Page 18 of Quiet Obsession
“Ready,” I say.
“Did you pack something for the funeral?”
I unzip my backpack, pulling out a long cardigan, a pair of cigarette pants, and a long-sleeved blouse. All black. Fingers crossed, it’s not too wet or cold, or I’ll end up with blue lips before the burial is over because no way am I wearing my yellow raincoat.
“That’ll do.” Dash nods, moving Abby’s legs so he can get up. “Noah’s waiting in the car.”
He grabs my jacket, shoulders my backpack, and sends Abby an air kiss. I follow him down the corridor and into the elevator. He hums some cheerful melody that complements the nature sounds spilling from the small speaker.
The rain has miraculously stopped, but the air still smells damp and earthy. Surprisingly pleasant. Dash opensthe trunk of a sleek, idling Merc and throws my things between the two bundles already inside.
“Hey,” I greet Noah, sliding into the back seat.
He catches my eye in the rear-view mirror. “Where’s your jacket, Millie?”
“In the trunk,” Dash supplies, taking the passenger seat. “Let’s go. I want to raid old Creed’s liquor stash before nine.”
Noah backs out of the parking space while Dash fiddles with the radio and I settle in for the ride, resting my head against the cool glass.
***
We stopped four times.
Once for fuel, twice for bathroom breaks, and once for food. Noah white-knuckled the wheel every time Dash asked to stop, but he kept his tongue in check.
If not for that, we would’ve arrived at least forty minutes early and made Dash’s wish of trying Creed’s father’s liquor before nine a dream come true, but it’s twenty past nine, the sky dark and cloudy as Noah indicates left, steering the car down a suburban street.
Decent-sized houses with picket fences line both sidewalks, lawns cut short, lights beaming inside. He indicates again, pulling into the driveway of a two-story house.
It’s the kind of house you’d see in a feel-good movie. Perfect for a family of five, the father a doctor or a lawyer,the mother a housewife in a pretty A-line dress, baking an apple pie.
Dash gets out, but Noah lingers, letting the engine cool down. He grips the back of the passenger seat, turning to look at me.
“You good?”
I nod, eyes on the house and the matching rocking chairs occupying the full-width porch. Light spills outside through glass panes in the front doors and a gap between closed curtains to the right. Dash jogs up the front steps, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck as if bracing for a fight.
“Alright, come on, I’m sure Hyde’s been sitting on pins and needles since we left Gravemont.” He cuts the engine and steps outside, gravel crunching under his boots.
My stomach’s doing all sorts of unsettling pirouettes, but I take a deep breath for courage and get out too. I didn’t have time to worry when I met Dash. He just materialized by Hyde’s car. I didn’t worry about meeting Noah, either, given both Hyde and Dash were there, but for some reason, the thought of meeting Creed makes my palms sweat.
It’s the way my brother reacted to his phone call. The worry in his eyes when Creed hung up. The way they don’t really talk about him. I’m simply not sure what to expect.
I round the car, slotting myself as close to Noah as I can without coming across too pathetic. The main door swings open, my brother’s shadow falling onto Dash. They clasp hands and Hyde steps aside, letting his friend enter as if he’sinviting him into his house, not Creed’s.
“Noah,” he greets, holding the door wide open. “How was the road?”
“As expected with Dash in the passenger seat. More stops than I’d take on my way to New York.”
Hyde steps out onto the porch, pulling me into a hug. “How are you doing? Still sane?”
“No one’s sane after three days with Dash,” a low, unfamiliar baritone sounds behind Hyde’s back.
A slow shudder runs down my spine.There’s something in Creed’s voice that makes my internal thermostat go haywire.
“True.” Hyde pushes me away gently and moves to the left, making room for his friend. “Millie, this is Elias Creed. Creed, meet my sister.”
I look from Hyde to his half-a-foot-taller friend, eyes darker than coal and matching his hair. A few days old stubble peppers his jaw, but he doesn’t look grief-stricken.
