Claire’s not behind the front desk when I descend the staircase. Instead I find her standing by the front door, dumping items into one of two large cardboard boxes. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a high, perky ponytail today, and when she sits beside the Christmas tree, dressed in brightly colored leggings and a sweater dress, she reminds me of a Christmas elf. I hold back a chuckle; does she not realize it’s almost February now? It’s not just her, either. The whole town seems to be the type to leave their Christmas lights on year-round.

“Morning.” I stroll up beside her and peek into the boxes. One is partially filled with Christmas decorations, and the other carries a folded Happy New Year banner and other knick-knacks.

I’m half paying attention, half still reeling from my moment with him upstairs. It feels strange, almost unreal, being down here right now as though everything’s normal, after . . . that.

“Morning, Lou!” Claire plucks four reindeer figurines off the window sill, then sheepishly glances from the boxes to me and back again. A scrunched up, embarrassed grin spreads across her face. “Better late than never, right?”

I smile back. “That’s my motto.”

“Right? Works wonders for me. I considered skipping the New Year decorations altogether since it’s so late, but how sad would that be? You can’t just skip a holiday.” Her eyes dart around once more. “You don’t think it’s a little over the top, though? I mean, a huge banner in a small place like this?”

“No way.” Scanning the rest of the lobby, I see that most of the Christmas decorations have already been removed by now, other than the big things like the lights and tree. “Need a hand? I still have a minute before I need to head out.”

“Really?” She sounds doubtful, but her blue eyes twinkle at me as she moves to a ladder and pulls it toward us.

I laugh. “Yeah, is it such a surprise?”

“No, it’s just . . . I didn’t think you’d be into this sort of thing, I guess.”

I shrug a shoulder as I kneel down to retrieve the banner. “I love the New Year. It’s my favorite holiday.” It’s the truth, even though my voice sounds small and sad when I say it. I can see Claire watching me silently, so I let myself continue. “Grams always said that a new year can mean a new beginning if you want it to.” I chuckle dryly. “We had a lot of new beginnings.”

I pause as I fumble with the banner, trying to stretch it out, and Claire grabs onto the other end. She climbs up the ladder with her end in hand and pins it easily above the doorway before climbing back down. I take my turn, adjusting the ladder a few feet to the right and making my way up its steps.

“Anyway,” I continue as I pin the right side up, “with everything going on lately, I didn’t get to celebrate like she and I usually would have. My first New Year ever that I didn’t celebrate, actually. So I love that you’re doing all this.” I lower myself onto the ground, then step back to admire our work. “It’s perfect.”

Claire’s mouth is hanging open, probably trying to process the talkative side of me. I can’t blame her; even when we hang out after work, I haven’t been the most open person. Things have been rough lately—not to mention more than a little odd—and she has no idea how much this small act has just helped me. I’m not even sure I know either just yet, but I already feel the way this space is soothing some of the ache in my chest.

Besides, it’s about time for me to quit moping around and figure out how to live on my own.

“Well,” she finally says, “I’m happy to help.” Then she leans in, wraps her skinny arms around my own, and squeezes. After a second, I hug her back. It’s kind of nice. “Oh!” Claire jumps back and skips—literally, she skips—toward the front desk. “I almost forgot, this came for you today.”

She pulls open a drawer, grabs a small, rectangular card, then hands it to me. It’s a postcard. I know who it’s from before I even start reading the familiar cursive handwriting.

Hey, Bitch!

Sounds like a rad ass town! Other than the occasional farm, super nice people, and lack of anything resembling a mall, of course. But hey, that leaves you, which is reason enough for me to wish I was there! I miss you, lady. Been trying out this new lemon juice fad and without my bestie, I don’t even have anyone to make fun of me over it. I tried using Daniel as a temporary Lou replacement, but you can imagine how that went over. He wouldn’t even wear your signature perfume for me! Major party pooper, that one.

Speaking of parties and poop, I feel like I need to rub in your face that the kids and I partied hard without you for New Years. I’m talking breast milk shots, poopie diapers, and temper tantrums galore, so, yeah. Bet you’re feeling pretty disappointed about your early midlife crisis now, aren’t you?

P.S. You’re beautiful. (I still hate you for leaving, though.)

xx

I can’t help but laugh. God, I miss you, Jamie. Probably my one regret about moving. When I look up, Claire’s tied up on a phone call. I tap the desk to get her attention, give her a wave, and head for the door.

Just as my hand reaches the handle, the door whips open, sending a blast of cold air over my face and through my hair. A guy walks in, pulling the door shut behind him as he glances between me and Claire, who still has the phone to her ear as she jots something down on a notepad. He returns his attention to me, a slow, deliberate smile lifting one side of his lips.

