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My father’s warning echoes through my thoughts.
It’s not safe there. Not for you.
I chase it away with a call to Allie, announcing that I’ve made it safe and sound.
“How does the place look?” she says.
“I don’t know. I still haven’t unlocked the gate.”
Allie hesitates a beat before replying. “It’s okay to have second thoughts.”
“I know.”
“And it’s not too late to change your mind.”
I know that, too. I could turn around, head back to Boston, and accept my mother’s offer to buy Baneberry Hall sight unseen. I could try to be okay with never knowing the real reason we left that long-ago July night. I could pretend my parents haven’t lied to me for most of my life and that those lies haven’t become part of who I am.
But I can’t.
It’s useless to even try.
“You know I need to do this,” I say.
“I know youthinkyou need to do it,” Allie replies. “But it’s not going to be easy.”
The plan is for me to spend the summer getting Baneberry Hall in shape to be sold, hopefully for a profit. It won’t be a complete renovation. Certainly not as extensive as what Allie and I do on a regular basis. I think of it as a major freshening up. New paint and wallpaper. Polishing the hardwood and laying down fresh tile. Restore what’s usable, and replace what’s not. The most ambitious I’ll get is in the rooms that really sell a house. Bathrooms. Kitchen. Master suite.
“You make it sound like I’ve never fixed up an old house before.”
This prompts a sigh from Allie. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”
She’s referring to the other part of my plan—searching for snippets of truth that might be hiding in every nook and cranny. It’s the main reason she’s not joining me for the renovation. This time, as they say in the movies, it’s personal.
“I’ll be fine,” I tell her.
“Says the woman who still hasn’t gotten out of her truck,” Allie replies, stating a fact I can’t deny. “Are you sure you’re ready for this? And not fabric-swatches-and-truck-full-of-equipment ready. Emotionally ready.”
“I think so.” It’s as honest an answer as I can give.
“What if the truth you’re looking for isn’t there?”
“Every house has a story,” I say.
“And Baneberry Hall already has one,” Allie replies.
“Which was written by my father. I had no absolutely no say in it, yet it affects me to this very day. And I need to at least try to learn the real one while I still have the chance.”
“Are you sure you don’t need me there?” Allie says gently. “If not for moral support, then just for the fact that old houses can be tricky. I’d feel better knowing you had some help.”
“I’ll call if I need any advice,” I say.
“No,” Allie says. “You’ll call or text at least once a day. Otherwise I’ll think you died in an epic table-saw accident.”
When the call is over, I get out of the truck and approach the gate, which dwarfs me by at least five feet. It’s the kind of gate you’re more likely to see at a mental hospital or prison. Something designed not to keep people out but to keep them in. I find the key for the lock, insert it, and twist. It unlocks with a metallic clank.
Almost immediately, a man’s voice—as gruff as it is unexpected—rises in the darkness behind me.
“If you’re looking for trouble, you just found it. Now back away from that gate.”