I didn’t have to walk that far until I’d made it into Caudry town proper, and it was just as green as the outskirts of town where we were camped. Buildings seemed prone to a mossy growth on their sides, and the streetlamps had orbs of light glowing around them, thanks to the humidity.
While the center of town appeared more like any of the other hundreds of towns I’d visited before—all bright and clean and shiny and new—the peripheral parts were like ghostly reminders of a long history. I stuck to the side streets, hiding away from the glossier parts of Caudry.
On a street called Joliet Avenue, I found an area that must have been glorious in its prime. Huge houses verging on mansions lined the streets, hidden behind willows and cypresses towering above them. The streets were cobblestone, but they had begun to wear and crack, with grass and weeds growing up between them.
As I walked down the street, I heard the faint sounds of a party several houses down. It was a strange juxtaposition of the fading gothic beauty of the neighborhood with the rock music—one of Bon Jovi’s latest hits, “You Give Love a Bad Name”—and new cars parked in front of it.
A wrought-iron fence separated me from the party house. Large stone posts flanked either side of an open gate, and I paused at the end of the driveway. It curved in front of the house, and it was overflowing with parked cars, including a cherry red ’86 Mustang that stood out sharply against the white mansion.
Every window in the house was on, making the house glimmer on the darkened street. At one time, it had probably been nestled on the edge of a plantation, but the town had grown up around it, burying it in suburban streets and overgrown trees.
White streamers were strung from the overhanging branches of the trees, making it seem as if the trees had extended their grasp, reaching closer to the ground to snatch anyone who got close.
The house loomed over the street, reminding me of a monster from a slasher flick, and neither the neon balloons attached to columns nor the brightly dressed partygoers could shake it.
It was a massive two-story white antebellum manor, with a balcony supported by thick columns. Some of the party guests had drifted out onto it, singing along to the music that blasted from the stereo.
Still standing on the cobblestones at the end of the driveway, I was near enough that I could see the people fairly well, dancing and laughing on the brightly lit balcony. A guy sat on the railing of the second-floor balcony, drinking from a red plastic cup.
With his back to the street, the popped collar of his silver blazer blocked his face. Slowly, he turned away from the party. His brown hair was pushed back, and he surveyed the parking lot that the front yard had become.
Then I felt his eyes settle on me. I was hidden in the shadows of the street, so he wouldn’t be able to see me. Or at least he shouldn’t have been able to. But there was something about his expression—the furrow of his brow, the shadow across his eyes—and I was certain that he was looking right at me.
I smiled at him and tried to quiet my heart hammering in my chest. There was nothing about this that should have my pulse racing so fast. But then he returned my smile.
A brand-new Mercedes squealed to a stop at the end of the driveway, and I took that as my cue to move on. The passengers tumbled out of their car, laughing loudly, and I stepped away from the driveway.
As the couple from the Mercedes walked toward the house, the guy stumbled, but his female companion held him up so he wouldn’t fall. He wore dark sunglasses even though it was past ten at night and smiled at me as they approached.
I smiled politely, meaning to just continue on my exploration of Caudry, but as I slid by, the guy reached out and grabbed my arm.
“Where are you going?” He’d turned to face me, and he let go of me so he could push down his sunglasses.
“Logan, we don’t know her,” the girl said, sounding annoyed.
Her black hair was permed and fluffed into a perfect coif, and her crimson lipstick stood out against her light brown skin. She wore a skin-tight leopard-print minidress with shiny red pumps, and I’m not sure how she managed to keep her footing while steadying her friend.
“Are you sure?” He tilted his head, looking up at me.
“No, we haven’t had the pleasure of meeting. I’m Mara, and I’m assuming that you’re Corey Hart,” I said with a wry smile.
“Funny.” He glanced back at the girl in the leopard-print dress. “She’s funny.” He straightened up and turned back to me. “It’s a party in there, and you should go in.” Then he gestured wildly to the neighborhood and shouted, “Everyone should come!”
“Logan!” The girl tried to hush him.