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CHAPTER ONE: A QUAINT LITTLE MURDER COTTAGE

Josie

I am standing outside of what could best be described as a quaint little murder cottage, wondering if, instead of going on vacation with my brother, I’m about to die.

Jacob’s cheerful recorded voice comes over the phone I’m pressing to my ear. Again. This time, I do what I almost never do because I’m not a heathen. Or a boomer.

I leave a voicemail.

“Jacob, hi. It’s Josie—the sister you seem to be pranking right now. Why am I here? Where is here? I double-checked the address, but this cannot be the site of any kind of vacation. I did not pack to defend myself against a serial killer. Where are you? Call me back. You’ve got my number. Use it. Prefer- ably now.”

I immediately follow up with a text, which reads CALL ME NOW in all caps with no punctuation. My brother will know the lack of a period or a neat row of exclamation points means either I’ve been kidnapped or I’m really and truly angry.

The message doesn’t show a read receipt. It just sits there. Delivered.

Concern fissures through me. Maybe Jacob was in a wreck. Maybe he fell asleep at the wheel and drove right off one of the bridges on the way here. Maybe he’s dead somewhere and my last message to him was full of snark and anger.

Or . . . maybe my mind sometime jumps too quickly to the worst possible scenario.

A less morbid and much more likely explanation is that Jacob got caught up working. Like always. He could have gotten a last-minute meeting with a big client. Or a potential client. An up-and-coming college football star poised for NFL greatness. Or a basketball player having a great year with endorsement offers coming in hot. He could have left the office late and gotten stuck in DC commuter traffic.

Or maybe he met a woman. Difficult, considering it’s not quite noon, but I’ve found that, with Jacob’s charm, anything is possible.

I know what my best friend would say. Toni would tell me I shouldn’t have driven two hours to an unfamiliar address just because my brother held out promises of a fun trip together.

Never leave the house without your underwear or your boundaries, I can practically hear her saying.

But when it comes to my brother, I understand the concept of boundaries; I just can’t seem to apply them.

I scan his text from yesterday, searching for any clues I might have missed.

The Super Summer Sibling Extravaganza is upon us! Pack a bag for warm weather and maybe swimming. Comfy clothes. Maybe one or two nice things, but this will be casual. Address in the next text. Don’t look it up on Google Street View! TOMORROW AT 4 PM.

Yes—that’s all the information he gave me.

And yes, after packing this morning, I adjusted the GPS to take me on the most scenic route from Fredericksburg to Kilmarnock, a small town on what’s known as the Northern Neck. I even resisted the urge to look at the Google Street View, a decision I now regret. Because I definitely would have asked questions.

What if . . . he isn’t coming?

“You’re being ridiculous. He’ll be here,” I say out loud, like voicing it into the world will make my brother appear. He doesn’t.

That doesn’t mean he won’t. But my worry expands, braiding with the excitement and nervousness of being in a new situation. While packing, I shoved down my anxious thoughts, stuffing them away like I stuffed half my closet into my suitcases—just in case.

Adventures are fun! I told myself while carefully rolling my shirts and lining them up in neat rows at the bottom of my roller bag. So are surprises! You are a woman who lives for excitement!

I didn’t come close to convincing myself. But I packed. I came.

And now, as I stand on a driveway made of crushed oyster shells, baking in this sweltering oven of a June day, I wish I were back in my comfy but cramped apartment, working my way through my summer reading list. This year I’ve decided it will be composed entirely of books written by women—from the Brontes and Jane Austen to Toni Morrison and Madeleine L’Engle, whose young adult books I’ve always loved.

But no—I chose to leave the cocoon of home to find out what’s behind Door Number Three. Which is apparently the sad little cottage in front of me, desperately in need of an extreme home makeover. Or a bulldozer. The siding, which may have been cream once upon a time, is now the color of a load of whites thrown in the washer too many times. Most of the wood trim is rotten. I’m no roof expert, but this one looks like it’s one heavy rain away from collapsing.

If I squint, it’s almost cute. More like it had been cute and is now disappointed by its owner’s lack of upkeep. The front looks like a face—the windows its sad eyes above the half circle of frowning glass inlaid in the door.

The property, however, is gorgeous, with a swath of lush green grass fringed by pines on either side. The real star of the show is the glittering water behind the house, complete with a dock and a sailboat, which looks to be in much better shape than the house.

Parked near a structure that’s somewhere between a stand- alone garage and a metal shed is an old Bronco. Definitely not Jacob’s. He prefers his cars new and sleek and shiny. Lots of dollar signs and detailing involved. This SUV looks as though it’s been restored, but that’s not Jacob’s thing either. I briefly wonder if the car’s owner is inside the house watching me, but I see no sign of movement. The place has the abandoned vibe going on.

Abandoned but also the perfect hideout for a serial killer.

I give the sad little house a wide berth, walking toward the water as I swat away birdlike mosquitoes and wipe the sweat- stache off my upper lip. By the time I get there, my shirt clings damply to every part of me. The dock is sturdy, if a little splintered, the deep navy gleam of water almost inviting. Almost. A small dinghy motors past, driven by an older man with two little girls in pink life jackets. They all wave.

