Cara sure did. She raised one eyebrow as she replied coolly, “I like my coffee like I like my men. Hot, and without a bunch of piled-on BS masquerading as sophistication.”
He handed her the tall mug. “Then you should like this.”
She frowned, popping the top off. Intense black coffee aroma floated out. “Why did you bring me coffee?”
“Because it’s a nice thing to do.”
She still regarded him with suspicion. “You didn’t roofie it for a joke, did you?”
Who did this girl used to hang out with? “That’d be a pretty bad joke.”
“Agreed. Ok, if I’m not dead from poison by the end of the day, I’ll say thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” said Mal. “Oh, by the way…”
Cara crossed her arms over her ample chest, a move that Mal fully approved of. “What do you want?”
“The mailbox across the street,” he began.
She raised her eyebrow again. “What about it?”
Doubt ate at Mal. Did she have nothing to do with it after all? Oh, right, that’s what he came here to find out.
“Did you fix that mailbox?”
“The old one looked horrible,” she said.
Mal took that as an admission of guilt. “You stealth fixed the neighbor’s mailbox. Why?”
“Because the old one looked horrible. Pay attention.”
“Yeah, I know what it looked like. But why did you go out of your way to fix it? That new wooden post thing is a solid piece of work.”
“You bet it is,” she said, looking a bit smug. “It’s going to take effort to make it look as bad as the old one.”
“Ok, but why?”
“I wanted to improve the view.”
“You’re not the seller. You get paid either way. What do you care?”
“I like it when things look nice!” Cara burst out. “What’s seismic about that? I could make something better, so I did.”
“That’s all you had to say.” Mal let it go before he got too enmeshed and accidentally admitted it was his own mailbox. Cara was a weird girl, salty and sweet all at once. And definitely someone who tried to hide her softer side.
He would really like to get to know her softer side, preferably without getting smacked in the head with a hammer first.
Chapter 6
After Mal left, Cara took a cautious sip from the mug he’d offered her. The coffee was amazing. It was going to be hard to go back to disgusting gas station coffee after this. But she couldn’t exactly put in an order with Mal every morning. Especially not after accusing him of poisoning it.
She wished she could have easy access to good coffee, because she was tired after working extra hours all weekend. And there was the little fact that she’d given up her motel suite to sleep in the office trailer. Cara had panicked about the expense of replacing the copper, and if she could recoup the money by sleeping in slightly rougher digs, well, that was what she’d do.
Cara had spent all Friday night working on her special project, which was the replacement mailbox post across the street. Digging out the old one and putting in the new one had been immensely satisfying, even if she did it in the wee hours of the morning to avoid awkward questions from the neighbor she had yet to set eyes on.
She’d thought about the parlor floor all weekend, and even dreamed about it the past two nights. It wasn’t totally surprising. Cara often got sucked into her work, the creation of new art consuming her. She stopped thinking about basic things like showering and eating. She crammed in whatever food came close to her mouth, and ignored all bodily signals until the thing she was carving was finished. Only then did Cara realize that she was bone-tired, sick from junk food, and incredibly stinky from her only perfume being sawdust. Not a good look.
But while she was creating, none of that mundane stuff mattered. Bringing the shape and the story out of the wood, hearing it call to her and tell her how to chisel and sand and scrape it into existence…that was what mattered.
She started work on the floor with a feeling of relief. Being away from the floor was starting to feel wrong. She continued the painstaking work of assembling the design, and trimming and filing down the edges of the many pieces so they’d fit exactly. She marveled at the intricacy of the design. Little Greek and Egyptian symbols inlaid into diamonds and circles. Five pointed stars laid out to mimic constellations. Strange little faces formed out of minuscule chips of wood, like elves or demons or ancient spirits.
She didn’t remember taking any breaks, but the crumpled fast food wrappers near the door told her she must have downed a burger. Or two.
Someone’s footsteps echoed down the newly recovered subfloor in the hall, and Dan appeared. “We finished reframing the front wall where that water damage took out the old wood. Figured we’re at a good stopping point. Want these things packed up?” Dan asked, indicating her tools. Cara had issued orders to lock up all equipment every night.
Cara checked her watch. 4:00 p.m. Time for the guys to take off—they started early and put in a full day’s work. “No thanks, Dan. I’m going to use the orbital sander before I call it a night. I’ll put these things away when I’m done. Tell everyone they can head out. See you tomorrow.”
“All right, boss.” Since that first day, Dan always called Cara boss, which she appreciated even though she knew it was mostly done for humor.
She rooted around in the remains of her lunch bag, hoping to find some lost fries. There were a few in the bottom, and she wolfed the cold, salty sticks down without enjoying them.
Then it was back to work.
She lost all sense of time, only marginally aware of when it got dark enough for the floodlights in the room to become the only illumination.
Nearly cross-eyed from staring at the floor all day, she’d taken a little break to work on the fireplace design instead.
Cara hummed to herself as she sanded down the piece in front of her. It was the left-hand side of the mantelpiece, and it took the form of a human figure, specifically a long, thin, stylized woman in ancient Egyptian costume. Her hands were raised above her head as if she were holding something. And when the work was done, she’d be holding up the horizontal mantel on one side. The right side was going to be a man, also in Egyptian garb.
