Come Home, Katie: A Dear Celeste Novel by J.R. Erickson

Author:J.R. Erickson [Erickson, J.R.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-05-02T00:00:00+00:00

27

The Boyds lived in a modular home that had once been white and now appeared yellowish with dark spots, dirt or mold. Sheets hung in the windows rather than curtains.

When Joanna walked up the rickety wooden stairs to the front porch, a black and white cat darted from between the steps. Joanna gasped, dropped the paper bag of muffins she’d picked up at home and grabbed for the rail, nearly losing her footing and plunging sideways off the steps. Two muffins spilled from the bag onto the icy porch. Heart thrumming in her ears, she scooped the bag up, pausing at a single blue birthday candle sticking up from the snow.

“Weird,” she murmured, brushing snow from the bottom of the paper bag. She’d packed six of the muffins and the remaining four appeared mostly undamaged.

When Joanna opened the screen door, it drooped and swung away from the frame, connected only by the top hinge. The rusted creak made her skin crawl. She took a breath and knocked, praying Rosie was home and that Todd and Declan were not. Declan might have stayed home sick from school. Joanna didn’t have a clue what Todd did, but she hoped he worked.

No one came to the door, but a dog barked inside. Like the windows, a sheet obscured the glass and Joanna couldn’t see into the house.

Joanna shifted from foot to foot, glancing back at her car, willing herself to stay put. She wanted to flee, not only from Rosie’s house, but from everything, from the last year of her life. If only she’d gone to Florida with Cole, insisted she and Katie move when he did. Screw finishing her schooling in Graves. Katie could have graduated learning to surf, spending her afternoons on the beach.

The door jerked open and Joanna jumped, nearly dropped the bag of muffins a second time.

Rosie Boyd looked up at her through watery eyes. She wore pink sweatpants and a gray t-shirt with a neckline stretched wide as if someone had yanked it. Her hair, which Joanna remembered had been a golden brown years before, had mostly turned gray. A small wiry-haired dog barked and tried repeatedly to lunge between Rosie’s legs at Joanna.

“Tater, shut up and get back,” Rosie shouted. “Jesus Christ, I swear to God you’re gonna live in that pen out back full-time if you keep this barkin’ up. Hold on.” Rosie grabbed the dog and dragged him out of the room.

Joanna stared into the space she’d disappeared from. To her right stood the living room, murky and thick with leftover cigarette smoke. The sound of a television drifted from that direction. To her left was the kitchen, a small dingy area with dishes piled high in the sink. Most of the walls were bare or marred with jagged holes, as if someone had punched them. An odd painting—old with an ornate frame—hung on the opposite wall. It depicted a vase of roses that had fallen over and spilled across a wooden table.

Rosie reappeared, hitching up her pants and grumbling under her breath about the dog.

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