CHAPTER TWO
Sheriff Bree Taggert stood in the road at the end of the driveway. Her stomach turned, a faint queasiness rising in the back of her throat as she stared at the house. Upstate New York was in the middle of a heat wave. At noon, the air was oppressive and humid. A sense of claustrophobia closed over her, which made no sense. She was outside. But the trapped feeling wasn't due to physical constraints. It was the memories that came with this house. The only place she feared being trapped in was her past.
The roof sagged, and years of wind, rain, and neglect had peeled the paint from the wooden clapboards, turning the exterior to a weathered gray. Untrimmed trees and overgrown foliage blocked the sun and left the house cast in deep shadows, even on a sunny afternoon in mid-July.
Bree inhaled. The scent of decay and dampness lingered in her nostrils. Twenty-seven years before, this had been her childhood home, but she had no warm or fuzzy memories attached to it. Inside those rotting walls, her father had shot her mother and then killed himself while Bree and her siblings had hidden in terror. She shuddered, the memories she'd banished to the dark corners stepping into the light to show themselves.
She glanced at her younger brother, standing on the other side of her. At twenty-eight, Adam was tall and lanky, with unruly brown hair that curled over his ears.
"Sorry I'm late." She did not tell him why. He didn't need to hear about the college kid who'd OD'd early that morning. Bree wished she could forget his face, already blue by the time her department had responded. But his image, and that of his sobbing parents, would haunt Bree for some time.
"It's OK," Adam said.
Sweat dripped down Bree's back. "I'm almost surprised the house is still standing."
It should have been razed to the ground.
"Old houses are solid." Adam didn't take his eyes off the house. "They don't build them like this anymore."
The three-bedroom, one-story bungalow squatted on a large chunk of mostly wooded land. A thick canopy of fat branches crisscrossed over the house, casting shadows between the tree trunks, the eerie landscape worthy of the nightmare that had occurred here.
Adam nudged her with an elbow. "Are you sure you're OK with going inside?"
"Yes." Her answer was automatic, not honest, and the lie burned like acid in her chest.
She would never be OK with what had happened in that house, but she had managed to mostly put it behind her.
Now, every instinct in her body told her not to cross the threshold. The memories on the other side were the monsters under her bed.
Adam closed his eyes for a few seconds. His face scrunched in concentration. "This place feels familiar, but I can't remember anything specific. I can't even picture her face."
"I'm sorry." The atmosphere felt familiar to Bree as well. Dread pooled in her belly. "You were just a baby when she died. I wouldn't expect you to remember her."
He turned to her. The yearning in his hazel eyes brought unshed tears to hers. As hard as Adam was trying to recall their childhood, Bree was working just as hard to forget it.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
No. Bree eyed the front porch. "Is it safe?"
"The structure is surprisingly solid."
"You've been inside?" she asked.
He looked away and shrugged. "A couple of times. I fixed some stuff."
Guilt weighted Bree's shoulders. She should have come here when he'd first asked months ago. He shouldn't have had to face this place alone. Though he stood a full head taller than her, he was still her little brother.
It was her job to protect him. Bree had failed their sister, Erin, and she had died. Bree could not repeat the mistake with Adam.
Her mouth went dry. She didn't want to replay anything about the first eight years of her life, the years she'd lived in this place with her family—or the violent night that had ended that period. Once she entered, she would no longer be able to repress her memories. No more excuses. Since their sister had been murdered back in January, Bree had left her job as a homicide detective in Philadelphia, moved to Grey's Hollow, and taken charge of her eight-year-old niece and sixteen-year-old nephew. Back in her hometown, she'd done her best to distance herself from her childhood tragedy. She'd never even considered visiting this house until Adam had asked. But her brother had stepped up to help with the kids. He'd done everything she'd asked of him, and he'd made only this one request in return.
"Let's do this." She stepped over the property line. Skirting a puddle, she strode toward the house.
Long-legged, Adam moved ahead. Thunderstorms had pummeled the area the previous week, and low-lying areas had flooded. Her brother's strides were eager, while Bree's feet dragged in the sole-sucking mud. Once, the driveway had been gravel, but the small stones had long since been ground into the earth.
Adam jogged up the stairs to the porch. Bree didn't allow herself to pause until she stood beside him.
The porch boards didn't sag under their weight. Some of the planks had been recently replaced. He moved toward the front door. Bree noticed the door, hinges, and lock were new. The doorframe had been repaired. How many times had Adam been here? Discomfort curled into a ball in her chest. She'd let him face the horror of their past alone. She'd let him down. She wouldn't do that again, no matter what it cost her.
Something creaked. The hairs on the back of Bree's neck bristled. "Did you hear that?"
Adam shrugged. "Probably the wind. It's an old house."
His reasoning was plausible, but Bree's instincts weren't happy.