The original mantelpiece was lost, and the only photos were black and white, meaning Cara had to guess as to the type of wood. She chose a densely grained oak that held tones of brown, grey, and thin streaks of silver. When finished and polished, the mantelpiece would shine as if lit from within.
But oak was a hardwood, with deep grain that was often tricky to work with. Cara was patient, moving from rough cuts to finer drill bits, carving the piece down to where she needed it to be in order to get to the details of the sculpture.
It was probably eleven o’clock, and she had the floodlights on high. It illuminated her workroom like high noon. Her phone blasted out music from its inadequate speaker, but Cara was only using it for background noise. She mouthed the words to classic rock as she worked, time slipping away from her as she moved deeper into a flow state, the happy place where she was so focused on the wood in front of her that she saw nothing in her peripheral vision, and in fact often missed when people spoke to her until they yelled several times.
However, when the lights flickered and then went out, Cara snapped to attention. At the same time, the music dwindled away as the phone’s connection was interrupted.
Cara was working with a handheld chisel, nothing electric, so she held it in her hands, not moving, hoping the power would come back on before she had to start stumbling around in the dark.
A minute passed. No power.
She slowly stood up. “Hello? Who’s there? Did you not realize I’m working up here?”
No answer. Did someone cut the power? Or drive over a line, or hit something in the yard? Was this just an accident, or was it deliberate?
Was someone here to steal more supplies?
Still holding the c
hisel, Cara made her way carefully to her phone. It lit up at her touch—at least the battery was fine. She could call for help if she needed to.
She turned on the flashlight function, and soon stood in front of a cold blue circle of light.
Ok. Time to get to the circuit breaker. Maybe the floodlights were just drawing too much power and something tripped.
She reached the doorway and looked both ways down the hall. Nothing to the left. Nothing to the right.
Except two eyes glowing in the dark.
Cara nearly jumped out of her skin, wheeling her arm around in front of her to hold the flashlight up.
The blue light illuminated the passage. Nothing.
Cara gasped, her heart thumping out of control. She’d seen someone there. Hadn’t she? Cara gripped the chisel tightly and moved forward. The shiny metal of nail heads gleamed for a second. She felt like a moron. The crew was putting up new plywood on the walls, driving nails in to secure it to the two by fours. The light must have reflected off two of them, just happening to be at the right height to look like a person’s eyes.
“Get a hold of yourself,” she muttered.
Then she heard the footsteps.
Just like the first day, the footsteps were light and furtive. Cara knew her way around the house by now, and the darkness didn’t slow her down much. If it was the person stealing her equipment, she was going to catch that bastard.
She followed the faint sounds, keeping her own movements as quiet as she could. Not that Cara was especially stealthy.
A floorboard creaked under her feet the moment she stepped into the room on the eastern side.
That’s when she saw the little girl.
And the little girl saw her too.
She wore a simple white dress nipped in at the waist, and what looked like lace at the sleeves. Her hair came to her chin and shimmered like silver. Cara could see the outlines of the door molding behind the figure. But the eyes—those were pitch black, and locked on Cara.
Cara dropped the chisel in her shock, the tool clattering to the floor, a horribly loud sound in the otherwise silent house.
The ghost’s form swirled, and the impression of it being a little girl faded. Soon, Cara could focus only on two furious eyes.
Then, with no warning or explanation, smoke began ballooning out from everywhere, puffing in sooty grey clouds toward her, rising up past her knees, then her waist. The shadowy figure was swallowed up by the smoke, and Cara had no idea where it might move.
She choked as the smoke surrounded her. Cara raised her arm. Trying to breathe through the fabric of her sleeve, she looked around for the figure with the eyes.
She didn’t see it, but suddenly she felt heat. Heat all around her.
Cara’s brain stopped working properly. Her body took over, some ancient survival instinct driving her muscles. She stumbled backward, back toward where the door had to be.
She fell to her knees, wincing as the rough floor splintered into her knees and palms. Rather than get up, she crawled through the room, hoping the smoke was less thick here. She got to the doorway, and shakily got to her feet. She half turned, thinking that she should do…something.
Call 911? Get the fire extinguisher?
Cara stood frozen, unable to think clearly enough to make a decision.
Then the dark, shadowy something burst out of the smoke and rushed toward her, hurtling into her with a physical force strong enough to push her back toward the stairs. GO AWAY.
That was it. Cara ran.
Down the stairs, out of the house, down the hill. She didn’t have a plan, she didn’t have a destination.
She just had to get AWAY.
Cara was still running when she crossed the street and stumbled up the rickety wooden steps of the neighboring house. She stopped short just before hitting the solid wall in front of her face. She turned and sagged downward, seeking shelter in the corner of the porch, hiding in the darkness, hoping the something that nearly pushed her down the stairs couldn’t find her here.
Cara braved a glance upward, expecting to see the sky illuminated with orange and red, to smell the smoke from the fire that must be ripping across the whole second floor by now.
