Family Secrets (Brannon House Book 2) Page 12

  “And the detective offered to help.”

  “The detective?” I arch a brow. “When did you see him?”

  She shifts her weight and looks away. “Well, I asked him what he thought about the tunnel. I’m serious about taking every possible safety precaution.”

  “Do the police really need to be involved? And why are you acting weird?”

  “Weird? What do you mean?”

  “You looked away when I mentioned him.”

  “That’s not acting strange. I’m just trying to figure out what to do. Being up here is a safety issue, as well. This dust isn’t healthy. Maybe we should come back.”

  “Not a chance. It’s taken us this long to get up here. I’m not turning back now.”

  She finally meets my gaze. “And neither am I. We need answers, and my mother isn’t giving us anything, even though it’s clear she hasn’t forgotten a single thing.”

  “What’s going to happen to her?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “If she really doesn’t have dementia, she can’t stay at that facility. Or can she?”

  My aunt mumbles something I can’t make out.

  “What’s that?”

  “Let’s just take this one thing at a time. The doctor said it’ll take some time to figure out what’s going on. That’s the first step. Just like our first step is to get through this box. There’s no way we’re going to get it downstairs ourselves. Do you want to go through it or wait?”

  “Is that even a question?” I grab the sheet and put it on the bed, ignoring the new cloud of dust.

  She turns around, coughing.

  Maybe we really do need different masks. Who knows what’s in those particles? Old diseases we aren’t immune to? Or would our ancestors have passed along the immunity to us?

  Kenzi turns back around. “Ready to look?”

  My breath hitches. “Let’s do this.”

  Are we about to find answers?

  We both look down. The box is filled with books.

  She picks one up from the top. “No wonder it was so heavy.”

  “What’s that book?” I pick up a different one and open it, careful with the fragile pages. This one is a logbook of some sort. It’s filled with numbers in a light, curvy script.

  “Receipts. Notes about purchases.” She holds it up for me to see. “It’s all pretty faded. What do you have?”

  “Basically the same, but no receipts. Just handwriting.”

  “Any dates?”

  I scan the page, not seeing any. Then I check the next few, still not seeing dates. Just a bunch of addition and subtraction problems. Not very interesting. Definitely no answers about any murder.

  After going through each page, we set the books aside and pick up more from the box. I get another receipt book. “What do you have?”

  Kenzi turns to me. “Photos.”

  I drop the logbook and scurry around the box to see the pictures. They’re sepia, and the people are dressed like pictures I’ve seen from the Depression era.

  The same time period as Prohibition, if I’m remembering my history lectures right. I never thought it was something I’d ever need. Could these people have made the tunnel? Or had it already been there? Did they even know about it?

  My aunt flips through the pages like a sloth stuck in molasses.

  “Are there any pictures of the tunnel?” I try to peek at pages further back.

  “Look at these clothes. They’re amazing.”

  Of course she’s more concerned about fashion. “Yeah, great. What about the tunnel?”

  She frowns. “You really think they would’ve taken pictures of it? Of something they wanted to keep secret?”

  “Why not? Seems our relatives could get away with anything they wanted.”

  “Not likely. It wasn’t easy to get photos back then. A photographer would have to come to the house, then the film would have to be developed. There were no smart phones back then. It was a whole different world.”

  “I know that.” I throw her an exasperated look. “But maybe they did get pictures. They had to have been proud of it, especially if they built it. Why not get photo proof? They wouldn’t display them around the house, but I think they’d want them.”

  “It’s possible.” She flips a page. “Look at these dresses! Women didn’t wear these for special occasions. They dressed like this every day.”

  “Focus. We can gawk at the clothes any time. We’re here to uncover family secrets.”

  She pulls the photo album closer. “Check this out. This lady looks a lot like your mom.”

  “Really?” I crane my neck and study the picture she’s pointing to. The woman in the picture does look a lot like my mom did when she was younger. “That’s so weird. Anyone look like me? Or you?”

  “Now who’s the one getting distracted?” Kenzi teases.

  I take the book from her and gingerly flip to the next page. “This dude looks just like Grandpa, except constipated.”

  My aunt laughs. “Most people didn’t smile in photos back then. They didn’t have the dental care we do.”

  “This girl is smiling.”

  “Her mouth is still closed.”

  I scan the page for anyone truly smiling and don’t find any. “I would’ve. Smiling makes people look so much better.”

  We flip through the pages, commenting on clothes and expressions. It’s hard to believe we’re related to all of them. Or at least most of them. Some might’ve been friends of the family. It’s fun to see who resembles people we know.

  Creak!

  Kenzi and I both freeze and look around, wide-eyed.

  Creak-creak.

  My pulse races, my breathing hitches. I look around for a weapon. Memories of being forced up here flash through my mind. I need to start carrying a pocket knife at the very least.

  After a full minute passes, my aunt finally speaks. “It’s just the house settling.”

  Creak.

  Color drains from her face.

  “You sure about that?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  A cold chill runs through me.

  Slam!

  Was that the door at the bottom of the stairs? The one I propped open with a chair?

