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PROLOGUE
15 YEARS AGO
"Never tell anyone what you saw."
Mama shoves the camcorder into her purse.
Clutching my arm, she guides us down the hallway, setting a pace that leaves my short legs struggling to keep up. She banks a left, her breath waning above me as we bound across the kitchen. Moonlight streams through the windows, illuminating stainless steel appliances and marble countertops that stand taller than my pigtails.
Her modest heels click-clack their way across Mr. Kingston's rolling estate, room after room, corridor through corridor, until she stops suddenly, dropping to one knee. Now at eye level, Mama shakes my shoulders, earning my full attention.
"Juliana," she rasps. "You can never speak of this. Not with your friends. Not at school or even with your brother. Do you understand me?"
I stare into her pupils, transfixed by their intensity. Usually, they're soft and inviting. Glinting with a warmth I can't seem to find. Now, only fear shines in them, amplified by the smudge of charcoal liner around her waterline. And the frazzled state of her hair and miss-buttoned leopard blouse.
Biting my trembling lip, I nod without a word.
"Good... good..." Her voice wanders, as does her stare.
Time wanes on a slow breath, before I break the silence. "C-can I go back and play with Jer now?"
Snapping into focus, she bursts to her feet. Then we're on the move again, leaving my lingering question in our wake. Anxiety crawls up my throat, tripping my heels, but Mama keeps me upright by my arm. Her hold is tight. Too tight. Like the suffocating squeeze of a python in the throes of fight-or-flight. I'm about to protest, when the playroom door sweeps into view, releasing a heap of tension off my shoulders.
I nearly giggle. Phew-ee! She did listen.
I'll just go back to playing with Jer and Hayden and forget all about what happened—whatever-it-was that I saw. But, on second thought, why should I forget? Mama really is acting strange for no good reason. What's the big deal? She and Mr. Kingston were only playing. Rather loudly, I'll say, with an array of noises I've certainly never heard come from Mama's lips...
But still.
Adults have playtime, too—right?
No matter what it was, the instant Mama flings the door wide, unveiling my favorite room inside Mr. Kingston's humongous house, all memory of the incident fades to black. My attention stolen by yellow Tonka trucks, Lincoln Logs, fuzzy sock puppets, and Jer and Hayden sitting crisscross on the carpet, their focus conducted by Thomas the Tank Engine steaming across miniature railroad tracks.
On the same breath, their eyes meet mine, Jer's brimmed with wonder and Hayden's above a rosy blush slowly staining his chubby cheeks. Jitters erupt in my insides—a funny sensation I can't quite explain, but never fail to feel whenever I'm around Mr. Kingston's youngest son. It's as if my stomach decides to do a cartwheel, then a somersault and a belly flop, all on its own, without my body ever being in motion.
A high-pitched whistle zips through the air as Thomas rolls past the train station, flickering lights celebrating his arrival. Returning Hayden a toothy grin, excitement propels my feet forward—
"Jeremy."
I freeze, not having ventured more than a couple of steps, as all the hairs on my arms stand on end. Mama never says his name like that...
"We're leaving... Now."
Jer's expression falters. But he hasn't the time to argue, not when Mama lifts his skinny frame off the carpet, standing him on his feet, then treats his arm much like mine moments ago.
"You too, Juliana."
"Can't Hayden come along?" I whine.
On their rushed exit out the door, she shoots me a stern look. I huff a grand sigh and fall into step behind them. But before I leave the room, I pivot on my heel. Hayden sits amongst the toys, his eyebrows knotted in confusion. I wish to tell him everything I saw. To explain that it's my fault we're leaving.
Instead, I brush a lock behind one ear, my toes curling when his ocean-blue eyes find mine. "S-sorry, Hayden."
"That's okay!" he chirps, an abundance of energy rolling off him in waves, as usual. "Next time, we can build the tracks together. I promise!"
Then that inexplicable feeling washes over me once more. And it lingers... Lingers through our departing glance. On my way out the door. And as I trail Mama's hasty steps atop checkered tile and polished mahogany. Until we're beneath the umbrella of a cloudless night.
Cobblestone lines the long driveway, our path lit by floodlights peeking between pristine hedges.
