The rain intensified, and wisps of fog impeded visibility. She lowered the headlights on her small Honda, activated the windshield wipers and checked the GPS on her smartphone. Her estimated time of arrival was close to midnight. She groaned and chastised herself, yet again, for leaving Dahlonega so late in the day.
Her upset increased as she glanced at the notice from the county authorities that was lying on the passenger seat. After reading the letter too many times, she could recite the words by heart.
Due to a rise in vagrancy and vandalism, buildings left unoccupied for more than five years will be considered abandoned unless efforts are made to either occupy or sell the property.
She wouldn’t let conniving county bureaucrats lay claim to the farm, two-story house and outbuildings she had inherited from her father. Even if she didn’t want to live there herself.
Over the last five years, she had learned to manage her grief and was better able to handle the memories of the hateful crime that had claimed her father’s and brother’s lives. Aunt Mary, her father’s sister, had been her lifeline back to reality for the first two years. Eventually, needing to test her wings like a small bird leaving the nest, Julie had abandoned her Amish faith, moved to a quaint college town in the North Georgia mountains and worked in a gift shop on the square in Dahlonega for the past three years. If not for the letter, she would be in her apartment getting ready for bed instead of navigating the twisting mountain road.
A curve appeared ahead. Easing down on the brake pedal, she hugged the shoulder as an approaching delivery truck in the opposite lane swerved around the bend. Frustrated by the aggressive driver, she laid on the horn, hoping to remind the trucker that speeding on the treacherous mountain road was anything but wise.
A rockslide had stopped traffic earlier and delayed her for more than two hours. She didn’t want her arrival to be pushed back even later. Not that anyone expected her. The only welcome would come from an empty farmhouse and a row of graves on the hillside. Her father and brother were buried there, along with her mother, who had died a year earlier.
The road wound higher up the mountain and eventually leveled into a plateau. A sign appeared on the left-hand side of the road:
Welcome to Mountain Loft, Established in 1840 by miners seeking their fortune in the Georgia Gold Rush.
She checked her speed and drove through the sleepy town, grateful the stoplights remained green and her progress was unencumbered.
In the daytime, she would see the Amish farm community that laid claim to the area west of town. This late at night, the farmers and their families were asleep in their beds, and their homes were bathed in darkness.
She passed her once-upon-a-time best friend’s house. Rachel Hochstetler had driven Julianne home from the teen gathering at the lake the night her father and brother had died. With the memory of William Lavy’s kiss still on her lips, Julie had entered her house to find her father lying in a pool of blood.
She grimaced at the memory and rubbed her forehead, thinking again of the sharp inhale of breath she had heard behind her, along with her whispered name, before a hard object had slammed against her skull. After awakening hours later, she had stumbled to her feet and glanced at the far side of the room. Her brother, Bennie, sat propped against the wall, legs sprawled out in front of him. Mouth open. Eyes wide. She could still see the hole in his stomach and the gun clutched in his hand.
Tears burned her eyes and blurred her vision. She yanked a tissue from her purse, wiped it across her cheeks and pulled in a ragged breath as her father’s house appeared in the distance. Correction—her house. Grateful that her Honda made better time than a horse-drawn buggy, she steeled her resolve, turned into the drive and braked to a stop near the back porch.
The rain had eased and the moon hung low in the sky, as it had that night so long ago. The sheriff had determined Bennie and her father had argued, and in a fit of anger, her brother had shot Datt and then turned the gun on himself. She still struggled to make sense of something so senseless.
Her mouth went dry, and a lump of grief filled her throat, but she was determined to face the past. Pulling in a fortifying breath, she grabbed her flashlight from the console, stepped from the car and climbed the back steps to the kitchen entrance.
Fisting her hand, she hesitated before keying open the door. The house was dark and silent as a tomb. She inhaled the stale air that wafted past her, half expecting the stench of pooled blood to fill her nostrils.
For a long, agonizing moment, she stood at the threshold, willing herself to step inside. A shrill, high-pitched scream replayed in her memory—her scream, when she’d finally regained consciousness and seen not only her father, but also her brother, dead. Heart pounding from the memory, she slammed the kitchen door and locked it with trembling hands. Morning would be soon enough to deal with the memories.
Needing to distance herself from the crime scene that cut into her heart, she raced back to the safety of her car.
A twig snapped.
She stopped, cocked her ear and listened, her pulse pounding. Silence, except for the pitter-patter of raindrops falling from the trees. Relieved, she reached for the door handle.
Leaves rustled. Heart in her throat, she turned. A man dressed in black sprang from the darkness. A red bandana covered his face. He grabbed her arm and threw her to the ground.
“No!” She landed with a thud. Air sailed from her lungs. Gasping, she crawled to her knees and attempted to stand.
He thrust his leg forward and slammed his boot into
