Good Bones (Wayfarer's End Book 2) by Genevieve Mckay

Author:Genevieve Mckay [Mckay, Genevieve]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Stone Pony Studios
Published: 2015-07-21T00:00:00+00:00

I happily left Aunt Sandra filling out the paperwork for the rescue and wandered downstairs. I thought I’d spend some time researching spices, but as soon as I reached the kitchen, Louisa put me to work.

“Cara, could you give Phin a proper tour of the house, please? He should know where everything is. And he could probably use someone to talk to.”

I groaned and rolled my eyes, but didn’t say no. Louisa was going out of her way to help me with the competition. I owed her.

Grumbling, I marched back upstairs and stomped down the hall to Phin’s room. I banged on the door and pushed it open in answer to his low irritated mutter.

He stood by the window with his back to me, staring out at the lawn, his face drawn into a scowl. He looked sad and lost.

I stood awkwardly in the doorway, suddenly at a loss for words.

“I’m supposed to give you a tour,” I said finally, twisting my hands together.

He slowly turned to face me with a haunted expression. “Okay,” he said quietly.

I turned abruptly without waiting to see if he followed.

“There’s the front door, dining room, living room and you know where the kitchen is,” I said, pointing to the left. “And here on the left is the library and across the hall is Hen—I mean another guest room. There’s a closet and the back door and this is the door leading downstairs to the sound studio where Martin lives.”

“Sound studio?” Phin’s head lifted, his eyes widening with interest. “Can we go see it? Is there anyone famous down there?”

“No,” I said too abruptly. “I mean, I guess you could ask Martin for a tour. I haven’t been down there. Martin came upstairs to record me for the song.”

“Wow. Lucky. If I lived here, I would have been down there first thing.”

“Yeah, well you don’t live here. And I don’t care about the studio. I don’t like basements, they make me feel trapped—they don’t have any windows.”

“Oh, right,” he said casually. “I guess you’re scared of being trapped after the whole warehouse thing. I read about that. It was over two weeks you were trapped in there, right? How did you survive?”

Anger flared inside me, appearing out of the blue. “It’s none of your business. Now, do you want me to finish the stupid tour or not?”

He didn’t answer, just followed along quietly and didn’t offer up any more witty remarks. I led him upstairs without showing him the pantry or the tunnel secreted away behind it. I didn’t trust him enough for that.

Upstairs, I pointed out the guest rooms, the office, and Aunt Sandra and Uncle Pete’s rooms. I hadn’t planned on showing him my room at all—I didn’t want him knowing where I slept—but he stopped right at my open bedroom door, looking at me pointedly.

“Is this yours?”

I crossed my arms over my chest and tried to move past him down the hall, but he dodged around me and stepped inside.

“Nice,” he said, turning around to take in the round room with its curved bank of windows.

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