She blinked. Nothing.
The house on the hill stood silent, the sky scattered with stars.
She sniffed, knowing that she had to be covered in the smell of smoke.
No. Nothing.
Cara’s hands pulsed with pain, and remembering the splinters she’d got from her fall into the floorboards, she raised her palms upward.
They were unmarked. The pain was there, just as her knees ached. But the skin was unbroken, and her jeans didn’t have any char marks or holes.
The lack of evidence of what just happened didn’t make her feel better. It made her want to curl up into a ball and hide until the world stopped being scary.
Dawn. Dawn would come eventually. She wasn’t going to budge until the sun came back. And then she was getting out of this town.
Cara shivered, and let her head drop onto her folded arms. Then she heard a meow.
She flinched when she heard it, not connecting the noise to a cat.
But then it meowed again. She looked up to see a gigantic black cat brushing up against her legs. This wasn’t the cute calico she’d seen before. This thing looked like it weighed thirty pounds at least.
Cara didn’t know how to react. She held still, hoping the cat was just a cat, and not some horrible monster that wanted to trick her by pretending to be something harmless and then killing her right when she thought she was safe and…
“Cara? What are you doing on my porch?”
She looked up to see Mal standing there.
Chapter 7
Mal stared down at Cara, who was wedged into the corner of the porch, her face pale and her eyes big with fear.
“What happened?” he asked.
She swallowed once before saying in a choked voice, “There’s someone in the house.”
Adrenaline rushed through him at the thought of Cara in danger. He reached out and took her by the arm to help her up, even as he looked up at the house on the hill. “They still there?”
“I…I don’t know.”
Jesus, she was crying.
“Did someone hurt you?”
She shook her head. “Not really. I mean, I’m just scared.”
“Ok, come in here.”
Cara hesitated, probably because the house was pitch black. Mal reached for the light switch and the kitchen warmed to bright gold, banishing the darkness. “It’s ok. Come in. I’m inviting you in, Cara.” Mal said the words deliberately. Even though Cara would have no idea of what was happening, his invitation would allow her to pass by some of the strongest wards around the house, the ones that the Salems put up to keep themselves safe.
Cara looked around as she stepped into the light. Sawdust had settled on her hair like snowflakes, and she wore jeans and a simple flannel shirt. Her boots were light brown leather, and also dusted with tiny wood shavings. The scent of raw pine and varnish followed her in, stinging his nostrils.
“You live here?” she asked, puzzlement on her face. “Why didn’t you say?”
“Never mind that. Tell me what happened.”
Mal was glad he was there alone for the moment. Dom and Vinny and Lex and Piewicket had all left. It was Behemoth who had sensed the presence of a person on the porch and howled a silent warning to Mal.
Now Cara’s hands twisted nervously as she started to talk. “I was working late. I do that a lot. The lights were on, bright. Anyone would have known someone was there.”
He saw that she was shivering. And not just because it was a nice cool autumn night outside. This was the aftermath of shock. Worried, he grabbed a blanket from the living room couch and wrapped it around her shoulders. Cara gripped the edges of the fabric like it was the only thing standing between her and certain death.
“Better?” Mal asked.
She nodded, her
gaze unfocused.
“Want something to drink? Yes, you do. Something hot.”
He got the kettle going, pulled out a mug from the cabinet, and rooted around for tea. He found a canister of handmade packets of herbs that Lily had crafted, marked Restful AF. He grabbed one and dropped it in the mug. Then he turned back to Cara, who was standing there, looking lost.
He indicated the kitchen table with its mismatched chairs. “You should sit.”
“Hmm, yeah.” Cara sat in one, as vacant as a sleepwalker.
Mal’s concern sharpened. “Are you sure no one hurt you? Do you want to call the cops?”
“No!”
Mal paused at her vehement reply, the first noise she made that sounded conscious. “Why not?” he asked.
“I don’t want to get cops involved.”
“You called them when the supplies went missing before. This could be—”
“This is different.”
“Why?”
She shook her head. “This is going to sound stupid.”
“Just say what you saw. Don’t worry about how it sounds.”
She took a breath, or tried to. Mal saw her chest working, and then noticed the tightness around her mouth.
“Hey,” he said, moving to take her by the shoulders. “You need to breathe.”
“I am breathing!”
“Not well. You need to take long breaths. It’ll lower your heart rate and get your body back to normal. Listen. Take a deep breath in. I’m going to count to three, then you exhale for three. Ok?”
Cara nodded, and Mal counted slowly, tapping her shoulders in time to help her focus. After the first couple counts, she was breathing more normally and her color came back to her face. Mal itched to push her messy hair back, but he was also very aware that any move that freaked Cara out would blow up the delicate state of trust he just established.
Wait till she figures out that you’re lying about your name.
Cara finally sat up straight, letting the blanket slide down from her shoulders. “How do you know about stopping panic attacks?”
“I don’t. But I know when people aren’t breathing normal. It’s a thing that helps right before a fight, when your heart goes all haywire. Different reason, same treatment.”
Reach For Me Page 5