I wave back, like this is my dock. My sailboat. My little murder cottage.

The name painted in neat script on the side of the sailboat reads QUINTessential . The quint in all caps is likely some inside joke, because I don’t get it. Frankly, it’s a disappointing boat name. Aren’t boats supposed to have clever names—like Nauti & Nice or Little Boat Peep or Signed, Sailed, Delivered?

I pull out my phone—still nothing from my brother—and take a few pictures of the water and then the boat. I stop just shy of climbing aboard. I’ve never been on a boat this size and I’m itching to explore. It’s a little longer than the dock, just tall enough that I can’t see much of the deck. I’m curious but not one for trespassing, so I turn and snap pictures of the back side of the cottage, which really should have more windows considering the view.

When I walk back across the lawn, three birds rocket away from a hidden nest under the cottage’s sagging eaves. I come to an abrupt stop when a lacy curtain flutters in one of the windows. My heart leaps into my throat.

Is someone in there watching me?

I mean, it could be Jacob. He did send me the address. But he wouldn’t be hiding in there. He would have run out and given me a bone-crushing hug—his specialty.

I also can’t actually picture my brother stepping on the porch of this place, much less spying on me from inside.

As a cloud passes in front of the sun, I take another picture of the little house. You know—just in case it’s evidence in the event of my disappearance or death.

The phone vibrates in my hand, and I don’t bother with greetings when I see Jacob is calling.

“Tell me you’re the one watching me from inside the creepy murder cottage.”

He sputters a laugh. “The what?”

“You know—the sad little white house that’s falling apart and might be haunted or home to a serial killer. The one whose address you sent me last night. The one I’m standing outside of, hoping it doesn’t collapse when the wind blows.”

“It’s that bad, huh?” His voice sounds strained.

I close my eyes. Breathe in and out slowly for a few counts. Reopen my eyes just in time to see the curtains flutter again. “If you don’t know the condition, that means you aren’t here.”

It also means he isn’t the person inside watching me. I scan my surroundings as I take a step back toward my car.

“I . . . am not there.”

Disappointment curdles all the happy hope I’ve been holding on to since his text last night. So much for the Super Summer Sibling Extravaganza. And any trust I had in my brother.

When I speak, my voice holds the icy depth of a walk-in freezer. “Jacob, whose house is this? And where are you?”

“It’s kind of a long story.”

“I’ve got the whole drive back home to hear it,” I say, striding toward my car.

“Don’t go yet,” he says quickly.

“Give me a reason not to. A good one.”

“The thing is,” he continues, ignoring my questions, “I need

to call in a favor.”

I squeeze my eyes closed. “A favor.”

By my secret count—secret because you’re not supposed to

keep records of wrongs by people you love—the favors are already stacked high on my side and somewhat lacking on Jacob’s part. We are as unbalanced as a single person on a seesaw. If anyone should be calling in favors, it’s me.

Jacob is the gas giant at the center of our family’s solar system. My parents and I don’t even wait for him to ask us to jump or say how high. We just stay ready, knees bent and muscles flexed.

Is it a bit of a trauma response to Jacob coming this close to dying when he was twelve? Probably.

But even before that, he was the golden boy of the family. Almost losing him simply elevated his status. It also brought us all closer. And if we’re a little lopsided in terms of who runs the show, there are way more toxic family issues we could struggle with. My parents have escaped his orbit the last few years after buying an RV, trading in my childhood home for something a little more manageable, and spending most of the year motoring around the country. I think they’re in South Dakota right now. Or was it South Carolina? Possibly just the South. They’re hard to keep up with these days.

Which might be the point.

In my older brother’s defense, though he’s a wee bit self- focused, Jacob is a decent guy. He’s generous. Goofy. Bighearted. Able to make friends anywhere. Loyal.

Usually loyal.

“You see?—”

Jacob’s explanation is interrupted by sirens. I registered them

a few minutes ago, soft whines in the distance. But now they are loud, pealing cries. Two cop cars turn and speed down the driveway, kicking up clouds of dust behind them as they head straight for me.

“Any idea why the police are here?” I ask. He groans. “Oh no. He didn’t. He wouldn’t.”

“He who wouldn’t what?”

I’ve never been arrested, never considered running from the police, but find myself slowly backing away as the cruisers pull to a stop.

A swarm—okay, it’s just two—of cops throw open the doors, leaping out like I am the fugitive they’ve been chasing for days. Not a confused elementary school nurse who might be trespassing as some kind of favor to the man formerly known as her brother.

One cop looks barely old enough to be out of high school, and the other has eyebrows so bushy they deserve their own zip code. They’re thicker than his mustache, which is saying something.

“That,” Jacob says, as the cops point what looks to be one gun and one taser at me, “is probably because of Wyatt.”

Ah, I think, as the cops order me to drop my weapon—a.k.a. my phone—and put my hands up. Wyatt.

It all makes sense now.

* * *