“I’ll be fine, Leah.”
Kaine started reading the fire numbers. That’s what they called them here in Wisconsin. Fire numbers were addresses on blue, narrow, rectangular signs attached to metal posts, located at the ends of driveways.
“Video-call me when you get there.” Leah’s voice became a distant echo in Kaine’s ear.
W12943 Foster Hill Road
Kaine turned onto the gravel drive, and the woods opened to a clearing. A hill sloped with rocky boulders, enormous oak trees, and pasture grasses waving in the spring breeze.
“Oh, my landy-love.” Kaine used her grandfather’s substitute cussword.
“What? What!” Leah’s eagerness clashed with the disappointment that slammed into Kaine’s body.
“I gotta go.” Kaine hit the End button on her phone and tossed it on the passenger seat. Video-chatting with Leah, in this moment, would not end well. So much for God’s intervention and leading. Kaine had officially taken a dive off the deep end of sanity. No wonder the San Diego police didn’t believe her when she claimed her husband had been murdered and the killer was stalking her. It was too . . . nuts. She was nuts.
Cavernous windows opened in a silent scream on the face of the Gothic house that tilted on the crest of Foster Hill. Its gables towered as if to mock her, and balconies curved in permanent, evil grins. The front door gaped open with a black shadow, evidence that somewhere, at some time, it had been opened and never closed. Abandoned.
The tires crunched on the gravel as her car rolled up the hill, slowly, as if it didn’t want to get any closer. Her reticence was reflected in the speed. This was more than a little fixer-upper. This was a demolish-and-start-over! The pictures she’d seen on the realty site had been taken from creative angles to downplay the state of the house.
The clapboard siding was hanging lopsidedly on the east gable, but seemed somewhat intact on the other gable. She could hear the real estate agent in her mind: Snap a pic of that nicer gable! The brick foundation looked as though an earthquake had rendered its mortar ineffective. The house summoned old imaginings of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The House of the Seven Gables. Kaine had read the book in high school and never forgotten it. Haunted was too cliché a word for this house, its deed now branded with her signature. Even ghosts would have abandoned the home years ago.
Could she truly credit God with leading her here? He knew she hadn’t credited Him with much lately, and it was for reasons like this. Not to mention, you didn’t thank the Lord for the murder of your husband and the fact that not even the police believed you. That they thought you were crazy to think he’d never have been a bad enough driver to face off with a concrete pillar of an underpass. That someone kept intruding into your house while you were away, moving things and leaving daffodils to taunt you. Nor could she thank the Lord for the displacement of her life and a career so depressing it hurt to even remember it.
“Okay. I can do this.” Kaine’s car rolled to a stop. She craned her neck to stare up through the windshield. “I can’t do this. No. I can’t.”
It was too creepy. Too dark. Now she was talking to herself. And that was getting old. She needed a dog. For protection. A guard dog. Yes. She would adopt a dog.
She shook her head to collect her thoughts from random escapades. Exiting her car, Kaine made her way past the crooked fence to the front stairs that led up to a porch void of paint and weathered from the sun.
Her throat closed, and she clapped her hand over her mouth.
It couldn’t be. No, no, no!
She backed away a step. Her eyes were fixed on the flower propped against the doorframe of the entrance like a wax garden ornament. A daffodil. Its sunny color mocked the taunting nature of its existence. He had left it. Just as he had left them in her house in San Diego. He had met her here.
Kaine spun on her heel and raced across the barren yard, her hip smashing against the edge of the fence and sending a rotted slat flying. She scrambled into her car and slammed the door shut, hitting the lock button.
Turning the key, Kaine cast one more glance at Foster Hill House and the daffodil that had been left to greet her. This house was a reflection of what was in Kaine’s soul. This house was terrifying. This house was dead.
Kaine’s foot was solid on the gas pedal as she sped toward town. Population 2,000 was posted just below the Welcome to Oakwood sign. Numbers offered security, didn’t they? But two thousand seemed paltry compared with San Diego’s one million plus. This was a dark little village with a creepy old house, not the country home with wildflowers Kaine had imagined in her mind. A relaxing bed-and-breakfast type of a house. An oasis in the countryside.
Kaine massaged the steering wheel with cold, clammy hands. Crowds. No matter the size, she’d be safe there. There was something reassuring about the stimulation of a crowd, the sound of hundreds of voices murmuring around her. She was safe, and she wasn’t alone. Kaine counted at least two, three, okay, five taverns down the main street. Welcome to Wisconsin, she supposed, one of the leading states for drinking and alcoholism. A woman jogged along the sidewalk, her Nike shirt a fluorescent yellow. Kaine glanced at her as she passed. The woman lifted her hand in a wave. At least someone seemed friendly.
The vision of that glorious daffodil stabbed deeper than any knife. Her tentative thread of security was lost. Broken. Where was the witness protection program for the abused and hunted? Kaine had long wondered that. In her line of work, she had seen it over and over again. The prey, the hunter, the victimization. Now it was her turn.
Harvey’s Auto & Gas. Well, that was a welcome reprieve. Any living body at this point might be at risk of being hugged, and Kaine wasn’t a hugger. She leaned her head back against the seat. The corner station boasted a green metal roof, three gas pumps that didn’t accept credit cards, and a small store. Maybe she’d grab a candy bar. A Snickers. She deserved chocolate, even though it wouldn’t fix this problem.
Kaine crawled from the car, her legs still stiff from her four-day cross-country drive. Her hand brushed the small wooden cross that dangled on a pink ribbon from the rearview mirror. It was a remnant of her faith. A bruised faith.
A robin hopped across her path, then fluttered away as Kaine walked to the building. The tinny clang of an old bell greeted her ears as the gas station door pulled inward just as she reached for it. Off-balance by the unexpected swing of the door, Kaine stumbled. A firm grip on her upper arm steadied her.
“So sorry.”