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Cam winked. “Now go do good things.”
Giving him a watery smile, I turned and headed up the wide stairs and across the porch. A fan in the ceiling stirred hot air and lifted a few strands of my hair. I raised my hand to knock and then shook my head. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the key. I didn’t need to knock.
The lock gave and with one more glance back at where Cam waited, I stepped inside my parents’ house.
Nothing had changed. That was my first impression as I quietly shut the door behind me. Everything was clean and shiny. There was no smell or sounds. Nothing welcoming about the cold foyer.
I walked under the golden chandelier and entered the former sitting room. “Dad? Mom?”
Silence.
I sighed as I passed white furniture my mom would have a shit fit over if anyone dared to sit in. I checked the dining room and then the living room. Finally, after checking out the study and then the kitchen, I headed upstairs.
The steps made no sound.
On the second floor, I headed toward the end of the hall, to the last door and pushed it open.
It was my bedroom—keyword being was.
“Holy shit,” I whispered.
All my stuff was gone—my books, my desk, the posters and other little odds and ends I’d left behind. Not that it really mattered, but geez, nothing about this room would make anyone think I used to live in it.
“We packed your stuff up.”
I jumped and spun around. She stood in the doorway to what used to be my bedroom, dressed in beige, linen slacks and a white blouse tucked in. Her strawberry-blonde hair was coifed, her face void of any line or physical imperfection.
“Mom.”
A delicate eyebrow arched. “Your stuff is in the attic if that is what you’re here for. We had the help move it up there after I spoke with you in the fall.”
“You forgot my birthday,” I blurted out.
She tilted her head to the side in a smooth, elegant movement. “We did?”
I stared at her a moment and all I could think was what a bitch. Anger rose, but I pushed it down. Anger got you nowhere with Mrs. Morgansten. You had to beat her at her own game—stay calm, stay collected. “I’m not here for my stuff.”
“Are you here to move back in?” she asked, and she didn’t sound hopeful. She sounded like nothing. I wondered if she got plastic surgery for her voice. It was as expressive as her face.
“No.” I almost snorted. “I’m here to talk to you and Dad. Is he home?”
She didn’t answer immediately. “He’s out on the veranda.”
Most folk would call that a covered porch, but not Mom. “Well, let’s go.”
Not waiting for an answer, I brushed past her and headed downstairs. She trailed slightly behind and I could feel her eyes boring into the back of me. I started counting. I made it to five and the bottom step before she opened her mouth.
“Have you’ve gotten a haircut recently?”
“No.”
There was a slight huff. “I can tell.”
I sighed. “Then why did you ask?”
Mom didn’t respond until we reached the den that led out to the porch. “What are you wearing by the way?”
“Thrift store shit,” I replied, even though that wasn’t true.
