Insidious(61)

My vision finally refocused, seeing Reese staring uneasily back at me. His thumb ran over my cheek, and that’s when I realized it. I was crying.

“Hey…”

I tried pulling away from him, embarrassment scorching my cheeks. But he wouldn’t let go.

“Kat?”

“I’m fine,” I blurted, the words coming out with a strangled yelp.

“What happened?”

Hot tears continued pouring from my eyes, and I knew if I opened my mouth again, I’d begin full-on sobbing.

Reese’s hands were suddenly cupping my face, forcing me to look at him. He brushed the mess of hair from my eyes. “You wanna get out of here?”

I barely managed a nod.



***



If someone told me last week that I’d be spending the afternoon with Reese, I would have found them the phone number to the local nuthouse. Yet, there we were, heading down Main Street in his rust bucket truck, on the way to his house no less. When I finally managed to collect myself, I showed him the pictures I received from the car accident and told him about the creep in the hoodie who just so happened to show up right after I got the first message. After throwing in the bit about the glowing red eyes, he didn’t need more persuading to agree with me that this wasn’t just a prank. Reese assured me he would do what he could to try and trace the sender’s location. I still couldn’t bring myself to tell him though about what happened in the bathroom.

Passing the harbor, we drove down to Mystic Harbor’s boondocks where the magnificent coastal manors eventually devolved into kempt colonial subdivisions. I tried keeping my expression neutral, but my unease still didn’t go unnoticed by Reese. He stole several glances over at me with a smirk. It was void of any real amusement, but a look more of discomfiture. Given the grandeur of my home, I could only assume the ramshackle state of his own had left him with reservations of taking me there. I imagined most of the houses in the West End probably looked like something the police would raid on an episode of Cops.

Century old elm trees loomed overhead, creating a leafy archway over the rural backstreets. The car took an unexpected turn onto a narrow gravel path, and we rode up to a quaint, two-story cottage resting at the end of the stretch. The lawn was immaculately groomed, encased around the thick collection of trees that bordered the property. There was even a small garden by the front porch filled with hydrangeas and some seasonal roses that accented the dormer windows and open veranda.

“Wait…” I outright looked around, confused.

“What?”

“This is your house?”

“Last time I checked,” said Reese, now clearly uncomfortable. “What were you expecting?”

I tried not to laugh. “Honestly, I don’t know. It’s just…how everyone talks about the West End, I guess I pictured something out of The Warriors, you know? Some seedy underbelly where all the windows are barred and everything’s covered in spray paint.”

He snorted, trying to bury his amusement. “Seriously? The worst place in the area is down by the old factories. Sure, there are some unsavory folk around there, but they’re not all meth heads and gangsters as you may have imagined.”

The low hanging sun left limited light to showcase the property, but I could still see it well enough to know I’d been wrong.

I opened the door and stepped outside. Reese backtracked to the front porch and unlocked the door with an invitation for me to follow him. The smell of freshly baked cookies lingered in the downstairs, making the rustic décor feel all the more homey. Washed-out brown carpet and bucolic furniture covered the living areas while handcrafted wooden tables and chairs sat in the kitchen. Mounds of books lay spread across the coffee table, there were coats hung on the backs of multiple chairs, opened mail sat on the tops of the counters, and a large wool blanket was sitting in a balled up lump on the three-piece sofa sectional. Mom would never allow such details to go unchecked. The house was still tidy and clean in its own right, but it was clear that people obviously lived here.

This is what a home was supposed to look like. Unlike the $5,000 Italian silk upholstered sofa that Mom never even let me sit on, Reese’s worn couches practically beckoned me to curl up and take a nap right then and there. Every inch of this place was cozy and welcoming.

Footsteps galloped down into the foyer, turning my attention back to the door.

“Peanut? Is that you?”A woman who looked to be in her late thirties came into the family room dressed in hospital scrubs. She stopped dead in her tracks, her hands tangled up in the mass of coffee-brown hair she was trying to wrap into a bun. “You’re not my son.”