A Dirty Shame by Liliana Hart

Author:Liliana Hart [Hart, Liliana]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Mysteries & Thrillers
Published: 2012-10-26T03:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

The darkness was coming later and later in the day as spring neared, and today of all days, I was thankful for it. The clouds had grown gray and angry while I’d been cooped up with George and Mrs. Perry, and they roiled dangerously even as thunder rumbled in the distance.

My fingers tightened on the wheel at the crossroads of Queen Mary and Heresy, but I pushed ahead and turned left on the rutted path. The inside of the Suburban seemed to be getting smaller and smaller the closer I got, so I rolled down the windows for some fresh air. The smell of the water from the Potomac was strong, especially with a storm rolling in, and the wind had picked up so the trees arced towards the ground and my hair whipped around my face.

I hadn’t realized I’d arrived until I saw the line of trees at the dead end just past the turn into my driveway. I stopped there in the middle of the road and stared at the house in disbelief. Jack had been busy while I’d been away.

The old Victorian had been built in the early part of the twentieth century, and when I’d left Bloody Mary four months ago it had looked its age. But now, everything looked right. At least on the surface. The roof had been repaired, the rotted wood had been replaced and repainted a bright white, and the sagging porch had been rebuilt and painted a dark navy to match the new shutters. There were no broken windows. And I knew the inside would be fixed as well.

But beneath it all, it was still the same old house.

I stumbled from the Suburban and walked up the graveled drive. Someone had cleared out the weeds and overgrown brush, but I hardly noticed. I’d left my coat in the car, and the wind was vicious as it cut through my shirt to the skin. But I just wrapped my arms around myself and stared.

I’d grown up in the house. A house that had held nothing but lies and deceit. A house that had already been drenched in blood before my own brush with death a few months before. And I knew no matter how many coats of paint now covered those walls, the blood would always be there. I thought of Brody—of the man I’d wanted to love. But I’d been incapable of forcing the emotion. I thought of my parents who’d made me that way.

The first drops of rain started to fall at the same time I heard the tires of another car approaching. A car door slammed and footsteps crunched across the gravel, but I didn’t turn around. I knew it was Jack, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the house. And I couldn’t bear to face him when I told him what needed to be said. The footsteps stilled behind me, as if he were unsure how to proceed.

“You were right, you know,” I said. “I didn’t love him—Brody, I mean.

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