince her otherwise, but cradled in the tree's powerful eight-hundred-year-old branches, the tiny house appeared unchanged.

At some point, it had occurred to her that the figure she'd seen the night before could be a druggie or a vagrant using this place as a crash pad. Moving quietly across the clearing, she reached for the ladder nailed to the trunk and secured her toes on the first rung. She couldn't allow her little brother to stumble on some scary bum's hideout. So she climbed, her
heart thumping a steady rhythm in her ears. Unsure what she'd do if she discovered a grown man curled up inside, she hoisted herself onto the tiny porch as silently as possible. A board creaked beneath her feet, and she almost jumped back to the ground.

Willow froze for several seconds, and when she didn't hear any signs of movement inside, she grasped the railing and poked her head into the interior. The single room was empty. She let out a slow breath.

A crack rang out behind her, and she whirled, hitting her head on the low doorway. “Ow,” she mouthed as she rubbed her aching skull and peered over the balcony.

Chin down, hands shoved into his pockets, a guy strode into the clearing. As if sensing her stare, he stopped and glanced up. Tall and skinny with a long nose and Ron Weasley-red hair . . . Brayden Martin—Colin's first cousin.

“Oh, hey, Willow.” Color dotted his pale cheekbones. “I didn't know you still came out here.”

Memories of Brayden and Colin chasing her around with sticks when they were kids made Willow swallow before she answered. “I . . . don't. I mean . . . I haven't been here in a while.”

“Well, if you want . . .” He ran a hand through the shaggy layers of his hair. “I can go.”

All little boys did stupid things. Rainn was evidence enough of that. She'd had several classes with Brayden last year. He loved to joke around, but when he did participate, she could tell he was way smarter than he let on. “As long as you don't bring any sticks. Come on up.”

A grin flashed across his face, and he climbed the ladder in three quick steps. Willow sat and let her legs dangle over the edge of the porch. Brayden lowered beside her.

“Do you come here often?” Willow asked.

Brayden snickered, and she realized she sounded like a cliché.

Willow laughed, her cheeks heating.

“Actually I do,” Brayden replied after a moment. “It's kinda peaceful out here.”

“Yeah.” The leaves swayed and a soft breeze pushed Willow's bangs off her forehead.

“Except when we played war.” Brayden chuckled.

War, or capture the flag, had been their favorite game as kids. Brayden, Colin, and his little brother Cory had made a formidable team. Visions of the Martin cousins sneaking through the forest in camouflage while she and Ashton defended the tree house with Nerf guns stilled the swinging of her legs.

Suddenly she could see him perched on the railing. Tousled black hair, olive skin, nose sprinkled with freckles, and those dark blue eyes, like a starless night. Ashton wore his trademark expression—closed lips quirked in a one-sided grin that hid a thousand mischievous plans. Her heart did a funny little blip, and then she squeezed her eyes tight, pushing away the image.

Oblivious to her distraction, Brayden kept talking. “Remember that time I set a trap for you guys on the rope bridge and it caused you to fall and twist your ankle? Ashton tied me to a tree and left me there for hours. He wouldn't let me loose until I promised on my dog's life to never do it again.” He shook his head. “Keller was pretty extreme, even then.”

When she didn't respond, he glanced over, his brown eyes thoughtful. And she noticed that despite his red hair and pale complexion, he didn't have one freckle. “It's still hard for you, isn't it? What he did?”

“What do
you
think?” Willow snapped, digging her nails into the wood planks of the deck. Asking him up here had been a mistake. When would she learn all people wanted from her was a reaction? Some outburst or juicy detail they could take back to their friends to feed the rumors.

Willow lifted her heel and started to stand up, but Brayden touched her leg. “Wait. I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean it like that. I just . . . Ashton was my friend too, you know.”

A muscle jumped in the back of his jaw as he searched her face. He and Colin had both been at Heartford Falls the day Daniel Turano died. They'd both seen it happen.

“I think about that day . . . and . . . and how things used to be before.” He snatched his hand from her leg and glanced away.

“Oh.” Willow settled back to a seated position. “Sorry.”

“You don't have to be sorry. I guess you're used to expecting the worst, huh?” He offered her a small smile.

Willow tilted her lips to one side, thinking about the job she'd lost because of Mrs. Turano. “You could say that.”

“People are stupid.” Brayden gripped the handrail and rested his forehead against the wood. “It's not like you had any control over what happened.”

Willow nibbled her thumbnail as she let his comment sink in. After a moment, she lowered her hand and asked him something she'd wondered for a long time. “Do people grill you about it? Like random people asking personal questions out of morbid curiosity?”

“Not much anymore. My dad told me to tell people I couldn't answer any questions without my attorney. That clams people up real fast. Occasionally one of our friends will get curious, but Colin shuts that down with a raised fist.”

Willow's chuckle didn't hold much humor. “Yeah, I don't have either one of those weapons at my disposal.”

Brayden glanced over his shoulder. “I think people are curious because you always stuck by him. Even with all the evidence, you refused to stop defending his innocence.” He pulled up one leg and bent it in front of him, facing her. “I always admired you for that.”

“Seriously?” Why would he say that when he witnessed the whole thing? Testified
against
Ashton. “Why?”

“You're one stubborn chick, that's why.” Brayden grinned, and in that dimpled expression she could see why the girls in her class swooned over him. “I've always liked you, even when everyone said you were a snob. I never believed it.”

“A what? Why would anyone think
I'm
a snob?”

“Well, let's see . . .” The grin was back, and he counted off with his fingers. “
One
, you walk around school with your nose in a book and don't talk to anyone—besides that new girl, Lisa.”

Willow threw up her hands. “But I—”

“Nope, let me finish.
Two
, you dress like some preppy boarding school elitist.” His grin widened. “If you ask me, those little skirts and knee socks are kinda hot.”

Wait. Is Brayden Martin flirting with me?

He wiggled his auburn brows. “But you don't even attempt to fit in with the rest of us mortal folk.”

“I . . . I . . .” she sputtered. This was so crazy, it was bordering on ridiculous. Was that how people really saw her?

“And
three
—” His voice softened and he scooted closer. “You're beautiful, which intimidates the heck out of us.”

Willow blinked repeatedly. Was this guy for real? She wouldn't use the word
ugly
to describe herself, but
beautiful
?

Brayden leaned over and grabbed her hand, linking his fingers with hers. Willow's heart accelerated, but not from excitement. Alone in the middle of the forest, in a tree house
with his big body blocking the exit. Nope, she didn't like this one bit. She disentangled her fingers from his and scooted over half an inch. His mouth tipped into a frown, a strained silence filling the air.

Then her snarkiness came to the rescue. “So
that's
why I'm so unpopular—I'm smart and beautiful and better than everyone else? Thanks for explaining that.” She stretched her lips into a grin.