Page 20 of The Ghost of Ellwood

The cold lifted from the room. I tossed the plastic container from dinner in the trash and went up the stairs.

The first thing I noticed when entering my bedroom was the window. It was open, allowing in an evening breeze. The curtains fanned upward, and perhaps my eyes were playing tricks on me, but it looked as though someone stood behind them. I padded across the floor and slammed the window down, flipping the latch to lock it. No one was behind the curtain.

A flutter, like paper being torn, sounded behind me, and I spun on my heels.

The picture I’d taken from the attic was on the floor. Ripped to shreds.

I knelt down beside it, picking up a piece still somewhat intact. Turning it over, it was the half with George. And tiny holes had been poked right where his face should’ve been.

“What happened to you here, Theo?” I asked, plopping to my ass on the rug and gathering the shredded pieces. “Why are you so angry?”

There was no answer.

I hadn’t really expected one.

Falling asleep later was difficult. My mind wouldn’t shut down. I imagined the worst possibilities; Theo being beaten by George, maybe even murdered? Or had he simply gotten into an argument with his father and left town?

The mystery of Theo Blackwell haunted me.

Chapter Six

“So, I felt it brush up against my leg, right? And I freaked. I swear, I’ve never swam so fast in my life,” Carter said, laughing. “Even more embarrassing, I started screaming, ‘Shark! Shark!’ as I swam to shore. People all around me were losing their shit. Kids were crying. Moms were screaming. I caused a total mass panic, Ben. Whistles were blowing, warning everyone to get out of the water.”

“What was it really?” I asked, cutting off a piece of my steak.

“Seaweed.”

I barked out a laugh, nearly choking on my food. “Now I see why you left California.”

“Right?” Carter grinned. “I couldn’t show my face ever again after that. You should totally put that in one of your books.”

“Many of my ideas actually do come from real experiences. I should write a novel titledSeaweed Boy. I feel like it would be an instant bestseller. Maybe even a classic.”

Carter snorted, and water dripped from his lips. He slapped a hand to his mouth and wiped at it, his face going red as more laughs escaped him. More like giggles.

Fuck, he was adorable.

“Did I kill you? Please don’t die, Carter. You’re my only friend in Ivy Grove.”

That only made him laugh harder.

This was nice.

Two days after the incident with the torn picture, Carter had invited me to dinner at his house. He was an excellent cook. The steak was grilled to a beautiful medium, and the roasted potatoes had the right amount of crunch and seasoning.

His home, however, didn’t seem to fit his personality.

It was a two-story Victorian, much like mine but way smaller. Only three bedrooms. An antique cabinet in the living room held fancy glass figurines, a pie hutch in the kitchen had fine china, including teacups and saucers, and there were crocheted doilies on the counter.

“How long have you lived here?” I asked.

“Three years.” At my stunned expression, he scrunched his face up. He snapped his fingers, then. “It’s the old lady décor, right? Dude, I moved in with my granny, remember? My whole family comes from here. My mom wanted to be an actress, so my parents moved to Cali not long after they got married. But I guess some things are just in your blood, right? I ended up right back here anyway.”

Funny how life worked out that way.

“Oh, I hope your grandma’s okay with me visiting.”

“She died five months ago,” Carter responded sadly. “I haven’t had the heart to redecorate yet.”