Season of Change(105)

                “I’m observant and I’m your friend.” Flynn stared him down. “You’re afraid.”

                Exactly.

                “At least let me look.” Flynn made for Slade’s front door. “I’ll tell you if the boogeyman is still bedding down in there.”

                “No.” Slade caught his arm.

                “Dude.” Flynn frowned at Slade’s hand until he released him. “It’s just a room. You can sell the house and never look in there again. But you’re letting it have some kind of power over you.”

                “The room doesn’t have power. The memories do.” And just like that, he felt the tightness around his neck.

                “How bad can it be if I’m standing next to you?”

                Slade tried to laugh.

                When that didn’t work, he let Flynn lead him into the house.

                * * *

                THE ROOM DIDN’T want to be disturbed.

                The lock turned with a groan. Squealing hinges complained. Cobwebs stretched and broke as the door swung away from the frame.

                The shades were up, the windows layered in a film of dirt. The bed was made, its blue-and-yellow star quilt covered in dust. The dust on the hardwood floors was undisturbed except for what looked like small trails made by adventuresome beetles. The bureau stood resolute, supporting pictures of Slade growing up, of his father as a boy, of his mother on her wedding day.

                Flynn stepped into the room, looked around, and walked over to the closet, leaving a trail of footprints in the dust.

                Slade stayed in the doorway, looking anywhere but the closet.

                “His clothes are still all here.”

                “I closed this up the day he died.” The room smelled like his father had been shut in a box for too long—Old Spice, sweat, and cigar smoke. Funny how he’d never associated the aroma of cigar smoke with his father before.

                “Come inside.”

                Slade couldn’t. He stroked his tie, staring out one of the windows. “Takata’s got a few shingles missing.”

                “And not just on his roof.” Flynn tapped his temple as he crossed into Slade’s line of vision. He struggled to open a window.

                “Don’t,” Slade said, taking a step backward. “Leave it alone.”

                “But—”

                “I can’t.” Slade spun around and went downstairs.

                He started walking and didn’t stop for a long, long time.





                                      CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

                CHRISTINE CAME OUTSIDE to meet Slade on the front porch of the farmhouse. The heat shimmered off the gravel drive.

                “Flynn called,” she said.

                Slade moved slowly up the porch steps and into her arms. He held on to her as if she was the best thing he’d seen in a long time.