  My gaze locks on Kenzi’s. Without a word, we both hurry out of the room and to the top of the stairs.

  The door is closed.

  22

  Ember

  My legs feel like rubber. They won’t move. I can hardly breathe.

  I put a chair in front of that door. Now it’s closed. It couldn’t have been a draft. We never got the window open upstairs. And even if we had, Kenzi’s right—it would never cause the door to close. No breeze could make it down there, and even if one did, the door was propped open.

  Yet now it’s closed. Slammed shut. I can still hear the sound echoing in my head.

  My aunt moves past me and creeps down the stairs, clinging to the railing which looks like it could fall off with one wrong move.

  I can’t let her go down by herself. There’s either a person down there—someone who broke in—or a ghost with the power to move physical objects.

  I’m not sure which prospect scares me more.

  Somehow, I manage to get my feet to move. On the stairs, I cling to the railing just like Kenzi does. It’ll probably collapse under our weight, but at the moment, I don’t care. It’s keeping me steady. Finally, I catch up with her.

  She reaches for the knob.

  I hold my breath in anticipation. It’s going to be locked, I just know it. Even though it has a new knob without a locking mechanism. Or maybe it’ll be covered in protoplasm and we won’t be able to twist it.

  It twists. She pushes the door open. Turns to me, brings her finger to her mouth, and motions for me to stay put.

  Like that’s going to happen.

  Kenzi steps onto the hardwood floor and looks around, her hand still on the knob.

  My heart feels like it’s going to explode out of
my chest. I can hardly breathe.

  She inches out until she has to let go of the door.

  I follow, careful to keep my steps light. She can’t tell me to go back if she doesn’t know I’m right behind her.

  My aunt looks up and down the hall.

  I follow her gaze, seeing nothing.

  We’re going to die, there’s no other possible outcome. I’m going to join my mom before I even have the chance to finish high school.

  Kenzi whips around and nearly crashes into me. Her eyes widen. Then she glares at me and motions for me to go back to the stairs.

  I fold my arms and shake my head.

  Her brows draw together.

  So do mine.

  She waves me off dismissively before tiptoeing toward the back of the house.

  I’d rather run to the front door and escape, but I’m not going anywhere alone. There’s too much space between here and there. And I know how dangerous the curved staircase can be if someone wants to cause bodily harm.

  As we near the backside of the house, we pass several closed rooms. Most of which we’ve yet to go into at all. So much of this place is shrouded in mystery. And the air back here is chillier. Has a bit of a stale odor, despite how often she opens the windows.

  Creak!

  I nearly jump out of my skin.

  Kenzi keeps going as if nothing just sounded.

  I hurry to catch up with her. She peeks into the few rooms that are actually open. Grandma’s old workout room. A smaller library Grandpa always called a den filled with old portraits, not unlike the photos we were just looking at upstairs. An old playroom with ancient toys that belong in a museum—a room that would scare the life out of me if I went into it in the dark.

  We go all the way to the staircase leading to the downstairs.

  My aunt looks at me, says nothing.

  I want to say something, but my mind is racing. I couldn’t possibly spit out a coherent thought.

  She gestures toward the stairs.

  Good. We’re on the same page. Time to get outside. And fast.

  We lean on the carved railing and make our way down. Some of the stairs creak under our weight. They always protest, but this time it seems louder than normal. Like they’re shouting our location to whomever closed us into the third floor.

  When we make it to the bottom, my aunt doesn’t race for the door like a sane person. No, she goes to the left, heading toward the basement and the entrance to the tunnel.

  “Have you lost your mind?” I whisper.

  Her only response is to shake her head.

  I should run outside, but I can’t leave her alone in here when she could face a ghost or a robber. We pass more closed doors. Open ones, too. The dance hall would be the perfect place to hide. Thankfully, Kenzi doesn’t go inside.

  As we pass the door to the basement, she slows. Stares. Her hands shake. Then she quickly hurries away. I definitely have to ask her about why it freaks her out so bad, and I will if we survive this. Otherwise, it doesn’t matter.

  We both stare at the full-length mirror as we pass. My aunt keeps going, but I stop.

  “Wait!”

  She turns and gives me a questioning look.

  “It’s cracked open.”

  “What?” Kenzi backtracks and her mouth falls open. “You didn’t do that, did you?”

  “No. I swear.”

  She mutters under her breath.

  “I take it you didn’t, either?”

  “No.” My aunt moves the table aside, pulls out her phone, opens the door, and shines her light down the stairs.

  “See anything?” I whisper.

  “Nothing.” She closes it, then we both push the table back to where it belongs.

  “Aren’t we going to install a lock?”

  “The locksmith is coming out Friday. I couldn’t get her here earlier.”

  “She came out pretty fast when we needed the locks on our main doors changed.”

  “It was an emergency. I think the detective might’ve pulled some strings.”

  The detective again. She keeps mentioning him. Why is he so involved in our case? Because our house has so many rumors about it? Or something else entirely?

  Not that there’s time to question her. She’s already heading down the hallway.

