Infamous: (A Bad Boy Romantic Suspense) (13 page)

The house stood small and quiet, the once-cheery color of its face now faded to a kind of drab, pale grayish blue. The flowers along the sills had mostly withered, the grass was long and uneven, and there were huge drifts of leaves up against the sides.

Home.

Grams would be pretty pissed with Taylor right now if she could see how funky the old place looked. She kind of dreaded what the inside must be like after all this time.

Of course, Taylor had had people over to trim the lawn and check on things every so often. Just not very often, as her walk up to the front door, littered with years’ worth of nature’s detritus, could attest. The windows all looked foggy with dirt and dust and there were streaks from wind and rain. It just looked sad. Which was how Taylor felt about it.

She dug out her key and pushed on the door, which she had to shove a few times before it banged open into the small foyer. It smelled musty but not unpleasant. She took a deep breath and stepped inside.

If a place could represent a person or a time, then the house Taylor had grown up in definitely “felt” like her grams, still. Nothing had been moved or changed since her death, just a few sheets put over furniture. The flamboyant colors of the purple couch, the puffy green chair, and the flowered wallpaper made her smile as tears started to fall gently down her cheeks.

She was crying for a lot of reasons, mostly because she remembered this house being full of love and now it was quiet and empty. A shell. The same way a dead body was only a husk of a person.

Taylor knew people didn’t understand why she hadn’t gone to Grams’ funeral. But she’d already said her goodbyes, in person, at the hospital. No one in town knew because Philips Memorial was in Andover, nearly an hour outside Sweethollow. The hospice care there had been better than anything local.

By the time the funeral had come around, there’d been no point. Taylor didn’t need to see a box go into the ground to know her grams was gone, because she’d been there when she’d died.

Taylor had come up from the city every day that year, even though she was juggling classes and she’d only been in college for a year. She’d scheduled everything early and then went up in the afternoon, taking a nearly two-hour train ride each way.

Grams had always been healthy, the kind of person who could drink, smoke, and eat whatever and not get sick. Taylor could only remember her having one cold while she was growing up. And she’d been a cranky, terrible patient.

But then the cancer had settled in. She’d watched Grams shrink, it seemed, though she’d always stayed starchy and sharp. She’d elected not to get treatment; she was ninety, after all, and felt like quality was better than quantity. Taylor wasn’t sure she agreed emotionally, but she knew Grams was right. And the last day had been like the others, maybe even sharper, with a lot of laughter and sweetness. Taylor had held her hand and they’d both fallen asleep watching Murder She Wrote in her sunny little room. When Taylor had woken up from a nap, Grams had been gone, cold hand still in hers.

Somehow Taylor had always thought Grams would live forever, like most people do about loved ones. She walked slowly through the downstairs, touching fixtures and furniture. Then she went into the kitchen.

The kitchen had been Grams’ domain and the heart of the house. It sounded clichéd, but this where Taylor always thought of her, cooking or baking, forehead sweaty, hair curling. Sometimes her food was amazing, and sometimes it went awry and they got pizza. But it was always fun.

She sat the table and looked around, the pots still hanging over the stove, dishes arranged neatly in the cupboard, towels by the sink. Everything had a thin layer of dust but it was just as she remembered, only it was usually all full of various food. She could almost smell a pie baking, the sense memory was so strong.

Taylor wiped her cheeks, which were damp but not soaked with tears. It wasn’t all sad crying, either. She’d been so afraid to see the old place, to feel and remember. But what she’d been missing was the good stuff, the love, the laughter, the greeting card things that were sentimental but really mattered. It was okay to miss Grams and still love her and be sad. Just so long as she didn’t forget that her life had been more than her death.

She walked up the hidden back stairway in the house to her old room. There were still posters from embarrassingly angsty teen bands on the walls and some ill-advised artwork of her own. It was a good thing she’d stuck to writing.

Taylor didn’t spent long in her room. The risk of nostalgia poisoning was too high. So she went to the attic, where what she’d come for should still be.