He fished a key from his pocket and unlocked the door.
Bree touched his shoulder. "I'll go first." She moved in front of her brother. Her hand went to the service weapon on her hip.
She took a deep breath and went inside.
The living room was empty. Behind her, Adam shuffled a sneaker. The throw rug had rotted away to a few shreds of fabric. Dirt and leaves gathered along the walls. But Bree no longer saw the abandoned house as it stood today. She was transported back to the very last night she'd been under this roof.
Adam said something, but his voice was muted by the imagined sound of her parents fighting and the smack of her father striking her mother.
"Bree?" Adam jostled her arm.
She shook herself. "Sorry."
His gaze turned hesitant as he engaged in some internal debate. Bree said a quick prayer that he'd change his mind and haul her out of there, but she suspected it didn't matter. The damage was done. She was remembering.
Everything.
His jaw went rigid. "Which room was mine?"
Bree turned to walk down the hallway that led to the bedrooms. She passed the room she'd shared with Erin and stopped in the doorway of the smallest, the nursery, now empty. "This one."
Adam followed her into the room. She ran a finger over the grimy wall and uncovered a patch of faded baby-blue paint. "She was excited to be having a boy. I remember watching her paint over the pink." She pointed to a scuff on the wall. "Your crib was there."
Adam pivoted, scanning the room, his face creased with concentration. "I don't remember anything."
For the best.
Bree turned on her heel and went back into the hall. She halted in another doorway. "This was their room."
"Is this where he killed her?" Adam asked from behind her.
"I don't know."
"But you were here," he protested.
Bree whirled to face him. Anger heated her face. "I didn't wait around to watch him do it."
"I'm sorry." Adam looked away.
Bree breathed. "No. It's all right. You have a right to know, but I was only eight. My memories have definite blank spots."
She glanced back into the room. Despite what she'd told Adam, a clear picture formed in her mind.
"They were fighting in there," Bree admitted.
And that's the spot where Daddy pinned Mommy to the wall. One big hand curled around her throat. The other held a gun, the muzzle pressed against her forehead. In the warm, humid air, clammy sweat broke out between Bree's shoulder blades. Her heart thudded against her ribs in a thin, panicky rhythm.
Don't make me hurt you. You always make me hurt you.
Memories assaulted her. Bree grabbing her siblings and taking them under the porch. The winter wind blowing through thin pajamas. Terror shaking their very bones.
The echo of a gunshot.
She flinched.
She moved back down the hallway to the kitchen. She could sense Adam behind her, but she didn't narrate her recollection for him. How much did he need to know? Did he really want these images in his head? Once they lodged there, they'd remain forever, like a tattoo—or a deep scar.
"Daddy had a gun," Bree said. "I took you and Erin out the back door."
Even at eight, she'd known they needed to hide. She'd recognized the murderous look in her father's eyes was different from his usual anger, which had been bad enough. A shudder passed through her bones, shaking her from her athletic shoes to her uniform shirt. The house was empty, but Bree's hand hovered over her service weapon, as if she could go back in time and save her mother.
She flexed her fingers and lowered her hand.
There was no one to save today.
Adam moved toward the back door. Bree followed him out onto the porch. He'd replaced boards here too. They descended into the weedy yard and turned to face the house.
Bree pointed to the porch steps. "There was a loose board. I'd hidden under there before." She didn't have to elaborate on what—no, who—she'd hidden from. Adam knew, even if he didn't remember.
"Then what?" He looked like he was holding his breath.
Bree shivered hard. It had been cold that night. She felt the icy dirt beneath her bare feet, and the bitter chill seeping through the thin fabric of her pajamas. "A gun went off."
The dogs had been barking. One had howled. The sound memory rippled over Bree. Despite the summer warmth, goose bumps rose on the skin of her arms.
"How long were we under there?" Adam asked.
"I don't know. A while." Long enough to get very cold.
"What happened next?"
"I'm not sure." Bree sensed a blank spot in her recollection. Had her eight-year-old self shut down with shock at that point? She vaguely recalled slamming doors, loud footsteps, and shouting.
Another gunshot.
Daddy?
Did it really matter? She knew enough. Her father had killed her mother and himself. The three siblings had been split up shortly after. Adam and Erin had been raised by their grandmother, while Bree had been sent to live with a cousin in Philadelphia.
"The sheriff came." Bree had never set foot on the property again—until today. "He took us to the station and called the family."
Adam stared at the house. He looked disappointed.
"I'm sorry I can't tell you more," she said.
"No. It's enough." He reached for her hand. "Thanks for sharing that with me."
"You're welcome." Bree squeezed his fingers. "What will you do with the place?"
If it were hers, she would burn the house to the ground. But she doubted Adam would. He seemed to want to maintain the structure as some sort of shrine.
"I don't know." His brow knitted, and his eyes looked lost.