“Richard.” Mom never used Dad’s name, except when she wanted him to stop talking about something, but I wasn’t ready to drop this yet.
“So, who does the farm belong to then?” I asked, staring at Dad. “I thought everyone from the Ash family died in that fire, years ago?”
Mom stabbed her pasta fierce enough to kill it. “What do you know about the fire? You haven’t been diving into the town’s history again, have you?” Her voice dripped venom.
“No.” I tried my best to keep a straight face. “But everyone knows about the fire, Mom.”
“I suppose. It’s not a topic I like to discuss, though.” She shot Dad a pointed look. “Can’t we talk about happier topics? I’m thinking about taking some pottery classes, why don’t we discuss that?”
“Dad,” I said, purposely ignoring Mom. “Who owns the farm now?”
Dad looked down, finding his dinner suddenly infinitely more interesting. “I couldn’t say. There’s some distant relative left, I guess.”
“Can we stop discussing the Ash’s now?” Mom slammed her cutlery on the table.
I gasped at her sudden outburst. Mom barely ever raised her voice, and she had certainly never launched a full-on assault on our kitchen table.
“I don’t want to discuss such unpleasant things.” Water flooded Mom’s eyes. “I tried my best to make you a nice dinner, and I don’t want anyone’s appetite to get spoiled over…” She paused, taking a deep breath. “Over things best not discussed.”
Max’s lip trembled and he started crying, no doubt startled by Mom’s behavior.
Mom got up and rolled her eyes, giving Dad and I a ‘look what you now did’ look as she grabbed Max and took him upstairs.
“I shouldn’t have brought it up,” Dad said after Mom had left. “I ruined dinner.”
“No, you didn’t,” I told him. “You were just talking about your job. Mom’s the one who went all crazy. She always gets upset when someone so much as mentions the Ash family.”
I narrowed my eyes at Dad. Despite him being a cop, he was the easiest to read of both of them. “You’re sure there’s no reason for that?”
“For… for what?” Dad stammered.
“For Mom’s peculiar reaction whenever someone mentions that family.”
This time, I wasn’t about to drop the topic just because it suited someone else better not to talk about it.
“No, no, I’m positive. She just hates discussing tragedy, that’s all.” Dad didn’t meet my gaze once when he spoke.
I shook my head, disappointment rushing over me like a flood.
Mom and Dad were keeping something from me, related to Ash House and the family that perished in the fire fifteen years ago. Dad couldn’t possibly look guiltier, and Mom’s over-the-top reaction proved enough, but I wasn’t about to get any answers from them.
I shoved my seat back and got up. “I’m done,” I said before Dad could protest. “Don’t bother, I know you’re lying anyway. You raised a cop’s daughter, remember? I can spot a liar miles away.”
“Faye.” Dad veered up so fast the chair fell backward, but I was already halfway up the stairs.
“It’s okay,” I told him. “You don’t have to tell me the truth if you don’t think I’m up for it, but I prefer not to discuss it all then.”
I raced up the stairs two steps at a time, rushed to my room and slammed the door shut behind me.
Tears pricked my eyes.
Why were my parents lying to me and keeping secrets from me? Usually, we were always honest and upfront, and they never blatantly lied to me, but now…
My gaze fell on the backpack.
The box.
Perhaps the box contained a truth I didn’t want to know, something someone had painstakingly tried to lock away and bury, but I had to know. My parents’ strange behavior was only fueling my curiosity.
Noise erupted from downstairs, and I frowned. Mom and Dad were having an argument, another first. They never argued; they were like peas in a pod, but Ash House rattled them so much they were like two different people.
I grabbed my backpack and deposited its contents on the bed.
The box looked entirely out of place, like an object stolen from a museum that had been displayed in a pawn shop, a Rembrandt amid some cheap rip-offs, or something from another dimension accidentally transported to earth.
I reached for it, and instinctively yanked my hand back, as if it had been burned.
My mind pushed me to reach for it, to open that box and see if it perhaps helped to solve some of the mysteries surrounding Ash House. Despite chances being the box held nothing remotely valuable at all, I was drawn to it like a moth to light.
On the other hand, my instincts told me to throw it away, bury it six-foot-deep and pretend I didn’t know this box existed. The more I stared at the simple, black item, the more ominous the words ‘do not open’ sounded.
Gathering my courage, I took a deep breath and sat down in front of the box.
Whatever was in there, worst case scenario it gave me nothing useful at all, or it unveiled secrets I didn’t want to know. But if I was lucky, it could shed some light on my parents’ behavior, and could help me understand why Ash House was so familiar.
My hands trembled as I reached for the box. The moment my fingers touched the lid, electricity jolted through me.
DO NOT OPEN! My mind screamed, every fiber in my body telling me to turn away.
I ignored my basic instincts; I wasn’t about to let fear hold me back.
Gritting my teeth, I opened the box.
And the world went to hell.
Chapter 6
As soon as I opened that box, I sensed something was wrong on a fundamental level, as if the fabric of reality itself was shifting.
The box was empty, or at least it appeared to be empty.
Frowning, I felt the bottom, looking for a secret compartment. If the box was empty, why did the hair on the back of my
