Wrecking Love (The Byrne Boys Book 2) by A. Winchester

Author:A. Winchester [Winchester, A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: anonymous
Published: 2024-04-19T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 62

Killian

There were no decorations. No chicken wire ghosts. No playful witches. No spooky clings in the windows. No pumpkins. I crossed my arms, frowning as I stared at our house. There wasn’t a goddamn pumpkin anywhere in sight. Had she not started decorating for Halloween?

That was unlike Genevieve. She’d always been ready to decorate for Halloween the minute the Fourth of July was over.

There was no sign of her anywhere. It was proper and expected, lacking all the flair and warmth she offered. That notion ebbed between the cracks in my armor, nagging at me.

“You know, I was hoping we’d see you back around here again.” The elderly voice made me turn. Ellen Whittaker stood on her front walkway, head tilted to the side with a sad smile as she watched me. Three years and the older woman looked the same, right down to her dark sweater and pristine hair. I gave up half a grin—it was all I could manage.

“How are you, Ellen?” I asked because it was the polite thing to do.

“Alive and kicking.” She chuckled. “But I’ll take it. Are you back for good, dear?”

“That’s the question of the year, isn’t it?” I muttered and blew out a long breath of air. I scanned the house once more, trying to grasp something I recognized. “Did she not decorate this year?”

“She hasn’t decorated in three years.” My gaze snapped in her direction. “We all miss her kooky little pumpkin displays. Grief is a funny thing, isn’t it? It takes things you never thought it would.”

“Yeah,” I whispered, but I barely heard her. I was stuck on the fucking notion that Genevieve hadn’t decorated for Halloween in three years. That wasn’t her. Numbly, I waved at Ellen and started up the steps. “Have a good day, Ellen.”

I let myself in with my key because I still kept the stupid thing on a keychain she’d given me. For as much as I’d tried to separate from her over three years, I never managed to let Genevieve go.

The house was bland.

That was the only word I could think of to describe it. Picturesque? Maybe that was a better word for it. Besides the neatly stacked and perfectly labeled moving boxes scattered throughout the first floor, it looked like something out of a magazine. Everything was plain and perfect, clean and neutral.

This wasn’t our fucking house. Our house was filled with a wild array of colorful blankets and pillows. It had ridiculous knick-knacks on every available surface and photo collages on the wall. Our house was filled with a dozen or more half-filled water bottles, cups, and mugs left everywhere when she was distracted. Our house was a home—lived in, cared for, and full of memories that echoed off every surface.

This house lacked everything that screamed Genevieve. It was as if she’d vanished from existence, packed away inside a box where no one could see her bright colors and brilliant personality.

This house felt wrong down to its very studs.

I stalked through the first floor, taking in the absence of detail.

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