It was like a weird gravesite of odds and ends, discarded projects, Taylor’s old dollhouse that now looked haunted covered in cobwebs and dust, moldy cardboard boxes and stacks of old newspapers that looked like they’d disintegrate at a touch. What she was looking for was in the corner, under a stack of paperbacks with titles like Her Desperate Love and His Dark Craving, with swooning ladies on the covers.

A photo album, worn about the edges, came up with a puff of dust. Taylor sneezed, and her eyes watered as she wiped off the front. “The Riderites, 1920 (–)” Grams had kept a photo journal of her little pet group since its inception when she was only a teenager. Her experience with the Rider had made her a lifelong devotee of the legend, and she’d had the kind of personality that drew others to her. Taylor smiled, a little sadly, but was glad she’d been able to find it.

A bump from downstairs made her freeze, and her stomach dropped. That had not been the sound of an old house creaking; that was the sound of someone trying to be quiet while they walked and not quite succeeding.

She was not alone.

Taylor crept very carefully back on her hands and knees as the sounds from below headed towards the attic stairs. Adrenaline started pumping through her, her body tense, ready for flight. She crouched behind a stack of boxes that smelled like mothball-laden clothes. The label had been written over too many times to tell what was actually inside. She looked around for a weapon of some kind, clutching the photo album to her chest. It could be the person who’d broken into her room, here to find her or get information. She just didn’t get why. What she knew was pretty basic, nothing anyone else in town didn’t know. Why target her? Because she was working on a story?

She found, of all things, a stray bedpost from some long-gone bed and gripped its solid, reassuring wooden weight. The footsteps seemed to be moving, but then she heard them stop.

It felt like forever as she waited for the steps to recede, briefly, then come back towards the stairs. She heard them step onto the first one, then the steps, then hit the creaky one with a squeal. They stopped as though listening, then continued up. Soon she’d be able to see who it was. Taylor almost forgot to breathe, she was so scared and jacked up at the same time. She readied the bedpost like a sword.

A small head with gray hair stylishly cut in a bob appeared, then a familiar face with dark cats’-eye glasses popped up and peered around.

“Susan!” shrieked Taylor, surprised and delighted.

“AAAAAH!” Susan screamed and fell.

“Oh, no, oh, no! Sorry, sorry!” Taylor called, rushing down. Susan sat on the bottom step, holding her chest and panting.

“Are you hurt? Do you need me to call 911?” Taylor said, jumping down the last few steps and crouching down.

“No, you just scared the shit out of me. I’ll be fine,” Susan said, taking a deep breath. Then she squinted. “Taylor? Is that you, honey?”

“Hi, Susan. Yes, it’s me,” Taylor said, relieved.

“Been a long damn time, kid. Making it big in the city?” Susan stood up.

“In a way,” Taylor said with a small smile. Then she enveloped the woman in a rough, warm hug. Susan was a very spry seventy-something-year-old who’d been friends with her grams for years. It was good to see a friendly face.

“What are you doing here? I thought I saw someone sneaking around in here, so I came over to check it out,” Susan said, looking Taylor over.

“Only you would come and check out to see if a burglar or someone was sneaking around instead of calling the police,” Taylor said. They walked downstairs, arm in arm.

“Well, I only saw the back of you as you went in. I figured I could probably take another girl,” Susan said.

They sat in the living room, clearing off a little couch so they could sit side by side. Taylor looked at Susan in the light and saw that, though the last ten years had been kind, she could not hide the fact that she was well past her youth. And yet she was still beautiful in a fragile way, delicate wrinkles and creases mostly around her eyes and mouth. Her skin was lovely still, the kind of complexion anyone would envy. She was looking at Taylor very seriously now.

“We missed you at the funeral,” she said. Taylor nodded.

“I couldn’t. I’d already said goodbye. The Grams I knew wasn’t there anymore anyway. Just a shell,” Taylor said. Susan took her hand.