Wait, I know him. His blonde, buzzed hair, those light brown eyes that zero in on my curves. He’s that waiter who flirted with another server on the night Bobby took me out. Dylan, I think.

I don’t know if he recognizes me, but he doesn’t refrain from letting his gaze rake me over. It feels sleazy, sinking into my skin. All the soap in Ashwick can’t rid a girl of a look that dirty. I narrow my eyes, wishing looks could kill when he finally makes it back to my face.

“Dylan!” Claire’s cheery voice snaps him out of it. She sounds both pleased and baffled. “What are you doing here?”

He strolls over to her. It’s a lazy, arrogant walk. “Hey, baby.”

Baby? He leans across the desk and presses his lips right onto Claire’s. Perhaps pressing is too mild a word—this guy’s practically eating her face. After a few seconds, she breaks away and shoves his shoulder playfully before glancing over at me, her face flushed.

Please don’t tell me you’re with that guy, Claire.

She clears her throat. “Lou, this is my boyfriend, Dylan.” Her eyes warm as she gazes at him. “Dylan, this is Lou.”

“Ah, the infamous Lou,” he says with a smirk.

I’m grateful I’m still standing near the door, too far away to be expected to shake his hand. I do not want this guy’s hand anywhere near me.

At my silence, he raises an eyebrow. “Not gonna ask how you’re infamous?”

“Nope.” I glance back at Claire, whose eyes plead with me. Give him a chance, they say. Please, for me. The fact she even feels the need to plead with me this early upon introductions tells me that somewhere, hopefully not buried too deep down, she knows he’s a douche.

My attention darts to the clock ticking away behind her. I need to leave. And I don’t want to hurt Claire.

Finally, I turn back to Dylan. “Good to meet you,” I offer, trying my best to sound sincere, “but I really need to get going.”

“Hey, Lou,” Claire shouts as I shove the door open. “Happy New Year!”

I smile over my shoulder. It’s a genuine, full-hearted smile. “Thanks. Happy New Year to you, too.”

I inhale the cold air as I walk, enjoying the quiet streets around me. I haven’t quite sorted out my many conflicted emotions yet, and I get the feeling it may be a while before I do, but sometimes it helps to focus more on the things right in front of you.

Of course, there’s still a hole in my heart; a gaping, burning void that had settled in uncomfortably the morning I found Grams’s lifeless body. It’s carved right in between the one I was born with from Mom being taken from this world, and the one Dad dug himself when he chose to follow her. But little by little, there’s a new light building in there, too. A warmth that gives me hope. It’s in the little things like Happy New Year wishes and a winter’s breeze, and it’s in the power of a friendly smile from Claire and a signature ‘Hey, Bitch!’ from Jamie.

I’m aware I’ve got a long way to go before I figure out my new normal, though—whatever that word means, anyway.

How can I even begin to scale ‘normal’, when I spent my morning conversing with a man who goes by Death?

Shaking my head, I listen to the gentle thump of my boots hitting concrete as I walk. Conversing has to be the biggest understatement ever. I don’t understand the way he makes me feel. How someone I don’t even know could have such an effect on me. When he’s near, it’s like something else takes over entirely. It’s a warm oil being slowly, lazily, drizzled down my neck, spine, and thighs before it’s set on fire—a blazing, all-consuming, give-me-more kind of fire.

And I don’t know what to do with it. Then again, I guess nothing can be done, so I should just stop thinking about him altogether until I know what’s going on.

The iron gates creak behind me as I make my way toward Mr. Blackwood’s front door—a door that’s already partially opened, allowing me to hear his grunting before I even get up the porch steps. I poke my head inside. I don’t immediately see anyone, but Mr. Blackwood’s gruff voice is clashing against a sharp, feminine one. They’re talking over each other like it’s a competitive sport neither will quit until the trophy’s in their hand.

Cautiously, I step inside, closing the door behind me. A second later, a plump woman exits the kitchen, her chest puffed out and agitation written all over her flushed face. “You hired me for the job, which means I’ll use whichever methods I—”

“Bullshit methods produce bullshit products.” Mr. Blackwood is right behind her, practically shoving her through the living room with his barking voice alone. “If I wanted candles and chants and whatever other nonsense you have up your sleeve, I would’ve called a goddamn reality show to get this crap on camera.”

The woman humphs and tsks and shakes her head. “For seventeen years I’ve been doing this, Mr. Blackwood. I certainly know what I’m doing.”