  We stop at the main library and look around.

  Empty.

  Then we continue on, passing closed doors—I wonder if we shouldn’t check out those rooms too—until we come to Grandpa’s office. Nothing unusual in there.

  We’re almost to the front door. To freedom.

  I start to relax. We just have to get past the kitchen. Then I’m racing outside no matter what my aunt decides to do.

  She stops at the entrance. Pokes her head in.

  Screams.

  My heart skips a beat. I reach for a wall to balance myself. Manage to get my feet to move.

  Look in the kitchen. Nearly pass out.

  Someone is eating at the table.

  23

  Kenzi

  My mind goes blank as I stare at the figure sitting at the table, back to us. I have to be imagining this. At the same time, there’s no way I am. Not given the ashen look on my niece’s face.

  This cannot be happening.

  I step into the kitchen. “Mom?”

  She turns around slowly, as if nothing is wrong with this picture. “Mackenzie.”

  Ember throws me a wide-eyed confused look.

  I take a few unsteady steps toward my mother. “What are you doing here?”

  “Eating lunch. I see you still eat crap. This stuff will kill you, I hope you know.”

  “How did you get in?”

  “The back entrance.” She turns back to the table.

  I nearly laugh, except there’s nothing funny about this situation. “You have been coming in through the tunnel?”

  Her only response is to nod.

  “Why are you here?”

  “I can’t very well stay in the home anymore, can I? Not now that my secret is known.”

  Ember takes heavy steps over to her. “Why did you fake dementia, Grandma? That’s not funny, you know.”

  “I wasn’t trying to be funny.”

  Silence settles between the three of us.

  As the reality of the situation hits me, a range of emotions thunders through me—everything from anger to shock. “You’ve actually been sneaking into the house?”

  My mother just nods as she continues eating.

  “Why?” I demand.

  “This is my house.”

  I march over. “Legally, it’s mine.”

  “And it was in your father’s name before that. Didn’t make it any less my house.”

  “Actually, it was Claire’s before mine.”

  Mom shrugs.

  Ember gives me a wild expression.

  I shake my head, having no answers, and sit across from my mother. My niece takes the seat next to me. Mom keeps eating like nothing is out of place.

  “Did you try to lock us on the third floor?” I demand.

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Did you close the door?” I shout.

  “Yes. It shouldn’t be open.”

  I squeeze the table. “Did you happen to think that it was propped open for a reason?”

  “There is no reason to keep it open. The third floor is the place where secrets go to die.”

  “That isn’t all, is it?”

  She sets her fork down. “What isn’t?”

  “Secrets aren't the only thing that have died up there, are they?”

  Mom sighs dramatically. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” She goes back to her lunch.

  “How did you get here?”

  “Must we discuss this now?”

  “Yes!” I slam my palm on the table.

  Both my mother and niece jump.

  “Always so dramatic.” Mom sips her water.

/>   “Dramatic?” I exclaim. “If anything, I’m under-reacting!”

  She sets down her glass. “If I hadn’t spent nearly thirty hours in labor with you, I’d swear there was no way you were my child.”

  “I’ll never hear the end of the thirty hours of labor, will I?”

  “You’ll understand if you ever have children. But you’ll never mature to that stage of life, will you?”

  I clench my fists. “Speaking of children, how many have you birthed?”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “It very much is! How many siblings do I have?”

  Her mouth forms a straight line. “None, now.”

  “How can you be so callous?”

  “I’m not. It’s the simple truth. You have no living siblings.”

  “Did you mourn Claire at all?”

  “Of course I did! Made all the worse because I had to hide it from everyone.”

  “Since you were living a lie.” I cross one leg over the other and stare her down.

  “I was doing what I needed in order to survive.”

  I snort. “You had to fake memory loss to survive?”

  “Yes. Richard was going to kill me. I could see it in his eyes.”

  “He was going to kill you? That’s a strong accusation.”

  “Don’t act surprised. He always despised me but couldn’t do a thing because of your father. Once he was gone, there was nothing holding him back.” She gets up and collects her plate and silverware. “Do you two want something to eat?”

  “Something to eat?”

  “That’s what I asked.”

  I exchange an incredulous look with my niece. “You can’t just walk in here and act like everything is fine! Start making us lunch like the last five years never happened.”

  She puts the plates into the dishwasher and turns back to me. “We all know I have my full faculties. You two look like you’ve just been wrestling in the dirt, so let me fix you something. We can talk while I cook.”

  Ember lifts a brow. “Grandma, why don’t you just tell us what’s going on? Forget about food and start at the beginning.”

  “Cookies?” Mom asks. “Or do you want a cake?”

  I rise. “We don’t want to eat anything! All we want is answers.”

  “I’ll talk, but I’d be happier making something to eat. Perhaps you’d prefer dinner. I could make lasagna. You might be hungry by the time that’s done, and I’m pretty sure you have most of the ingredients.” She opens the refrigerator. “Enough that I can make do, anyway.” She glances at me. “Someone really needs to teach you how to shop, especially now that you’re raising my granddaughter.”