“I hate funerals. Your grams was a lively woman, full of spark and wit. And a damn fine poker player with a sailor’s mouth once you got her going. I miss her all the time,” Susan said. Taylor squeezed her hand.

“Me too. I always will,” she admitted.

“We never stop loving people, you know. Never stop missing them. Even at my age, I still miss every single person I’ve lost. And that’s okay. If we didn’t, we’d be monsters,” Susan said. Taylor nodded again, unable to trust her voice.

“So, tell me honey. Why are you back in town? It can’t just be to see the old place,” Susan said.

“Well, it wasn’t. I’m glad I have, but I hadn’t planned to. I’m writing a story, but things have gotten…complicated,” Taylor said carefully.

“It wouldn’t be Sweethollow if things weren’t complicated. We seem to have a lot of complicated things happening around here. Like all sorts of accidental deaths and then, suddenly, murder. Although many folks think the amount of ‘accidents’ we keep having are a just a tad suspicious,” Susan said.

“This time of year does seem to attract an awful lot of bad luck,” Taylor said.

“Bad luck, my old, wrinkly butt. People in this town are as fishy as a lake. And then there’s the Rider. From what I hear, it’s been mighty active this year,” Susan said with a snort.

“So you think the Rider is really involved? I know Grams believed in it, but come on, Susan. It’s got to be a real person just using the legend as convenient cover. Ghosts don’t exist,” Taylor said. Susan patted her arm.

“You keep telling yourself that, honey. It’s more comforting, I know. But I’m too old to mess around. I believe, just like your grams did. You can think I’m a silly old woman because of it, but, when you’ve seen what we have, well…you might feel different.”

“I don’t think you’re silly. I just…well, it doesn’t matter. Something’s very wrong here. Someone’s been following me and they messed with the rental car I had. Could’ve been killed. That’s not a ghost, that’s a person,” Taylor said. Susan looked horrified. Taylor elected not to tell her about her room, just like she hadn’t told Anton. She knew they’d both flip out.

“Someone did something to your car? Honey, that’s serious,” Susan said.

“I know. And I’m being careful, so don’t ask,” Taylor said with a smile. Susan didn’t look convinced.

“Don’t worry. I have someone….looking out for me. I’ll be fine,” Taylor said, thinking about how her “someone” was currently in lockup in the Sweethollow police station. Yeah, she was real safe.

“What do you know about the couple who died, the Coulsons? They keep getting brought up to me in all this, but I can’t figure out what the connection is or how what happened to them is anything more than an accident,” Taylor said, frustrated. But then Susan surprised her.

“Oh, the wife wouldn’t sleep with that horrible Nick fellow, the one that gave you all that trouble in high school. Him and his group were always causing trouble, even after they grew up. Never liked them. Bunch of entitled little shits.”

“What?” Taylor said, shocked.

“Yeah, Nick was after her since they moved here. Nice, pretty young thing. Name of Jenny. Looked a bit like you, actually. She wanted nothing to do with him, so she must’ve been pretty smart, too. Their house got vandalized, car messed with. They reported it, but…you know. And then suddenly they’re killed,” Susan said. Taylor sat down.

“So, you think the Saints killed them?” she asked.

“I do. Some others, too. That Nick fellow was never right. Always seemed capable of really hurting someone to me. Something dead in his eyes. And when Jenny Coulson wouldn’t give him what he wanted…I just don’t think he could abide it.”

“Jesus Christ,” Taylor said. “Is there any proof?”

“No. Though that Officer Powell asked a lot of questions when it happened. I think he suspected, at least, but couldn’t do anything.”

“Susan, this is a conspiracy to cover up a murder,” Taylor said. “Would that many people really do that?”

“In Sweethollow? Hell, yes. We’re good at it. Practically in the town’s bones, covering up all kinds of nasty things,” Susan said, disgusted.

“So someone must know, and they’re taking out the Saints,” Taylor said.

“Could be. But I think it’s the Rider, getting justice for those who can’t get it themselves.”