“Yeah, yeah, like I haven’t heard that before.” He yanks a leather wallet out of his pant pocket and shoves a wad of cash toward her. “Thank you for wasting my time. Now have a nice day.” He extends a wrinkled hand toward the front door, not two feet away from where I stand.

The woman glances at me and flushes again. I offer a sympathetic smile, which earns me a glare from Mr. Blackwood. After a moment, the woman grabs the cash, lifts her chin, and gives Mr. Blackwood a pretty impressive do-your-damnedest look. “Fine. If this is how you do business then that’s just fine. But when another year passes by and you still haven’t made contact, just remember it was you who kicked me out before allowing me to finish the job.”

With that, she turns on her heel, opens the door, and slams it behind her, the clicking sound of her shoes fading as she makes her way down the winding path. I glance over at Mr. Blackwood, trying to assess the situation.

I notice then that he looks different today. His long grey hair isn’t stringy like usual, but smooth and freshly washed. He’s dressed in a decent, if understated, grey suit—sans the tie—and his beard is neatly trimmed. Looking around the living room now, I see that there aren’t any empty glass bottles either. I sniff the air, taking a few steps forward until I’m right in front of the old man, then sniff again.

The aged lines around his hazel eyes crinkle as he narrows them at me. “Quit it.”

“Quit what?” I ask innocently, giving his suit another whiff.

“That . . . thing you’re doing. It’s weird.”

“Is it?” I suppress a chuckle. “You smell nice today, Mr. Blackwood.” My eyes wander around the room until they land on an opened water bottle at the breakfast nook. “Have you been drinking water?”

He ignores me, turning away and limping into the kitchen. I follow and watch him open a cabinet door, shuffle things around for a second until he retrieves a small bottle of whiskey. He turns around, looking me straight in the eye as he downs a large gulp and lets out a satisfied sigh. “Can’t be reeking of liquor during a business meeting, can I?”

I quirk a skeptical eyebrow. Claire’s already told me he doesn’t work, so what kind of business meeting would he be having? I want to straight up ask him, but I don’t want to overstep anymore. Not when he’s given me a job—something I know he didn’t have to do, wasn’t even looking for. Plus, the man gets enough nosiness from the rest of the town as it is.

Instead, I ask, “Why’d you hire me?”

“What kinda question is that?” He slams the bottle on the counter and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He leans forward, eying me like I’m a child who doesn’t know when to shut up. “Needed a job, didn’t you?”

“Well yeah, but…”

“So?”

“So . . .” He’s trying to intimidate me. I keep my voice nonchalant, my posture casual as I lean a hip against the wall, still lingering in the opening between the kitchen and the living room. “Why did you hire me? You were ready to throw me out the door when I showed up. In fact,” I pause, narrowing my eyes as I recall the odd look that flashed upon his face when he finally looked at me that first day. “You didn’t offer me the housekeeping job until you looked at me.”

I’ve gone over the scenario in my head more than once, and despite knowing it may not be true, I can’t fathom why else he would’ve reacted as he did after seeing my face that first time. Hearing my full first name.

I have to know. I have to say it aloud. I take in a deep breath, willing myself to just spit it out. It’s been over a month since she’s been gone. You can talk about her without falling apart, Lou.

“Did you know my Grams?” I finally ask. “Tallulah Mulligan?”

He brings the bottle back to his lips, taking several long sips before pulling it away. He lets out a low hiss and shakes his head. “What, did no one ever tell you never to trust a loony alcoholic’s memory?”

I roll my eyes for two reasons. One, he’s avoiding the question. Two, a housekeeper collects more insight into their employer’s life than a hired detective could. In just one week of employment, I’ve already begun to suspect Mr. Blackwood isn’t as physically reliant on alcohol as he appears. Nor is he as—in his words—‘loony’ as he lets the town think. For these same reasons, I decide to ignore his question altogether and ask another of my own. “How well did you know her?”

Before the last word’s even out of my mouth, Mr. Blackwood’s setting down the whiskey bottle and striding toward the living room. Just as he’s about to walk right past me, though, he pauses. “Well enough to recognize the spitting image of her with one glance.”

He allows only a second for that to sink in before he’s off again. I look over my shoulder to find him settling into a spot on the sofa and digging through a small pile of papers on the coffee table.

My feet are glued in place, a small smile playing on my lips. That may seem like an evasive answer, but really, what he just did was give me what I needed—confirmation that he knew Grams, and hope that he’ll, one day, tell me more. And maybe . . . maybe he’ll even get more comfortable having me around. Open up, wanna chat more, and we’ll become almost friends, or—

“Hey,” he grumbles from behind me, “am I paying you to stand there and stare at the wall?”

Yeah, too soon, Lou. Too soon.